serenity

"You're up early," you say to Max as you pour yourself a glass of orange juice.

"Good morning," she replies, swinging open the fridge door, "Lucas is picking me up.

Lucas had been picking Max up for school every morning for the last two months, and nothing made you happier. She'd made her own group of friends, seemingly easy within a couple of weeks of starting her new school. But she had grown especially close to one Lucas Sinclair.

Max hurriedly packed herself a lunch just as you grabbed your bag off the back of the dining chair. You and Max had done well over the past few months, turning your small house into a home. The majority of everything was found or thrifted, including the dining table you found in an alleyway. Max and Lucas had been the ones to sand it and restain it, and it was as good as new.

"Heading out?" she asks, grabbing her backpack off the couch.

"I'll call when you're home if we're leaving town," you tell her. With a quick kiss on her head, you're off.

It had become routine now, as much as you hated leaving her here alone. Part of your job required leaving town more than you liked to admit. It's not that you didn't trust Max; she was the best kid anyone could ask for, you just didn't trust other people.

When you'd get called onto a case that was out of town, there was never any time to let her know you wouldn't be home when she got home. A lot of times it started with nothing but a note until you could get the landline setup.

It was your turn for coffee duty, so you were thankful when Robin met you in the parking lot to take a tray off your hands.

"What's the mood?" you ask.

"Peachy," she says, and you sigh, knowing she's being sarcastic. "There's something big happening. I think they might assign us to it."

"How do you know?" you ask.

"I overheard Hop and Joyce talking this morning," Robin says. "I think I heard something about kidnapping."

Your heart sinks, and you leave your coffee on your desk, not having the desire for it anymore. These cases, more than others, always left such a sour taste in your mouth, one that wouldn't have you eating til dinner. It just felt too close to home.

You and Robin set the trays in the middle of the table for everyone to grab as they enter. Everybody is just about right on time, Joyce and Hopper being the second to last ones to enter.

The chair next to Robin that you had sat in on your first day had become yours. Everybody else seemed to have claimed chairs as well, long before you got assigned to the team. There was always routine, never a need to switch it up.

"Rise and shine," Nancy says as she sits down. Jonathan peels the lid off her coffee and adds cream and sugar for her. The gesture is one he repeats every morning, and each time, your heart warms.

Steve enters the room and sits across from you, his eyes scanning you over once, like he always does.

"Do you have anything to say, Steve?" Robin asks nicely.

"Thanks," he nods to you, and that's that. His simple thanks for the coffee run.

Three months in to your time with the bureau, and he has not let up on his blatant hatred for you. Robin and the entire team really try to play peacemaker, but it works to no avail.

Three months and about a half a dozen cases working in the field together, and not a single thing had changed. You thought maybe after you proved yourself, case after case, that you're capable of being on the team, he'd let up but he never did. The one thing you're grateful for is that when in the field, he can set aside whatever disdain he has for you and work professionally. It's unfortunate to say, but the few times you've been partnered up, you've made a decent team.

Just when you think he's starting to tolerate your presence, he reminds you that he is one hundred percent not.

"Thank you, gorgeous." Eddie enters last with a pat on your head as he grabs the last coffee in the tray.

"Alright, let's settle in," Hopper stands up and turns the projector on. Everyone quiets and turns their attention to the front of the room, where Hopper has a stern look on his face.

"Our unsub is an art dealer that goes by the name of Henry Creel. He's a long-time dealer of fifteen years, and has recently been flagged for money laundering and other suspicious activity." Hopper clicks the remote, and a photo of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man in a suit is walking up the steps of an unknown building.

"An art dealer?" Robin asks. "But I heard-"

"Pause." Joyce holds her hand up, and Robin quiets.

"Henry owns a gallery in D.C where he collects and deals pieces from all over the world. Anything from paintings to sculptures, he buys them from auctions and then resells them." Hopper continues, and the gears in your brain start slowly turning. "He hosts his own auctions once a month, but also has individual buyers come in every once in a while when it feels right."

"Right, so he's not just dealing art then," Nancy says, and Hopper nods.

"Correct."

"Drugs?" Eddie asks.

"Maybe," Hopper says, and then his gaze falls on you. "Here are some of his current pieces for sale."

The screen changes, and a list of a few paintings and sculptures comes up. Each listing starts at a minimum of $75,000.

"Jesus Christ," Steve mutters under his breath. "What kind of drugs are worth that much?"

Chatter erupts amongst the table, but you read carefully through the listings.

The first is what seems to be an abstract painting of blacks and blues, with streaks of white. The next is something so similar to a Monet that you think it might actually be one for a moment. They're all so different from each other. The next few listings are Greek-style statues that are gorgeous, you might add.

"Some collector," Jonathan says, folding his hands in his lap.

Hopper's eyes are still on you, watching every unspoken thought flash behind your eyes.

Drugs might be reasonable, but starting at $75,000 is just absurd unless it's fully a smuggling business. Money laundering is another option, but why call in a full team just for that?

VEast0985 | Bid starts at $75,000 | 8 offers

BMar0284 | Bid starts at $77,000 | 13 offers

CCun0682 | Bid starts at $75,000 | 10 offers

view more

Your brain works quickly, dissecting the listings. It comes quickly, and you straighten your poster when it finally hits.

"Something on your mind, Hollywood?" Hopper asks, and the room falls silent.

"They're not trafficking drugs." You say. "Well, maybe they are, but it's not their main push."

"Tell me more," Hopper tells you, leaning against the table. He knows the answer already; he just wants you to say it. Since you've joined, he's always made it a point to let your brain work to dissect things.

Everyone on your team was extremely smart, but Hopper made it a point to let everyone know that your IQ was 178, and that ranked you the smartest on your team. It's one of the main reasons he hired you.

"They're trafficking people. Mostly kids by the looks of it," you answer. "Letters of the names, kind of idiotic on their part. I'm assuming that's why they got flagged. Then combine it with birthdays."

"Hollywood is right as usual," Hopper says, and Robin pats you on the back.

"These are all people who have been reported missing in D.C over the past year." You add.

"How do you know?" Steve asks, there's no bite where you expect it, he's genuinely curious.

"Why do you ask these questions?" Jonathan asks with a laugh, earning a glare from Steve. "She's a freaking genius."

"You know her brain holds like all of the history of the world," Eddie adds, and Steve's eye twitches as he leans back in his chair.

"Victoria Eastman, a sixteen-year-old who went missing last month. Born in September of eighty five. Brenda Martin, fourteen years old, has been missing for six months, born in February of eighty four. And Chrissy Cunningham, an eighteen-year-old who was last seen on her college campus right before Christmas. Born in June of eighty two."

"I still don't get how she does it." Robin laughs lightly with a shake of her head.

"Eidetic memory," Joyce says, shooting a wink your way.

"So, the idiot lists their names and birthdates and didn't expect to get caught?" Steve asks, folding his arms over his chest. You have to tear your gaze away from the way his button-up tightens around his arms.

"My guess is his 'buyers' need to know as much as they can without a full giveaway. Their age at the bare minimum, and what they can get of their names. The age matters most, clearly." Nancy says.

"My question is, if you guys know that this guy has these kids locked up with intent to sell, why do you not just go to his gallery and arrest him?" Eddie asks.

"This case is delicate," Joyce stands up from her chair. "This man is extremely rich and powerful, and his buyers are too. This is a case that needs hard evidence and time to build it. Without enough of it, he could get off with a slap on the wrist."

"So what's our move?" Nancy sits up in her chair, pen ready in hand.

"We're going undercover as a unit," Hopper says.

"The goal here is to infiltrate Art's inner circle. Get as close as possible to him and his buyers. Get confessions, collect evidence, and build a case large enough to put him behind bars." Joyce says. "It won't be easy. And at first sight of failure, we abort and find another way."

"There's only one way for this to work." Hopper finally sits down, and everybody is more focused than you've ever seen.

This is your first undercover case. This is huge.

"We'll split into three units," Hopper starts.

"Respectfully, Hopper, you're out of your mind if you think that this is going to work," Steve is furiously pacing the office.

You sit quietly with one leg crossed over the other in front of his desk. Hopper is eerily still, following Steve's movements back and forth.

"I have to agree with him," you say. It's one of the first times you've agreed with him wholeheartedly on something since you got here.

"You agree with him?" Hopper repeats.

"You want us to fake a marriage. Do you hear how that sounds? We can't stand each other," Steve says from behind you. You don't dare turn around and look at him. "How does that possibly help the case? Our cover is going to be blown in record time."

"I don't know if it's possible for us to pass as a married couple," you tell him.

"You two bicker like a married couple," Hopper leans forward in his chair.

Steve stops in his tracks and then finally takes the seat next to you, heat radiating off of him.

"This is going to work, because it has to. There are lives on the line. You two need to set your differences aside and work together." His tone is one you've never heard, and to be quite frank, it scares you.

"Are you sure you can't send Nancy? Or Robin even?" You ask as kindly as possible. You're grateful for this opportunity, but you're not sure you can handle a fake marriage with Steve of all people. Maybe if it were Eddie. Or Jonathan, even.

"Great idea. Can't you send Eddie for this one?" He asks. "I can't work with her like this. She's a know-it-all, and pretentious-"

"I'm pretentious?!" You finally snap. "You're an arrogant piece of-"

"Agent Buckley is not a field agent. Agent Wheeler is on B Unit for finding and rescuing the girls with Agent Munson. There is no option B, C, or D. This is your assignment; you will deal with it." Hopper finally snaps, and it shuts you and Steve up quickly, before you can even begin to argue.

"You two need to meet Joyce in her office, now." He finally says after at least two minutes of silence.

Jim Hopper was not somebody you could argue with. It was surprising you'd made it this far with him in the first place.

"Yes, sir," it's a quiet answer as you stand up from your chair. Steve, seething, still holds the door open for you on your way out.

Joyce's office is directly next to Hoppers, and she's waiting outside as you and Steve approach.

"Come on in," she says with a smile on her face as she sits at her desk. "I know there are concerns with the case, but I'm here to walk you through everything."

The perfect media liaison she was, she always knew how to talk to people to ease their anxiety. She also made a brilliant case coordinator, so it's no surprise that this is what she and Hopper drew up.

"Joyce, there is just no way that we can pass as a married couple," you say honestly. "I say this genuinely. I wish we could, but we can't."

"The two of us work well with the rest of the team; the two of us will not work well alone," Steve says, folding his arms over his chest once more. It really pissed you off how blatantly attractive he was. It made it a tiny bit harder to return his hatred.

"You will, or you'll be on desk duty until the case is wrapped, which could be months or years." Joyce's smile is smug, knowing that she has you and Steve between a rock and a hard place.

Maybe desk duty wouldn't be so bad.

"This will work, because I'm giving you the handbook. You can't fail an open-book test." She reassures you.

Steve doesn't say anything, and neither do you. How bad could it really be? This is work. This is the job that you crawled on your hands and knees for, the one you've craved since you were a little girl. Now was your chance to help these girls in a way that your sister couldn't be helped.

This came down to professionalism, and if Steve couldn't do it, then at least you tried. At least Joyce and Hopper could see that you tried.

"I'll do it," you finally say after her staring with her big doe eyes. "If he will, I will."

"Really?" Steve's gaze snaps to you.

"I joined the FBI to help people, Steve. If pretending to be married to you helps these kids, then I'll do it." The words cut him where you can't see, and you swear his look softens as he turns to Joyce.

"Then I guess we're doing it," he nods.

"Perfect," Joyce smiles and pulls out a folder from her desk drawer. "You'll be going undercover as Mr. and Mrs. Danny and Grace Anderson. Low profile, quiet luxury, newlyweds. You, 'Grace', are a stay-at-home wife, and 'Danny' inherited his wealth from his parents' private equities, real old money type."

"The Andersons?" Steve reaches for the profile paper that Joyce hands him. She has IDs, passports, birth and wedding certificates, and house titles, all with Grace and Danny Anderson plastered all over them.

"As the Andersons, you are fully aware of what kind of 'art' Creel is actually dealing with. You're interested. You want to be involved. You want to stay rich. You're money hungry kids that just got handed mommy and daddy's fortune. That's your motive." Joyce tells him. "As we speak, Robin is working through the channels to get in contact with him as Danny, Steve."

Joyce slides a few documents to you, and your heart nearly skips a beat. Completely valid and legal documents with the alias, though every piece has your face. It's all so surreal to see.

"And how did we hear about Henry?" Steve asks a completely valid question.

"The FBI has had somebody on the inside for about three years now. Someone distant, who keeps a close eye. You are family friends with this person, Dr. Sam Owens. He is your in."

"This has been happening for years?" you ask, "So, we are the unit that finishes it then?"

"We are the unit that finishes it," Joyce repeats with a curt nod.

It's all so much information to take in; it makes your head spin. Having an entirely new identity, one that is attached to your least favorite part about your job, has you feeling nauseous.

"We are moving you both into a house-"

"Whoa, whoa, I can't. I have a-"

"Maxine will move with you. Her safety is a top priority for us, I promise you." Joyce extends her hand and rests it over yours, giving it a squeeze.

Max is going to live with you and Steve?! Your heart nearly sinks. Maybe this was a mistake.

"The house is very nice. Very old money. You two could live on opposite sides if you wanted. It will have round-the-clock security. And there is a safe room should anything go south at any moment." Joyce once again eases your anxiety.

"Over the next five days, we'll work together to nail your personas as the Andersons and take photos to create evidence of your life together. Plan for a move-in this weekend."

"So, we're doing this?" Steve looks to you for what seems like approval.

"We're doing this."

"I almost forgot," Joyce reaches into her drawer and pulls out two velvet boxes. She tosses one each to you and Steve.

A single silver band for him and a darling silver band for you, paired with an engagement ring you could only dream of receiving. It wasn't too flashy, but just big enough that you could tell it was expensive. The cut was one you'd dreamed of as a teenage girl, and you couldn't help but smile softly, despite the nerves of it all.

"Is this real?" You ask, watching Steve slide his band on.

"Of course it's real. Gotta play the part," Joyce shoots a wink as you timidly slide the rings onto your left ring finger.

"This is insane," Max drops her bags in the foyer of the large house.

"I know," you reply, staring up at the vaulted ceilings.

It was officially move-in day. It didn't take much convincing to get Max to agree to move in. She was just excited to have a house with a pool. She was aware it was temporary, but she was excited nonetheless.

"What did you tell your friends?" You asked. Now that it was finally happening, your nerves were shot.

"I never told them you were an agent. Just told them that you do desk work for some big shot politician in D.C," she reassures you. She knew the protector in you was starting to slightly panic.

"And our reason for suddenly moving?"

"Your new husband finally finished renovating the new house, and the other was temporary." She turns to face you, putting her hands on your cheeks. "It's going to be okay. I promise you."

"Nobody can know who we are or what we're doing. If they find us out-"

"They won't." She squishes your cheeks, "You are the best at your job. This will be over in no time."

"I love you," you finally cave with a smile.

Steve arrives thirty minutes later with Joyce and Hopper. Max was picked up by Lucas for what you assume is another date, despite Max swearing they're just friends. Joyce is holding a box full of picture frames, ones you can only imagine are the plethora of fake photoshoots you did over the past week.

"Jesus Christ, can you two just look at each other?" Hopper's hands are on his hips, and he's beyond frustrated with you and Steve.

"She's being difficult," Steve huffs, his hand finding its way around your waist once again. His fingers brush the bare skin showing from the open back of the wedding dress you have on, and it nearly makes you shiver.

"I'm not," your fingers tighten around the gorgeous bouquet of lilies as he pulls you into his side. "You're being difficult."

Steve clears his throat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see his head turn to you. You finally lift your chin to look up at him, your jaw clenching when your eyes finally meet.

"Good, that's good," Hopper says. "Now, look like you might actually like each other."

"I have tears in my eyes," Joyce sighs happily as she snaps photos with the camera. "This is too precious."

Your next movement comes unintentionally, one picked up from years of your younger sister having near uncontrollable hair. A strand of his ridiculously good hair has fallen out of place, and before you can stop yourself, you're reaching up to fix it.

His eyes soften barely, just enough that you swear you catch it. But maybe your eyes had played tricks on you. His fingers press into your hip lightly, a gesture so subtle you're not sure if he's aware he's doing it.

"Sorry," you whisper, before turning your gaze back to the camera.

"Don't be." His tone matches yours, but he doesn't face the camera. His gaze burns through you, and you have to stop yourself from tensing.

"Look at the happy couple," Eddie's voice echoes through the foyer. He immediately reaches into the box, pulling out the largest framed photo, one you're sure is meant for above the fireplace mantle.

"This house is insane," Robin says, stopping in the doorway to take it all in.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hollywood, check it out!" Eddie is in fits of laughter as he turns the frame toward Robin and the rest of the team as they enter.

Steve's hands find his hips, accompanied by a glare at your team as they all fall into fits of laughter, gathering around Eddie to examine the box of photos.

"Guys, come on," you groan, walking towards them to take the box. Eddie keeps the wedding portrait in his grip.

"I'm keeping this when this is all over," Eddie snickers, turning it to face himself.

"This is just too good, I'm sorry," Jonathan puts his hands on your shoulders, before pulling you into a half-hug. "I mean, what a shame you have to pretend to be married to this guy."

"Who would've thought you two of all people," Robin also puts an arm around you, "You're a trooper, because if I had to be married to that dingus-"

"That's enough," Hopper says, and the laughter dies.

Steve lifts his hand and gestures for you to bring the box, so you do. You two hadn't even had the chance to look through the frames that would soon decorate your new house.

He gently takes the box from your hands and sets it on top of another box.

"Listen up," Hopper's voice commands the room, "While this case is ongoing, office meetings will be cancelled until further notice. We'll meet here once a week in the safe room. But, we'll still communicate daily with these-" he reaches into the black case in front of him and pulls out walkie talkies, tossing one to each of you, "-We're all within radius. If something is urgent, we'll call the landline, or just show up."

"It is beyond vital that we keep our cover. One slip up, and it's over," Joyce says, "No more Free Friday drinking, no more group hangouts, unless it's here and it's clear."

Groans echo from the group at the loss of Free Fridays. It's dire that this works.

"If we lose this, we lose everything. Those girls will be lost forever, understand?" Hopper adds. "I need verbal confirmation."

"Yes, sir." Is nearly a choir coming from the team.

"Now, grab a box and help unpack." Hopper is the first to move; he and Joyce step into the backyard for a private conversation.

"No, you guys don't need to, really." Your hand is up in protest as Nancy reaches for a box.

"We're a team," she smiles, "We're here to help. I know this is probably a lot."

She isn't wrong.

When you thought of your first undercover case, you pictured hiding in the front seat of a car at three a.m, watching your unsub as they climb in and out of a window. Eventually, befriend them and infiltrate their small drug-dealing ring, partnering with the DEA to shatter it.

This was beyond anything you could've thought of. An entirely new identity, a fake marriage to someone you can't stand, and an ugly amount of wealth you wouldn't see in three lifetimes.

"Hey," Max startles you later that evening. The rest of the team has gone, and the sun is starting to set. You're standing in front of the fireplace, staring up at the portrait of you and Steve.

"Hey," you reply with a small smile. "How was it?"

"It was good," she nods, standing next to you with her arms crossed, "So that's Steve, huh?"

The photo isn't bad at all, you hate to admit. The white dress you had on was lent to you for the portraits by Joyce. You assume it must've been hers at one point but it suits you so well, hugs you in all of the right places. The veil crowning your head rests elegantly down your back and all the way to the floor.

Steve's hand is wrapped around your waist, and you're tucked into his side. His fingers are splayed against your hip, yours tightly wrapped around the bouquet in your hands.

The two of you are looking into each other's eyes, and if you didn't know any better, you'd be convinced.

"The Andersons, then?" Max asks, looking at you. "That's who we are now?"

"The Andersons," you repeat. "That's who me and Steve are now."

"You guys actually look married," she laughs. "I mean, that's insane. He's kind of a smoke show."

That earns a glare from you.

"Max, you are my number one priority. If at any point you want me to stop this, you tell me and I'm done."

"Joyce sat me down and explained everything earlier before I left. I know that this is top secret. People can't know we're related, I get it." She seems slightly irritated, and you're its because this a certainly a lot for a sixteen year old to take in.

Steve enters the room out of the corner of your eye, and you almost groan, forgetting that he lives here too.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," he holds his hands up in defense, almost sensing the heat radiating off of you. "You must be Maxine."

"It's Max," she states.

"Max," he nods and holds his hand out, to which she shakes it. "I'll do my best to stay out of your way."

He turns on his heel, but you stop him, "We should probably talk."

"I agree," he nods. "Nice to meet you, Max."

Max gives you a small smile, then steps forward, lifting another staged photo of you and Steve out of the box haphazardly left next to the fireplace. You leave her to study them and follow Steve. You're still learning your way around the house, so you follow behind him, assuming he knows better than you.

It still won't click in your head just how massive this house is. You received a brief tour earlier, but there's still a lot to learn and memorize.

Steve holds the door open to what you assume is his room. He must've claimed it while you were unpacking your own. It's surprisingly not on the farthest end of the house from your room, but just down the hallway.

He has a few boxes scattered, but you were instructed to pack as lightly as possible, to leave as many personal belongings as you can behind. Your quaint pale yellow home was still there, holding so many of yours and Max's belongings.

There's a desk in the corner, a single frame on it. You walk towards it as Steve shuts the door behind you. You lift the frame and study it closely, your brows furrowing.

It's your team: Robin, Nancy, Steve, Eddie, and Jonathan. Your lips part slightly, noticing that they're younger, much younger. They look like teenagers.

"Go ahead, ask," Steve says from behind you.

"You guys knew each other before the FBI?" You turn to face him, the frame still in your hands.

"We went to high school together back in Indiana," he nods.

"Oh," is all you manage to say. How they all managed to end up here is beyond your understanding. You decide to save the many further questions for another day.

"You wanted to talk?" he asks, leaning against the door.

"It's seeming like we're going to meet the unsub as soon as this weekend," you say, "I just want to make sure we're ready."

Steve pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, then folds his arms over his chest, "Do you think we're not ready?"

"You don't think this is insane?" You lower your voice on the off chance that Max has decided to eavesdrop. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Of course it's insane," he laughs, "But it's what we signed up for."

Your eyes find the floor while you search for something to say, "You're right."

"Hey," he steps toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, something ingrained into you from a small age. You and Max's parents spent your entire life trying to unprogram it from you, but never could.

You watch Steve notice, but he doesn't say anything.

"We are more than prepared, I can assure you that," he says, keeping his distance, "We know the part we're playing. We're going to save those girls, okay?"

You nod once, failing to find words anymore. Before you stepped in here, there was probably a novel's worth of things you wanted to tell him, but it's all fled your mind.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Grace Anne-Marie Anderson," you reply.

"That's an interesting middle name, where is it from?" he presses.

"My grandmother," you answer.

"When is your birthday?"

"January 23rd, 1977."

"When is my birthday? What's my name?"

"Daniel James Anderson. April 13th, 1997."

"Where are we from?" he takes another step forward, but this time, you don't move back.

"Connecticut," you say.

"Where."

"Mystic."

"Our wedding anniversary?" He questions.

"June 10th."

"Good," he nods, then steps away, the familiar bite returning, "Don't mess this up."

He strides to the door and opens it, gesturing for you to leave. You chew the inside of your cheek as you make way toward him.

"You're a real fucking prick, you know?" You make sure the shoulder check him on your way out.

A few days later, you're sitting on the couch, going through the box of framed photos of you and Steve that neither of you had bothered putting up.

Max had already rushed to school, nearly late with the new route from the new house. The weekend had passed, and you had spent the entirety of it going over case files, learning anything and everything you could about Henry Creel, and perfecting your persona as Grace.

"The team is heading in soon with an update," Steve says from behind you.

"Heard," you reply, barely sparing him a glance.

The past few days had been spent avoiding each other. He was more chatty with Max than he was with you, and that left you more bothered than expected. You'd take turns in the kitchen, staying out of each other's way when it came time for a meal. He often ate in his room, while you and Max ate in the dining room.

Max had offered him to join you twice, and he politely declined both times, claiming he had work to catch up on.

"He seems nice to me," she'd say when you'd complain about his tone.

"Yeah, he's nice to a lot of people. I'm not one of them," you'd reply.

"Why haven't you put those up yet?" He asks, plopping down on the couch next to you, annoyingly close, you might add.

"This is the first time I'm looking at them," you admit.

"Better get them placed before Joyce gets here," he says, lifting a frame out of the box.

"You could've placed them, too," you side glance at him. "They were sitting here all week."

The only picture that had been placed was the bigger one above the fireplace mantle because Eddie had taken it upon himself to hang it. The truth was, you just couldn't bear to look at the box of frames. Seeing you as someone else felt so out of body; it was something you were still trying to get used to.

"You said you were going to do it, so I left them for you to do," he leans back, looking at the photo.

"I did not say that," you defensively reply.

He laughs in reply, and it makes your blood boil.

"What's so funny, Agent Harrington?" You drop the frame on the cushion next to you, crossing your arms as you look at him in disbelief.

"Hopper was right," he says through another breathless laugh. You say nothing, waiting for him to elaborate. "We do bicker like a married couple."

Your eyes search his, trying to decipher if you should laugh or not. God, he's right, though. He reaches over you and grabs the frame from next to you, making your breath still.

"This is a good one," he says, staring at it. "We're pretty convincing."

You reach for another frame in the box and stare down at it. It's just another from the series of wedding photos. You bite your tongue that somehow feels like it's tied itself into a knot.

The one he holds nearly hurts to look at. It seems so real.

"What are you doing?" You ask as Robin appears at the bartop with the film camera Joyce had been using all week to capture your fake life with Steve.

Each day was spent ambushing you and Steve with this camera for candid shots of your lives together. You and the team were enjoying what you didn't realize was your last Free Friday for a while.

Steve's presence is felt before you see him. His shoulder brushes yours as he fills the space next to you at the bar. It sends a chill down your spine. He orders himself a beer and turns to face Robin when it's in hand.

"Say cheese," Robin says, "But make it real, don't forget."

You lift your cocktail glass off the counter and turn to face Robin. Steve's chest presses against your back, and your breath catches in your throat. All week had been spent taking these photos, but you never got used to having him be so comfortable touching you.

Robin tsks and drops the camera, "More convincing. I'm not buying it."

Steve doesn't say anything, you just feel his hand slide around your waist, causing your spine to straighten. His hand splays across your hipbone just barely under your shirt, something you'd felt several times this week, and his thumb brushes a circle into your skin. Your hand rests over his, your fingers instinctively lace together.

His chin rests on your shoulder, his nose pressed to your cheek, and you instinctively lean into his touch.

"Yes! Yes, that's it. Stay like that- wait- I forgot what button- hold on," Robin's struggle with the camera draws a laugh from both of you, causing you to further lean into Steve, his grip around you tightening.

"Jesus Christ, this new tech is killing me." The comment sends you into a full fit of laughter as the flash finally goes off, likely blinding anybody within a five-foot radius.

The second she drops the camera, Steve pulls away from you and walks back to the table without another word.

You down your drink.

"I'll put them away right now," you stand up and take the frame from his hand, nauseated at how authentic it looks.

If you showed it to anybody, they'd believe you'd been in love for years.

You toss it into the box with the rest and then lift it, carrying it around as you find places for every photo. Some are placed in the kitchen, some more in the living room.

The one from the bar is the last you can't seem to find a place for. You stare down at it, your knuckles turning white from how hard you're gripping the frame.

This is fine. It's more than fine. No, it's not.

The photo makes you sick.

Your laced fingers against your hipbone. Steve's tipsy smile pressed into your cheek, the genuine laughter you can hear through the photo. How loose and comfortable you are leaning into Steve's chest.

It's not Steve at all; it's the realization that you've never had a serious relationship in your life, and yet here you were with years of one shoved into a week of phony photos that look and feel real.

It's the job. You remind yourself as you pull the photo from the frame and stick it to the fridge with a magnet from Paris, to which you've never even actually visited.

The team arrives in intervals. Most of them were wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and Eddie was even wearing an oversized hoodie.

It's a strategy. You haven't even begun your work, but the practices to ensure everyone's safety have already started.

The saferoom hides behind a bookcase in the second office on the first floor. To open it, there's a specific first-edition copy of The Great Gatsby on the second-top shelf that is actually a lever.

Steve is somehow the last person to enter the saferoom despite now living just upstairs from it.

"Alright, everyone, settle in," Hopper says.

The table in the saferoom is nearly identical to the one at the office, and everyone assumes their usual seats.

"Robin, do you want to tell us your findings?" he asks.

"Well, I spent the entire week dissecting the gallery's website. He's got it protected like crazy, so it took some time, but I finally made it past his firewalls." Robin starts, immediately talking with her hands in the fast-paced manner she does when nervous. "Dr.Owens luckily has put in for you two as the Andersons, so he was expecting contact from you."

"What, like an email?" Steve asks.

"Not exactly," Robin's mouth twitches downward, "There are different layers to the gallery website. The contact portal can't be found by just accidentally clicking on something; you have to know where to look."

"And you know where to look," you say, offering a pleased smile.

"I've been talking with Henry's right hand for the past few days, arranging a meeting."

"A meeting, meaning?" Nancy questions, pulling the baseball cap off her head, freeing her curls.

"Well, he doesn't agree to meet with just anyone," Robin is quick to reply, "There's a sort of vetting process to it all. You know, to ensure that nobody is a snitch. We're very lucky to have Dr.Owens on the inside."

"And?" Eddie pries.

Robin pulls a file from her bag and spreads out at least twenty pages of documents.

"You two have a lot of studying to do," Robin says with a smile.

You and Steve stand from your seats to better view the pages on the table. You take one into your hands, your eyes scanning the page quickly.

<Dealer001> Mr. Creel is a very busy man. <Dealer001> Dr. Owens has put in a good word. <DAndy> We're very serious about our involvement. Our schedule is flexible.

<Dealer001> He has agreed to meet at the gallery. <Dealer001> Thursday evening at 1800. Do not be late.

"We start Thursday," Hopper says. "You two need to study up and memorize every line of contact Robin has had with these people, understood?"

You glance at Steve, watching as his jaw clenches when he nods. You nod as well.

"Good job, Rob," Eddie smiles, patting her on the back.

"Eddie and Nancy will be undercover at the restaurant across the street. Jonathan will be nearby with his camera..."

Hopper trails off, detailing the rest of the points for Thursday. Your stomach insists on tying itself into several small knots.

"Alright," Joyce says as she stands. "Let's get to work."

You look to Steve, not for his approval, but for something else.

He gives you a curt nod and is the first to exit the saferoom.

That night, you fall asleep on the couch. Max had left for a sleepover with her friend Jane, and you had spent the rest of the night surrounded by the documents Robin had brought in.

Steve enters the kitchen for a glass of water, noting the lamp is still on, "Kind of late for you to be awake, hm?" When you don't answer, he finally fully looks over his shoulder. "Are you still pissed at me?"

He pads over from the kitchen, a hint of a smile on his lips as he finally lays eyes on you. He sets his glass of water down and gently picks up the files you have resting on your chest. His chest tightens when he sees you wearing nothing but a tank top with spaghetti straps.

He diverts his stare to the files, scanning over all of your handwritten notes. It bothers him how detailed you are, how every single line has your thoughts written out next ot it. With a sigh, he gathers the stack together and messily puts it back into the folder.

He looks at you again, a warm feeling subtly filling his chest that he tries to fight. You look so peaceful when you're not running your mouth off at him, calling him a prick or asshole or arrogant.

He's moving before he can stop himself, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Then he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over you, pulling it up to your chin, careful not to wake you.

He stares at you for another moment and then whispers to himself, "What the fuck am I doing?"

He snatches the folder, your folder, off the table and rushes back to his room with one final glance at the wedding portrait over the fireplace mantle.

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