A/N: Part one of Suburbs. Way too much for just one chapter here. Little things about this episode that are head-scratchers. How do they have a dog who doesn't think they're strangers? Did they move in and have a cookout on the same day? Why did all those people not having kids raise suspicions? There is a lot of time off-camera between finding the bug and waking up the next morning. Chuck's pajamas? And most importantly-where did they sleep? (Or not sleep, as I suggest.) Almost certainly will post the rest of this before the holiday and hopefully Beefcake before next Saturday. Ambitious, but work is beyond slow at this time of year so hoping to have some extra time. Until then...here goes.

Two days later was Valentine's Day.

In 2008, we had been fake dating for five months. Somehow, we had skirted dealing with the whole holiday production that year. Ellie and Devon were newly engaged and went away for the weekend. Chuck, Casey, and I ended up on an all-night mission. It was perfectly spaced so we never even talked about the holiday.

Now, here it was once more. One year and five months of fake dating. I didn't think we would be lucky enough to avoid it twice.

Not once before had I ever thought about Valentine's Day. My parents ignored the day when they were together. I was only in school a few times in February, and I didn't recall any Valentine's parties or dances or art projects, though I knew of them. Once I was in the CIA, the day sort of disappeared from the calendar, like all the others.

I vaguely recall the Valentine's Day that passed while I was at the Farm. More specifically, a pair of red lace panties, donned by coincidence, noticed by Sam as they peaked out over my belt while we were on the shooting range. Then a wink, followed later that evening with a brief appreciative whistle before he took them off me right before he fucked me. A whispered "Happy Valentine's Day" in my ear as I lay on my stomach, panting, as he stood to go back to his room and leave me alone.

I think Bryce said it a few times, much in the same manner–while we were having sex, like it was a joke. That was about as good as it ever got.

But after so much between Chuck and me recently…I was hopeful. Maybe more hopeful than I should have been, but…the flowers, the hearts, the romance…were starting to get to me. Making me wish for things that I shouldn't have been wishing for.

So February 14, I went into the Buy More first thing in the morning. I eventually found Chuck standing in front of the bank of televisions on the back wall of the store. I came up behind him, but his tense shoulders caught my attention. I looked at his reflection and he had this horrified look on his face. I think I surprised him, but I asked him if he was ok. He expressed his disdain over Emmett playing the same romantic movie over and over again.

I told him I was wondering about tonight. He asked if there was a mission. I think I blushed a bit, because I had to tell him I was referring to Valentine's Day.

Once it dawned on him, he was apologetic, telling me he was sorry he forgot. Then he asked me if I wanted to do something.

He was so casual, the way he would have been if he was asking his girlfriend what she wanted to do…I reacted too quickly, almost shouting the "no," afraid I was looking a bit too eager…even though, technically, I was. Then I turned it back on him, asking him if he wanted to do something. God, we were like starry-eyed teenagers when I think about that interaction. Afraid to say what we wanted, afraid of what the other wanted. Even though, deep down, we both knew exactly what we wanted; it just wasn't attainable.

He countered that question with a suggestion that we should do something, you know, for the cover. I reminded him how long we were cover dating, as if he didn't know. I had to say the words "cover dating" to keep it from getting weird. Although, it was still weird, awkward. We ended up smiling, goofily, at each other.

The bucket of ice water seemed to hit us at the same time, this time without Morgan needing to say anything, although in fact he was close behind. It was pretend. Chuck was the first to speak after that, suggesting a night off for the covers. Relief…by avoidance. Teenagers again. I started babbling about paperwork and everything was ok. Until Morgan showed up…then.

He asked about our plans. No option to avoid the cover relationship now. Chuck recovered, fake reminding me to be at his place at eight. I agreed, smiling, adding a playfulness to my voice for Morgan's sake. I touched Chuck's cheeks and quickly pecked him on the lips, something that seemed to surprise him.

His lips tasted vaguely of coffee. That early in the morning, that close to him, his cologne filled my lungs. I was still buzzing when I turned and walked away. My heart felt like it was on a see-saw, up, down, up, down…now up. Awkward or not, cover or not, I was so glad the end of all that was the two of us together, even if it was stupid, or forced, or not real. It didn't matter what we did, where we were…so long as I was with him, I felt better.

I passed the assistant manager, Emmett Milbarge, the current bane of Chuck's Buy More existence, on the way out. He was wearing this very bad toupee, which I almost laughed out loud at, even as he was eying me up and down in a very rude way. I had never been formally introduced to Emmett, but it seemed he fit right in with that sorry crowd.

Chuck called me on my way home from the Orange Orange to tell me he was ordering Chinese food for us, so I gave him my order. Getting ready for that fake date was hard. I couldn't dress up too much, because we were staying in and there was a high risk of me bumping into Ellie and Devon before they went out for the evening. But I couldn't look like I just rolled out of bed either. I was supposed to be spending Valentine's Day with my serious boyfriend. I decided on something snug, something flattering, without being dressy. I left my hair down and took my time with my makeup.

I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle of red wine, to go with dinner. I guess that was my Valentine's gift to Chuck, kind of lame maybe, but the best I could do on short notice.

Ellie and Devon were very dressed up and just about to walk out of the apartment when I arrived. Ellie was grinning from ear to ear, wishing me Happy Valentine's Day. Devon winked at me and Ellie bumped his shoulder, hard, more admonishing him for his innuendo about Chuck and I having sex, which she hated.

Chuck met me at the door and kissed me on the cheek, which caused Devon to click his tongue and shake his head, and got another bump from Ellie. Then we were alone.

There were two tall, lit tapered candles on the sofa table and about ten more pillar candles lit on the coffee table where Chuck had set out the cartons of Chinese food.

"I know, candles," he said, his tone teasing. "But…it is Valentine's Day."

He was referring to that stupid comment I made that night when we were first pretending to sleep together. At least this time, I took it in stride.

"Everything looks nice, Chuck," I said, handing him the bottle of wine. He went into the kitchen and returned with glasses, their stems threaded through the fingers of one hand. In his other hand he had a small, wrapped gold box.

"No flowers, but still, Happy Valentine's Day," he said as he handed it to me. A box of chocolates. They were expensive, not drug store candy. I thanked him and told him I would share them after we had dinner.

We ate, we talked. It was relaxed and comfortable. He made me laugh, taking pictures of me eating chocolates, feeding him chocolates. He kept making jokes, teasing about our fake Valentine's Day. Without those jokes, I almost would have forgotten it was fake. It felt real, like a real date, like we were a normal couple on Valentine's Day. Only if this had been actually for real, dessert would have been in his bedroom, in his bed.

I think once we were done eating, we were both sort of thinking the same thing, because it got awkward again. This was pretend, after all, and we were alone. No one to pretend for. I pulled out the paperwork I had told him I needed to catch up on. He took out his video games. We were on opposite ends of the couch. It wasn't anyone's fault, but it was horribly boring, horribly disappointing.

Every once and a while we would catch each other's eyes, steal a quick glance. He would grin at me when he caught me looking at him. He had turned on a movie, our plan to watch a movie at home, our date for the night. I asked him to tell me the truth, if this wasn't the worst Valentine's Day he'd ever had. He was polite, sweet, but he didn't lie either. I put down my paperwork; he put down his video game. We started to actually pay attention to the movie, sort of sitting together on the sofa, at least closer than we had been.

Casey called in the middle of that. When I mentioned mission, Chuck was on his feet before I could even say another thing. Casey met us outside.

He said for this mission we had to drop our dating cover. After this evening's unparalleled awkwardness, we both jumped at the chance to take a step away from that.

Casey was just playing, of course. Like "it doesn't rain, it pours" kind of talking. We wouldn't be cover dating–we were going to be cover married. He had the fake rings in his hand, smirking when he told us we were going to the suburbs to pretend to be a normal couple.

I'm not sure what I looked like, but even in the dark, I could see Chuck had paled at the thought, as he turned to regard me with only semi-contained horror.

Casey had all the info. Ellie and Devon were due home at any time, so Casey pulled me into his apartment, telling Chuck he would get the address of the house Chuck was to report to in the morning, and that he should tell Ellie that he and I were house sitting for my boss at the Orange Orange, to explain the absence.

Casey and I spent the rest of the night going over the mission. He told me about Jim Yeager, his fractured mental state, and the potential to find a sleeper cell for a group of domestic terrorists. Casey told me the CIA was already setting up the house, staging it, like they would if real estate agents were trying to sell it. That was something to see, something I had only heard about, the detail those stagers went into in order to make something seem real. The idea both thrilled and terrified me.

This was supposed to be our house, Chuck and I, husband and wife, our house. Photos, knickknacks, furniture–everything had to look real.

After only a few hours of sleep, I arrived at the appropriate address. The stagers posed as movers, bringing all of the props inside from a moving van. They were CIA, of course, and they moved faster and more precisely than any real movers anyone could imagine. The whole house was set up in a matter of hours, down to the last detail.

We were the Carmichaels. Name on the mailbox. They even brought a dog with them, a golden retriever named Trixie, who had been cropped into the fake photographs of Chuck and me that were scattered all around.

The plan, Casey explained, was for us to have a barbeque to get to know the neighbors. The CIA had sent invitations to all the neighbors that lived in the subdivision, with the hopes that we could scope out the terrorists. That being said, I now had to prepare a meal for about 30 people. I had help, but I spent most of the day cooking.

When I wasn't cooking, I found myself walking around the house, examining things. I couldn't help but daydream. Everything seemed so real. The phony wedding photographs, even a painting, made my knees go weak when I saw them. I looked down at the gold bands, the sparkling diamond on my left hand, and I fought hard to keep my face neutral, forcing the edges of my lips down, the smile always threatening to explode.

What if this was real?

We were just normal people, with normal jobs, in a normal house, with a dog.

It was like that advertisement in the Orange Orange, with the generic family. Only this was us. It was like walking around inside my dreams, now substantial, touchable. I was absolutely giddy…and then I would crash. I would have to remind myself that this was a mission, only a mission, and that it would only last for a short time.

Was there any harm in pretending? In letting myself believe it, even if it was only for a few days? We would surely never have an opportunity like this again, where we could just…be. Where it was perfectly acceptable for us to pretend to be everything that I always wanted us to be. I thought it might bother him more, upset him…but I convinced myself it would be ok. Somehow, it would be ok.

Casey was pretending to be the cable repairman. He was in the house before anyone arrived, setting up his surveillance equipment and the like.

The neighbors had already started to arrive while I was finishing up in the kitchen. I introduced myself to everyone, one at a time, telling everyone my husband would be home from work soon. I loved saying that word, and loved the way it rolled off my tongue. My husband.

I had just finished all the prep when Chuck finally arrived. He was amazed, staggering around the house in wonder as he saw all of the photographs, the décor. He met Trixie, a delightfully trained dog who didn't bark even though Chuck was a stranger, because of course, he wasn't supposed to be a stranger. That's how detailed the stagers had to be.

I reminded him, and maybe myself, that we were on the lookout for a terrorist.

I sent Chuck outside to cook on the grill. The men at the party gravitated towards him. They were making small talk, introducing themselves, telling jokes about each other's wives. I admit, before I knew what that was all about, that it was a Fulcrum base of operations, I did think it was odd that all of these people were married, but none of them seemed to have any children. The whole set up was so idyllic, so perfect…why no kids? Were there that many DINKs in LA?

While Chuck mingled with the men, I congregated with the women. Much of the same kind of idle chit chat, boring talk about what their husbands did for work, when and where they all played golf. Brownie and chicken salad recipes. I just kept smiling, sipping my drink, pointing out Chuck when someone asked me who my husband was. Each time I did so, my heart seemed to skip a beat, even if it wasn't real. When Chuck looked over at me and smiled, I felt like my heart was about to burst.

I had to forcibly tell myself to focus. We were looking for terrorists, not playing house. It was a constant mantra inside my head, all through that party.

When we were eating, everyone sort of mixed together. I talked to some of the husbands, constantly mingling, doing my best to flush out the terrorists if they were there.

I didn't notice at first, but Chuck sort of went off by himself, instead of standing near me while we were eating and drinking. I could feel him looking at me, and every once in a while I would glance over my shoulder. The soft, wistful look on his face flustered me when I would see it. It worked for the cover, that adoring gaze…only, I knew only too well that it wasn't just the cover. He was thinking the same thing I had been, only he wasn't fighting it as hard as I was.

It made me happy and sad, all at the same time. I covered my emotions pretty well. And on second thought, I appreciated Chuck keeping his distance from me during the party. I'm not sure my control could have been maintained if he had been closer, looking at me the way he was, so openly.

One time while I glanced over, one of the women was talking to Chuck, standing a little too close, looking at him the way I would have expected Carina to look at him in the same situation. Again, just pretending, but I felt a flash of jealousy, so much that I called him over while he was talking to her.

I think I even called him Charles, which sounded weird as it came out of my mouth. I never called him that–I still never call him Charles. Chuck's dad always called him Charles, almost never Chuck, even though his mother did, and still does. Just habits I guess. To me, he was always just Chuck. I never thought of him as anything else.

When I got Chuck alone, I asked him how it went. He told me everyone was clean–no flashes, nothing that would lead him to believe that anyone there was a terrorist. I asked him if he checked everyone, and he said he did. Casey called us inside through the window while we were talking.

Once inside again, Casey found a bug on one of the trays of food that the neighbors had brought with them. Casey said it was a CIA issue. I saw Chuck flash the moment Casey pulled it off the tray. Chuck told us it was stolen from a substation by Fulcrum.

Casey and I exchanged worried glances. If this was Fulcrum driven, this was worse than anyone had even imagined. Who among them was Fulcrum? We had no idea, Chuck hadn't flashed…they all seemed so…normal. It was extremely troubling.

Casey left so he could report to Beckman someplace private, but not before he swept the whole house again for bugs. I wasn't sure if anything we had said before was picked up on the bug Casey found, but we certainly didn't want anymore.

The party lingered until early evening. I continued to mingle while Chuck continued to stand away from everyone else. It was eerie, much harder to focus, when I was reminded that someone there could be a Fulcrum agent. Number one on Fulcrum's agenda was the Intersect, which just happened to be Chuck. I felt relieved when everyone finally went home.

Chuck helped me clean up after the party, helped me wash the dishes and put them away.

"Chuck, can you feed the dog?" I asked him while I was putting the last of the dishes back in the cabinet.

He made this funny face, wistful and dreamy, before he shook himself out of it and asked me where the dog food was. I watched him pour the kibbles, transfixed, unable to look away. It was almost too easy, too normal…and we just…were living the lie, the dream…whatever it was.

"She needs a walk, I think," Chuck said as Trixie finished up her food.

"Ok," I said. Of course…dogs needed walks, right? Normal people. Washing dishes, feeding the dog…walking the dog.

Chuck put her on a leash and we took a stroll around the block. All of the houses in the cul de sac were almost identical, only the plants out in front giving any variation at all. No one was outside as we walked, so no one would have noticed how we looked, but I tucked my hand into the crook of Chuck's arm as we walked. My feet barely touched the ground. I was so happy, bubbly, my face painful from suppressing the smile that was there, waiting for him to see.

My spy senses were dulled by all that giddiness, but it did register that not only did no one have any children, but we seemed to be the only couple on the block with a dog. No one joined us outside as we circled the block.

Once we were back inside, Chuck asked me if I'd heard anything from Casey about what it was we were supposed to do now that we knew this was Fulcrum. I knew he was working, but told Chuck there was nothing we could do other than play the roles we were given. That meant watching television for a little while, mostly in the same pose we had been the night before in his apartment, not too close, not too far.

"So…what…uh, what is the sleeping situation?" he asked as the night drew on.

I looked at him, startled, surprised that it hadn't come up before now.

"I mean, I know, I mean, you know…the couch…or…" He finally stopped stammering and stuttering, spiraling like only Chuck could.

When Bryce and I were the Andersons, pretending to be married, there were situations where we had to act married. Sometimes even sleeping side by side in a bed, although we never slept, not like your thinking, not like real married people would. If this had been any other assignment, I wouldn't have thought twice about it, I would have just done my job.

But it wasn't any other assignment. This was Chuck.

"There are two bedrooms upstairs. No one will know we're in separate rooms," I told him. "You don't have to sleep on the couch."

He looked relieved. The kind of relief that I would have expected. This was too real and sleeping beside each other…well, it would have burst the dam. I know this, retroactively, only because once we did have to share a bed overnight, exactly that happened. How we felt about each other was the same here, there, at any point along the timeline while he was my asset and I was protecting him.

We got ready for bed separately. The clothes we used in this house had also been supplied by the stagers. Only what we had worn when we first walked into the house came from outside. Apparently, the stagers thought we were a boring married couple. Chuck had plaid flannel pajamas that he had decided to wear, laughing when he told me he was "fully embracing the role."

When I went into the master bedroom after him, I looked through the dressers for something to sleep in myself. Lots of slinky nightgowns and almost nothing else. The shortest, laciest, most revealing nightgown here was still more than I normally wore to bed, but this was still ok. I got dressed in a daze, choosing a pale pink nightgown that showed my legs. I stood in front of the mirror and admired how it made me look.

Like a normal wife, a normal girl. Sexy, but in a beautiful way. I couldn't help but wonder what Chuck would think if he saw me in this.

He called goodnight through the closed bedroom door, though. I'm sure he didn't trust himself to look at me like this anymore than I trusted myself to be close to him, dressed the way I was. But still, I was disappointed.

I couldn't sleep, either. We were hunting a Fulcrum cell, but what kept me awake was Chuck and how close he was to me. Everything spy related was forgotten as I lay there, on fire, restlessly turning under the sheets.

I had never seen Chuck asleep, honestly just sleeping. I'd seen him tranq'd, but it's not quite the same thing. Not full-blown sleeping in a bed. We had come close, but still, it had never happened.

It was all I could think about in the dark. Seeing him, listening to him breathe in the dark. I felt possessed, not in control of my own body. Even as I told myself it was a bad idea, horrible idea, I was out of my bed and creeping barefoot down the hall to the extra bedroom.

Unlike me, he was able to sleep pretty soundly, or at least, that's what I thought. Chuck told me, during one of those long conversations on the train, that he had only been pretending to sleep. In truth, he had been equally restless knowing how close I was to him.

I stopped in the doorway, easily finding him in the dark, the uneven shape his body made under the covers. I was twitching–that was how badly I wanted to touch him. I wanted to sit beside him on the bed, touch his chest, his forehead…run my fingers into his curls. But that wouldn't have been enough. I would have woken him…and nothing, nothing, would have stopped us from making love.

Alone in that house, no surveillance…all I wanted to do was make love to him, all night, Fulcrum and the CIA and every rule I would be breaking be damned.

It took every drop of my strength, every ounce of willpower I could muster to turn and go back to my room. I was actually trembling, shivering, when I went back to my room. I was dripping wet between my legs, so swollen from wanting him it was almost painful.

It was the middle of the night, but I went into the master bath and showered. I had the intention of making it a cold shower, but, as I saw once I turned the shower on, the head was detachable. I needed relief.

I masturbated with the stream of water until it ran cold. I came maybe four or five times. As always once I realized my desires were more than just the release, those orgasms relieved the immediate pressure, but when I finally crawled back into bed, I wanted him again. No amount of pleasuring myself sufficed when what I wanted most was to be with him, intimately touching him.

Chuck never mentioned the shower running in the middle of the night during this mission. He did, however, ask me about it when this mission came up during that discussion on the train.

Did you take a cold shower?

I was lying naked in his arms, my head resting on his rest.

Actually, it was quite warm…steamy…in fact…imagining you were in there with me.

He blushed so warmly I felt his skin flushed against my cheek.

You…uh…you know…about me?

His cluelessness was adorable.

In three years, I burned out three vibrators and used so much hot water that the Maison23 added a surcharge to my bill. What do you think?

Sounds crazy, right? But he wasn't sure that I loved him. He had to ask me. He definitely wasn't imagining how badly I wanted him, as early as that second fake date.

He figured it out, eventually. I had a lot of fun showing him. Reminding myself of that makes telling this part of the story easier, because then, it was anguish and torture. And it only got worse in the morning.