Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended.

A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Wake Up Call".

Wake Up Call

This assignment was hell from the beginning. Working with little Miss Perky, Sarah Walker, CIA. Protecting Bartowski with his innocent belief that the good guys win at the end of the movie. Working at the Buy-More as a cover, and getting good at it – the final indignity.

Working with dweebs like Morgan, who was entertainingly afraid of you, and yet never quite as afraid as he ought to be. Watching little Anna flirt and flip her skirt over her head for anyone she fancied, and in the end, she fancied, of all things, Morgan.

Getting the better of Tang had been amusing, you have to admit. Briefly. He sent you a pineapple a week ago. You'd used it for target practice.

Moving into a complex where everyone is friendly, dropping in to watch a game or invite you for drinks. Where long-legged women and tanned successful men live normal, if well-heeled lives. Where Chuck and Devon live decent, all-American family lives, with holiday dinners and family parties and road trips to watch friends play ridiculous games that no one who has played to win, played for keeps, can quite get enthusiastic enough about.

You listen through the bugs in the Bartowski apartment to hours of incidental chatter, to hours of mindless television, to Devon asking Chuck about his plans for five years from now, to Morgan and Chuck beginning one more of their endless debates about which woman was hotter: Ginger or Maryanne, Wonder Woman or Catwoman. Or which animal was stronger: an elephant seal or a walrus. Or which superhero could take out which supervillain – that was a favourite.

To the blips and flak attacks of Doom or World of Warcraft or whatever video game Chuck is using as release because Sarah still won't have sex with him, keeping him always on the edge: horny, desperate, and completely under her thumb.

To Devon and Ellie making love.

You'd listened to it lots of times: every Saturday and Wednesday night since you set up shop, with an occasional quickie some other time during a weekday when they were both off-shift. It had never bothered you before. Why should it? There was no such thing as privacy on surveillance – that was sort of the point.

But the morning after Thanksgiving dinner, when you had woken, fully aroused, to the sound of Ellie sobbing out Awesome's name as she came under him, for the first time you had turned off the sound. For the first time ever, you had failed in your mission. And once you had taken care of your problem, you had turned the sound back on and heard Devon's apologies, his shocked concern over the marks on her throat and breast.

And you had preened a little, and then felt a little sick to your stomach. Those were your teeth marks, your brands on her white skin. And for all the guilt you know you should feel, you feel a little possessive pride as well.

And after that first time, you had listened again. It was part of the job, you convinced yourself – just one more part of the job you loved, were committed to, had chosen to do. You listen, and if you find yourself getting turned on, find yourself re-living your own encounter over turkey and apple pie, well, it's no more than what most single men of a certain age do in the privacy of their own homes.

And then she showed up again, hotter than before, more desperate than before, and this time when she disappeared into the sun, leaving you emptied and gasping on the floor, she took a little piece of you with her. And when her clean-cut American boy caught you off-guard and invited you for dinner, you knew it was a bad idea, but you convinced yourself it was just part of the cover, and you went.

But watching him touch her had caused a strange kind of pain, not one you had felt in a long time. And knowing your presence hurt her too caused an odd kind of pleasure, not one you could name or even begin to understand. It was like pushing yourself to your physical limit, just because you could, and because you might find out something new about yourself if you did. And you weren't sure what you were learning, but you knew it hurt to learn.

No pain – no gain. You lived by that training rule. You were no longer sure what you were supposed to be gaining. But you know about the pain. Yeah, you are good at the pain part of the programme.

And then, the last time. Oh, the last time. She had shown up one last time, and if the first time she had been scared, and the second she had been on fire, this time it was like being enveloped in ice – so cold it froze the marrow of your bones while she stripped you of all pretense and left you in pieces.

She had walked through the French doors into your bedroom, waking you out of a dream, and you still shuddered at how close you had come to not only breaking cover but to putting a bullet through her pretty little head. She had stood at the end of your bed, her eyes boring through you, and had told you that if you ever showed up at her place again, it would be the last act as a whole man you ever made.

You would never know why you bothered to argue; it wasn't like you wanted to spend time with the asset and his family. But for form's sake, you asked her how she would explain your banning from what had become extended family occasions.

And she had said it was her house, and she would take care of it – no one would notice.

It was a shock to you when that comment hurt, burning its way into your gut.

But you had swung your legs out of bed, a smirk on your face, and proceeded to push. You needed access to the asset, you argued with yourself, and besides, no prissy little Miss America wannabe was going to dismiss you so easily, as if you were nothing.

Her eyes had gone big at the sight of you – naked and ready for action, as always. And when you had touched her, she had stood unyielding and cold, but you had seen the fire deep in her eyes, and when she told you to stop, not to touch her, you had ignored the words and listened only to the need running through her breath like lava through ice.

Her dress had fallen to the floor, her body bared to your hands, to your mouth, and this time you took her to bed. You melted her ice, searching for ways to please her, to brig her to the peak of passion until she came apart under you, not once, but twice, crying out incomprehensibly.

But not your name. Never your name.

And when you entered her, it was like walking into the sun – heat that rose off her in pulsating waves. And you never knew what you cried out when you finally let go because your heart was pounding so hard that you were blind and deaf to everything but the feeling of her clenching around you.

But her hands on your shoulders were so cold. And her lips when you searched out her mouth again were icy and aloof.

And when you pulled out of her and rolled onto your back, she stood up, grabbed her dress, pulling it over her head. She stood at the window, the dark night shadowing her eyes, and said in a distant voice, "This was a mistake. It will not happen again. I would rather not try to explain anything to Devon and Chuck, so nothing else will change between us. I would appreciate your discretion in this, but I will tell Devon if I have to."

When she walked out, you felt something. And what you felt was nothing.

And you did not turn on the listening device for a whole day, and just prayed that nothing significant was said. Because you knew her by now, and you knew she would have jumped Awesome the moment he returned to the house, in an act of guilty retribution, in an act of paradoxical female dominance, permitting him to reclaim his territory.

And you couldn't do it this time – couldn't maintain your Super-Spy attitude while the woman who had blinded you and left you flattened turned to someone else and said all the things she would never say to you.

You find yourself watching her, imagining how the sway of her hips would feel under you, remembering the last nocturnal visit. You thought you were being discreet, but the kid catches you one night after dinner, when you don't react quickly enough to one of the awkward, 'social chit-chat' cues he drops on you.

Later, when you are leaving, he catches up with you outside your door and says, "What was that, Casey? Are you checking out my sister?"

You grunt, and he rolls his eyes.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" His voice drops on the word hell, as if he can't quite say it at a normal pitch.

You think to yourself, "I bet Sarah finds that endearing." Your sneer is a little shaky.

"She's pretty, Chuck. Most guys watch her."

Chuck leans closer and hisses, "She's married, Casey. Okay, not married exactly, but she and Awesome are together. They live together, and she's … they're … committed to each other." His mouth twists a little, as if even he can't quite believe what he is saying, but then he squares his shoulder and stands a little straighter. "If you hurt her… if you do anything to hurt her…"

Normally you would laugh at the threat. Pencil-necked-geek Intersect-brain is threatening you? He's big, but he's clumsy and decent and …

You grunt at him again, your 'not-the-least-bit-intimidated-so-don't-bother-trying" grunt combined with a little twist of "world-of-hurt-you-don't-want-to know" and bare your teeth. "I don't go where I'm not wanted, Nerd-Herder."

You close the door in his face and, turning to face the door, lean against it. You can almost feel her under you – that first time. The first time you touched her the way you wanted to. You never meant to hurt her.

But your orders are in, and when you take out the now redundant asset next week, you might as well make it a kill-shot for two. Hell, if the look on Sarah's face was anything to go by when you asked her if she had compromised her cover with the Intersect, you might as well make it three for three.

You bang your head once against the door and grab a bottle of vodka as you make your way a little blindly to the bedroom.

After half a bottle and a few hours of the uneasy nightmare-ridden unconsciousness you are used to calling sleep, you decide on a clean sweep: Sarah, Chuck, Ellie, Awesome.

You.