Snapshot

By Steampunk . Chuckster

Summary: Photojournalist Sarah Walker has spent her short and acclaimed career walking the tightrope of societal norms and an inherent yearning for adventure. When her duty to making appearances for her career puts her in Bartowski Electrics CEO Chuck Bartowski's path, their very different worlds collide. Will she discover there is more adventure to him than meets the eye? Charah AU based on Hitchcock's Rear Window.

A/N: How on Earth am I managing to post fic during the World Cup and on top of having a job? I don't know. Miracles sometimes happen. The least you could do is leave me a reviiiieeeeewwwwww. Just kidding. Do what feels right. Either way, I can't quit these two dumdums. Hope you enjoy chapter 2.

Disclaimer: I do not own CHUCK and I'm making exactly $0 from this story. Per usual.


It would be rude to interrupt Cole Barker as he explained his plans to merge the electric industry with the oil industry, a joint, hand in hand operation to kick-start an American-engineered energy grid blah blah blah… He'd tuned him out, honestly. Which was probably even more rude than interrupting.

But he wanted to get out of this particularly grating conversation in lieu of the conversation he was actually eager to have.

He didn't care about crude oil, and he didn't care about any joint projects for some sort of energy grid that would run off of electricity and oil. It sounded like a grift—an oil magnate looking for a way to get on the train into the future, when oil would eventually be a thing of the past. He obviously didn't want to be left behind.

Because the thing about electricity was that you didn't drill for it, it didn't gush out of the ground and when it ran out, it ran out. Electricity could be created. He had a team looking for all of the different ways they could produce electricity. He imagined cars would someday be powered by electricity, trains, buses, and other modes of transportation. Perhaps there would be cars you could plug in the way you did a lamp. Or a TV set.

When he was finally able to brush Cole Barker the Oil Man off, after unfortunately being forced to take one of the man's cards, he managed to maneuver himself behind an ice sculpture of a swan, and he peeked out from around it, trying to spot her without anyone else spotting him. He needed to find her again.

He didn't know who she was, or the reason why she was invited to this charity gala. Knowing who Monsieur Garnier was, the fact that he was involved in Paris's fashion scene, made Chuck think the woman might be one of the models. He'd never seen anyone more beautiful in his entire life, and this past year especially, as Bartowski Electric did more than just gain traction but instead seemed to be hitting a goldmine, Chuck Bartowski had been exposed to many beautiful people.

But this woman had knocked him flat on his ass.

Twice over.

Once he'd recovered from the dazzling, swirling blue eyes under the arched eyebrows, framed by luminous golden blond hair, how tall she was, the athletic build with her strong shoulders and arms covered by a ball gown that was dark blue like the Parisian night sky… Once he'd recovered from all of that, she'd knocked him over with the way she lifted her voice and eclipsed everyone else, questioning the viability of science with no holds barred, technological advancement without also looking at potential consequences. She'd done it with her chin held high. She'd made eye contact. She hadn't blinked, challenging him to look beyond his own worldview.

Chuck hadn't noticed the reactions she'd gotten from others listening in because he was drowning too deeply in the validity of what she'd brought to his attention.

She was right.

But then she'd hightailed it out of the group, looking embarrassed. He knew why she was embarrassed. He wasn't totally and completely checked out from social cues, and certainly she wasn't either, because she'd apologized for speaking up the way she had.

Damn it, where was she?

Had she left the party completely?

He wanted to talk to her, but more than that, he couldn't have her leaving the party thinking he was upset with her, or offended. He didn't want her leaving thinking she'd been in the wrong.

Would he have to be endlessly embarrassing and ask the host who she was? How would he ever be able to describe her in a way that would jog Garnier's memory? She's a blonde. Blue eyes. Very pretty. Tall.

That described many of the women in attendance tonight. Jean-Luc Garnier was a fashion magnate in the way Cole Barker was an oil magnate, in the way Chuck Bartowski was a technology magnate.

Garnier made models and fashion shows that would be talked about for years to come, while Chuck made…well, color televisions. Nearly every middle class to upper class home had a B.E. television. At least, that was what the advertisements said. He left that to the marketing team.

Chuck eventually gave up, feeling rather disappointed, grabbing yet another glass of champagne, and resigning himself to yet another conversation about credit cards versus cold harsh cash.

Would credit cards be the ruination of society as we know it?

Should the U.S. go back to gold?

God, it made the young man feel like going outside and throwing himself off of the balcony.

He wouldn't. Of course not. His surgeon sister would be all alone in the world, as he was her only blood relative left. She'd kill him if he did that to her.

Smirking, he spotted double doors that led out onto a balcony. He didn't know if the doors would be locked, if guests were supposed to go out there, but he did know that the view had to be magnificent. And the rain from the night before had cleared, so the air wouldn't be as cold as it was early this morning.

He could use the resulting clear view and some fresh Parisian night air.

So he replaced his empty glass of champagne with a full one and slinked over to the doors. It was locked, but he turned around to face the party, his back to the door handle, and he found the lock with his fingers turning it and subtly popping the door open.

Nobody would notice him sneaking out. Surely not.

And so he inched his way through the cracked door, shutting it behind him, turning to face the view, taking it all in, sucking in a deep breath…and heading for the railing.

Alone.

At last.

Chuck leaned his elbows on the railing, letting himself enjoy. The thick stone railing ended against the far wall, so he wandered over there, hopped up to sit comfortably on said stone railing, and leaned back against the wall, sighing, pulling one knee up to his chest and letting the other leg dangle down on the safe side of the rail. Just in case.

Garnier wasn't kidding around with his hilltop chateau.

Sipping his drink, he smiled out at the view and let the cold bite at his face. Reveling in the solitude.

Until he heard the creak of the doors open again.

}o{

It had been some time since she'd let her mouth shame her that badly.

She knew what she'd said was right. And she knew that saying it was right as well.

But that didn't erase the reality of this existence she was living, and in this particular society. It simply wasn't done, speaking like that to someone who apparently had as much power as he had—and likely, he had quite a bit of money as well with the way everyone hung on his every word. There she stood, someone who was at least living comfortably enough (most of the time), whose name was slowly making its way through the journalism world, getting spreads in magazines here and there, making commissions on her photography, but who had almost no power in this world they were all living in…and she'd spoken to him like that? The way she had questioned his chosen profession, his industry, his whole ideology, and in front of others.

It was no wonder she'd gotten the looks she'd gotten from the other guests.

Sarah Walker was…mortified was the only word she could come up with.

Her position amongst these people wasn't tenable. And in spite of having her own code of conduct and her own ideology that didn't always align with the people who showed up to these highbrow shindigs, she wasn't exactly a saint.

She never had been.

And so…there were just things she had to do to keep her head above water. Towing the line, laughing off offensive jokes directed at her, brushing off indefensible come ons from men (sometimes even the married ones), and putting up with backhanded comments from women who'd merely married well was all a part of this game she knew she had to play if she wanted a career in photography. Because the women who lobbed backhanded comments at her would show up at one of her galleries someday, and they would buy one of her photograph prints for a few hundred dollars. And she didn't care why they were buying her art, only that they did it.

Money was money.

That was another thing she'd learned from her father.

He hadn't always taught her the best things, but that was something she'd found useful over the years. As she'd clawed her way up with talent and no-nonsense hard work.

She'd slipped an hour ago, looking that curly-haired young man in the eye and essentially telling him that his science had the potential to destroy the health of humans and the planet if he didn't counterbalance it with a healthy understanding of the impact it might have.

Perhaps this was a personal failing she'd again inherited from the man who tended to only pass down the bad things, including questionable life lessons (you're only a criminal if you get caught, darlin'). But in spite of knowing she should apologize, instead she'd kept one eye on him this past hour since she'd embarrassed herself, from far, far away…just to make sure she could continue to avoid him.

But keeping one eye on him meant she'd seen him get sucked into a conversation with Cole Barker, a conversation he seemed less than keen on having. The poor man went through it for almost twenty minutes, a kind and polite smile on his face, in spite of how tense his shoulders were, all bunched up by his ears. And when the oil baron tried to shove his business card into the younger man's hand, the resistance was evident. And then it had faltered, he'd taken the card, and he'd finally escaped.

Multiple women had stopped him, and he'd even danced with one who seemed more than happy to be in his arms, batting her eyelashes. Sarah found herself feeling a bit sorry for the woman, considering he'd spent the slow song glancing over her black curls piled high on her head, as if looking for something.

She imagined he was one of those one-track-mind business types, always with his eye on the next score, even when a beautiful woman was in his arms. A lot of these guys who were serious about the work they did were—and he was obviously very serious and certainly passionate, she could tell that much about him at least. They probably had to be. After the war, the opportunity for entrepreneurship swelled.

Her father's own business in the con game had swelled as well as a result. The grifters came out of the woodwork like a bunch of termites.

Sarah had been on the verge of finally making her excuses to the host and running the hell out of here to lock herself back in her hotel room and curse herself, tossing to and fro in bed unable to keep from thinking about the foolish behavior she'd put on full display tonight, when she saw the curls-sporting fellow make his way around the edge of the room, as if trying to avoid people altogether. She didn't relate to anyone here as much as she related to him in that moment.

And then he'd taken cover behind the swan ice sculpture, looking almost like a little boy as he peeked out from around it. She'd even heard herself giggle quietly.

Finally, he threw back the rest of his champagne, rushed to the nearest waiter to get a new one, and turned away from her.

Sarah Walker watched as he then disappeared outside, putting on a bit of a comical show she felt a little guilty watching, considering he must think nobody could see him, his eyes darting back and forth, before he quickly ducked outside and shut the door behind him.

He'd escaped.

At least, for now.

And she stayed put for a few minutes.

She had her father's voice in her head, telling her apologizing was for people who were wrong. And she wasn't wrong. She was right. Every word of what she'd said was right.

And still, it felt like he hadn't deserved it. That General cat who'd questioned the other man's "opinion" about the war effort? He deserved it…and more.

She'd potentially sunk her ship with the others who were there, if they even knew who she was. That was questionable. Perhaps they'd assumed she was some model and they'd forgotten about her already.

One could hope.

And she silenced her father's voice, shoving it and him out of her mind altogether, crossing the room. She made her way to the same doors he'd gone through, stole herself, and then she snuck out to join him.

She shut the doors behind her blindly as she searched the balcony, finally spotting him sitting on the furthest edge of the railing and leaning back against the wall, one long leg bent so his knee was poking up near his face, the other dangling down, almost touching the balcony tile. She was struck by the dichotomy of the expensive tuxedo he was wearing and the nonchalant, almost lazy way he lounged there.

But the moment he turned and spotted her, he scrambled off of the railing, nearly pitching forward when he landed, but catching himself just barely and straightening to his full height. "Dah—Uh. Um." He cleared his throat.

They just stared at one another and she suddenly couldn't find her voice. What did she say? How did she start this conversation? She should have planned that part of this before she just stormed out here into the Parisian night.

He lifted his hand in a tentative wave, not raising it above his waist even before he let it fall back to his side again. "Hullo."

"Good evening." She stopped a few feet away from him. And then she looked around the balcony. They were alone.

"Good evening," he said, shaking his head at himself it seemed, furrowing his brow. Then he turned to look at the doors and back at her again, gesturing inside. "Needed some fresh air?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. She didn't want to tell him she'd been watching him, that she was trying to avoid him all night after her faux pas, until she finally worked up the nerve, saw him walk out here, and followed.

"Me too," he admitted. "It's beautiful tonight and it was getting rather…erm, warm inside. I needed a bit of a break, I suppose."

Sarah nodded again. And then her slight smile of politeness became something close to a smirk. "I noticed." What with the way he'd been lounging there, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, leg hanging down.

He winced. "I-I'm sorry. I was only doing that because nobody else was out here. I'm not usually so…erm…I…don't know. I can't find words for some reason…suddenly."

"Oh, please, don't apologize to me for being comfortable. Never apologize to me for being comfortable. I wish everything could be comfortable all the time. Life would be much easier if that were the case." He smiled a bit, seemingly surprised. She moved to the railing and leaned back against it, propping her elbows on either side of her body and lifting her chin. "Speaking of apologies, I…do believe I owe you one." She wrinkled up her nose and lowered her chin again, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

He blinked. "You do? For what?" And he seemed reticent to come closer, rooted to the spot a few feet away, the flute of champagne still clutched between his fingers.

She gave him a dubious look. "Oh come now. You know what. I floated into that conversation you were having, completely uninvited, spoke up—again, without invitation—and essentially took you and your entire ideology about science and technology out at the knees. One fell swoop. And you didn't deserve it, it was completely beastly of me, so I'm sorry."

He seemed to find the courage finally to step in closer, setting the flute a safe distance away, leaning his left side against the stone railing, and crossing his arms to fix her with a long stare. "Beastly? Quite the vocabulary to describe what you were."

"Accurate vocabulary. You did nothing to earn getting hacked at the ankles by my righteous diatribes. I didn't mean to be so…well, loud. And I certainly didn't mean to offend."

He shook his head vehemently and stood up straight again, putting one hand on the stone and shoving his other one in his pants pocket. "Well." He made a thoughtful sound, surprise in his face. "When I saw you walk through those doors, I certainly wasn't expecting an apology."

"You thought I'd stick to my guns, sir?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, her smirk widening.

"I don't know what I thought. But, listen, it—I don't want you to feel as though you offended me. Truth is, I was taken aback at first. Stunned."

"Hm. Yes, I have heard that line before."

He seemed confused for a moment, and then the meaning dawned on him and his eyes widened. "Oh. N-No, not that." Her eyebrows shot into her hairline and she reared her chin back. He blushed bright red. "Oh boy. No, I mean, you're very—Of course that too. That was also stunning. But I meant what you asked, the way you stood there so…defiant." He let out a low whistle. She felt something flip over in her chest and she took a deep breath, just meeting his gaze. "Thing is, you did something no one has before." He made a face. "At least, not before B.E. became as successful as it is. Nobody's asked me a question like that before, challenged me, and my business practices."

"I'm sorry." She rushed on before he could interrupt, shaking his head and opening his mouth. "But for what it's worth, I wasn't challenging you, or your business practices. I'm aware it came off that way, but that wasn't how I meant it at all."

"No, you… Please don't think that I thought that. I don't mean that you challenged me personally, only that you posed a question that hasn't been posed to me before. Gauging the impact of the growth of an electrics company, and the technological advancements in my industry. Impact on humans, on wildlife…our planet itself."

Sarah could only gape at him.

"You ran off so quickly, though, and I wanted to…talk to you about it," he said, his voice a little breathless. "I tried to call you back but you didn't hear me. It's loud in there. A lot of…loud people in there." She couldn't help bursting into laughter, utterly shocked. His eyes went wide as he realized how that sounded. "Uhhh… Oops. Didn't mean to—Erm, well. I won't try to take it back. I said it and I meant it. There."

Her laughter died into giggles and she shook her head. "You aren't wrong, though."

"I know," he muttered, making a face that did nothing to calm her giggles. "I don't mean to be a snob or…mean to these people. Many of them are genuinely interested in helping others who are less fortunate which is why they're at a charity gala."

"And many of them aren't, but would like to convey that to the greater public and that's why they're here." He looked at her for a long enough time that she squirmed a little. "I know how it sounds and I'm owning that. I don't have a lot of faith in the people in that room because I know them too well. But I don't know you at all, and I cornered you unfairly."

"If you feel that's what you did, I appreciate your apology and I accept it. Sincerely."

She found herself smiling at him. "Thank you."

"But for what it's worth, I'm very appreciative you spoke up and asked those questions, said those things."

"The rest of the group didn't seem very appreciative."

"I don't care what they think about it." She whipped her head up to look at him with an eyebrow raised. "You gave me much to think over, and now I'm going to have your voice in my mind every time I and my team move forward with a project, asking me what the impact will be in the long run. Your voice asking me how big of a footprint will I be leaving."

"My voice?" she asked slowly, giving him a significant look. She absolutely was flirting this time. And she didn't care who heard her.

He nodded quietly.

"I suppose if I'm going to have my voice in someone's head, I should ask that someone who he is first." She amended quickly: "Bartowski, was it?"

"Bartowski, yes. Good memory. People flub it up a lot. Sometimes I think it's on purpose," he said with a good-natured chuckle. "Charles Bartowski."

Charles Bartowski stuck his hand out between them.

She took his hand. It was warm, even through her glove, in spite of how cool it was out here, the breeze a little damp and almost biting. But it couldn't bite her in that moment, as she tightened her fingers around his hand, feeling acutely how much larger it was than hers, yet noticing how gentle his grip was. "It's nice to meet you, Mister Bartowski."

He smiled softly, his eyes warm. "My Paris assistant Miss Gregory keeps calling me 'Mister Bartowski', and when she slips, 'sir'… For her, I suppose it feels only appropriate, as she's my assistant, so I don't complain…much," he added teasingly. "But I'd like it if you called me Chuck, and not…Mister Bartowski."

"I suppose I owe you that much after that crummy first impression…?" She looked up at him through her eyelashes again, this time a bit shyly.

Chuck shook his head and furrowed his brow. "You couldn't have given me a better first impression." He narrowed his eyes then and winced. "That sounded—I don't mean that as in you're incapable of giving a good first impression. It was a good first…" He huffed and shook his head at himself, rolling his eyes. "It was supposed to be a compliment. But you don't owe me a damn thing." She was taken aback at that. He was staring out over the Parisian landscape, the buildings shooting up from the ground, Eiffel literally towering over it all, watching over her city. "I wasn't expecting someone to speak up like that, sure, but if it had truly offended me, made me feel defensive, attacked… Well, that'd be a failing on my part, not yours." He glanced back at her as she finally pushed away from the railing to stand at her full height, turning to face him straight on. Who was this man?

"This conversation is not anything near what I expected…" she said quietly, smirking slightly.

"People like to have expectations about me, about people like me. Not all of them are wrong."

"But many of them are?" she finished for him. He merely shrugged, not seeming to want to agree with her on that.

"How do you build a successful company, a successful brand, if you don't welcome challenge, even correction, from the people around you? As a leader, I mean. If you only hear what people think you want to hear, how is that any sort of model for moving forward? I don't want B.E. caught in a stagnant loop. I want growth. Progress." He turned to face her head on as well. "Whatever it may have looked like in there, or-or what it felt like for you, as much as it surprised me at first, and I'll admit it did," he added with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm very glad you spoke up. That's something I've needed to hear for years."

She chuckled breathily, shaking her head. "You are a very rare person, Mist—" She stopped herself and bit her lip. "Chuck."

His grin was suddenly beautiful. It was so happy, as though it genuinely pleased him to hear her using his chosen name. "Rare, perhaps. I'll give you that."

"That was me complimenting you, just to be clear."

His laughter was bubbly and sweet, and it made her feel a lift somewhere deep in her chest. "Thank you," he said with a grin. "I'll take the compliment and keep it for later when I've got…" The grin faded a bit and he shook his head, clearing his throat. He seemed to decide not to say what had been on the tip of his tongue. And she found she ached to hear whatever it was.

And when was the last time another person had caused an ache like this in her? She couldn't remember. It was a need to know more, to learn everything there was to know. Damn it, the timing of the breeze making the curls on top of his head flutter just so. This certainly was some ache.

He turned to eye her for a long moment, and she squirmed again, for no one had ever looked at her in a way that felt this…exposing before. Like he was seeing more in her than others had ever cared to.

Cole Barker had looked at her like he wanted to gobble her up and finish the meal off with an aperitif afterwards. Many men—especially the powerful ones who knew how much power they had—looked at her in that same way.

Instead, this man—Chuck Bartowski, apparent CEO of an electrics corporation—looked at her like he wanted to know more, too. Like he was taking her in, in the hopes looking long enough might help him to glean some sort of a story, a crumb of information about her. It made the breeze feel a little less cold, and still it sent a shiver through her at the same time.

She didn't know why she pulled back slightly. Perhaps it was fear. She didn't want to be exposed. Not to anyone. She wanted the front she put on in public to stay. Her career relied on it, the obscuring of her past relied on it. She wasn't ready for that kind of a change, even in this seemingly innocent, flirtatious exchange with this man who was much more fascinating than she'd expected him to be.

Maybe that was because it wasn't as innocent or as flirtatious. It was sending a hum through her. There was that strange combination of warmth and an undeniable shiver. There was danger in that. Danger in delving deeper than her usual interaction with men—flirtation, and on the rare occasion, if she let it happen, the introduction of heat that might result in more. And then when it ended, inevitably quickly, it hurt so much less.

Except for the one time. The one time it hadn't been quick. The one time it had gotten deeper, hooks delving deep, deep under her skin, into her very bones. And when the end came, sudden and painful and harsh…though understandable…when he'd pulled away, he'd taken massive chunks of her with him, skin and muscle, cartilage, bone…blood.

That wasn't happening again. Not that this moment with this man threatened to come anywhere close to that. This wasn't that serious.

And she'd make sure of it.

She gestured inside then. "I should go back in. You know. I'm sure Monsieur Garnier will be making his big speech anytime now. Wouldn't want to miss it."

Chuck raised his eyebrows and nodded. And then he cleared his throat. "You're right. He will be. Of course."

Her smile felt rather fragile now that she'd let thoughts of him come back. It had been multiple years since they'd split, and he'd moved on, had a fiancée who was everything he deserved. She imagined he was finally as happy as he deserved to be. And she was happy for him, and still…she had a selfish hurt, a remembrance of how good it felt to be loved. It wasn't him as much, but that sensation he'd engendered in her. Loving and feeling that love come back.

She still felt the hurt every so often.

Including now apparently.

"It was nice meeting you, Chuck," she said, taking a step back towards the door. "Thanks for being such a sport about the, uh…" She clenched her fist and brought it around in a bit of a punch. There was the flirtation again. "The people who work for you are lucky."

He merely smiled, bowing slightly, grateful. But as she turned to run from him, he spoke again. "You know, I never caught the name of the woman whose voice I'm apparently going to have in my head from this point forward…"

Her feet wouldn't move. They were rooted to that very spot. And she slowly turned back to him. "Oh. You're right." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "Sarah."

"Sarah," he repeated.

"Walker," she added when he raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting more. "I'm Sarah Walker."

He furrowed his brow then, nibbling on his lip. "I'm sorry, I—It's just that the name…it's familiar."

"It's a common name, I'm sure."

"No, I've…" He shook his head, seeming a bit frustrated with himself. "Well, here. What do you do?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Do?"

"Yes. A-Are you one of Garnier's…?" Chuck's mouth opened and closed like he was trying to find the right way to put it. He was pausing where other men wouldn't, trying to find the right words, where other men would chug along using whatever popped into their head, no matter what kind of a connotation it had.

"You're asking, am I one of his women…?" she filled in for him, actually almost amused.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "No! No, I-I wasn't insinuating…anything like that. You know, he has models who…walk on his runways. They wear his clothes. I didn't mean any of that with judgment."

"They belong to him," she said, charmed by his kindness. Because sometimes the intention of kindness was good enough, whether there was another motive or not. "And we all judge a little, don't we? Even if we may not mean to." His cheeks pinked and he didn't seem to know how to respond. "But no. I am not one of Garnier's models. I'm humbled by the idea that you thought I might be, though."

"You're easily the most incredibly beautiful person in that room, perhaps in all of Paris. And in the last few months, I've been all around this continent in an attempt to spread my brand across the pond, so I think it's safe to expand the parameters of my compliment to the whole world." Charmed out of her mind, the thought of going back inside, separating herself from this conversation, making sure it filtered out of her brain like it was never there in the first place. But he was already backtracking, making a miserable face out towards the Parisian skyline. "Oh. My God, but that was the worst possible way I've told a woman she's beautiful ever in my whole life."

She giggled, feeling how flush she was as she picked at the skirt of her gown shyly. "That was your worst?" She shook her head and widened her eyes. "I shudder to think what your best must be."

He blushed so bright she could see it even in the passable light spilling out from the room and the half moon above them. "Uhhh…" He cleared his throat. "Your, um, job? That's what I should've asked from the start. What's your profession, Miss Walker?"

She thought she might correct him, tease him for telling her to call him Chuck even when he insisted on "Miss Walker", but she didn't. Instead she just answered his question. "I take pictures, Chuck." When he seemed a bit confused, she stepped in closer, playing with her fingers in front of her, in spite of knowing it didn't exactly forward an air of elegance. "What I mean to say is that I make a living with the camera bag that hangs about my neck virtually everywhere I go." She gave him a closed-mouth smile. "I'm a photographer, a photojournalist."

"Oh." His eyebrows shot into his hairline. "OH! A photojournalist!" He gaped at her.

Sarah Walker was used to this response whenever she mentioned her career.

"Always a tone of surprise," she teased.

"No, no. No, I'm not surprised because—It's not like that. I swear. I feel like there aren't a lot of photojournalists out there, you know? That isn't what you'd expect from anyone if you asked what their job is."

She tilted her head.

"It isn't surprising because you're a woman. That's what I'm trying to say. It's surprising in general because—What a fascinating career. I'm sure it comes with a lot of, um, adventure."

Snorting, she pursed her lips, twisting them to the side. And then she looked up at him through her eyelashes, leaning closer. "Don't worry," she giggled then, shaking her head reassuringly. "I'm not offended. …I'm flirting."

She saw shock in his face immediately, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. He swallowed hard, ducking his chin. He poked himself in the chest. "Fl-Flirting. With me." He raised an eyebrow, his eyes still adorably wide.

Nodding, she added, "Yes. With you." And she paused, watching him closely. "Did I shock you, Chuck? Being so blunt?"

Clearing his throat, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to lean back against the railing. She saw him thinking, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and then he wrinkled up his face. "You know, I've always thought that word gets a negative connotation, rather unfairly." She leaned in, interested. "Shock, I mean. Someone's shocked and it's equated with being appalled, scandalized…negative. But I don't think it has to be that all the time. Sometimes being shocked is…good." And he turned to look her right in the eye, and she couldn't look away if she tried. "I'll admit it. You shocked me. I'm not used to women admitting outright that they're flirting. Not with me, anyway." He chuckled, blushing sweetly. "You shocked me, Miss Walker, but I…liked it."

Sarah felt something lurch in her, and she turned wide eyes on him.

"Did I just shock you back?" he asked a bit jauntily.

She nearly laughed, but didn't. Instead a grin grew slowly on her face. "You did."

The urge to run was gone for the time being as she found herself leaning in even closer to him.

}o{

He knew he was in so far over his head, practically drowning, but instead of trying to struggle his way to the surface for air, he just let himself sink further into her.

Chuck had been so sure that she'd disappeared, left the party, and he'd sought to forget about her altogether, when a blond head had poked out from inside, and she stepped into view—all nearly six feet of her in those heels, and wearing that dress that was the color of the sky above.

And now she was here on the balcony with him, and she had this look on her face, like she was interested. More than interested, fascinated even. And her blue eyes were so clear and swirling with something he didn't understand all at once. And her mouth was doing things that made his heart quicken in his chest. A small shy smile morphing into a delicious smirk, and then her lips would press into a line and he had no idea what any of it meant combined with those eyes.

He loved that he didn't know. And then he wanted to know at the same time. He wanted to know everything. What did she think about first thing in the morning when she woke up? What troubled her in those quiet moments when she was driving alone through the streets of…wherever she lived?

What made her do the things she did? What made her speak up in that ballroom earlier, challenge his ideas, make him look at things differently?

What was it about photography that drew her in so completely that she made it her life's work? He was especially wondering about that part.

This stunning woman out in the world with a camera, capturing moments of life. Did she see things differently through a camera? Was that why she enjoyed it?

And then something struck him, a thought, an idea…more like a memory. Something that happened years ago. It must've been close to three years ago now. When things in his life weren't quite so…peachy, especially where Bartowski Electric was concerned.

He remembered the rain coming down. He remembered feeling like such a fool for not being prepared for New York City rain, which was different from Los Angeles rain. He remembered how slick the sidewalk was, his bad footwear without proper grip on the soles causing him to slip on the cement.

He remembered a beacon of light and warmth. An art gallery that he'd ducked into to wait out the storm. And he remembered staying for much longer than he'd anticipated, entranced by the photographs on the walls. He remembered moving through the gallery as if in a trance.

And then there was the name on the plaques.

Sarah Walker, Photography, B&W

Chuck spun on her, perhaps startling her a little. Oops.

"Sarah Walker!"

"Y-Yes…?"

He let out a breathless chuckle and shook his head. "It can't be."

"What?" Concern was etched into her features.

"Did you—Have you ever done showcases? I mean, art galleries with your photographs…"

"Yes…" She looked incredibly confused and maybe even a little bit dubious. "Why?"

"Tell me something." He leaned in closer. "It-It must've been…, uh, 1951. That was it. 1951, New York City… Was your work in an art gallery in New York City three years ago?"

She gawked at him, then swallowed, glancing away, thinking. "Um… Yes, I think it…was. I did have a gallery," she amended. "It was 1951. My first one. How could I forget?" But she must've seen the way his smile was growing into a deep grin. And the reason must've dawned on her then. "No. Oh, there is no way. You couldn't have been. You were invited to my art show three years ago? No, your name would've—I would remember. Or…maybe not. I wasn't exactly involved in creating the guest list."

"Guest list?" Chuck blinked. Oh boy…

"Yes. You had to be expressly invited to get in." She rolled her eyes. "I was so wet behind the ears, I had no real say, but I wanted it to be open to anyone. They insisted it only be open to those who had the money to buy. People would be more apt to buy if they knew they'd been handpicked for such an exclusive art show for some up-and-coming photographer." She gave him a wry smile.

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "So… Here's the thing. I…wasn't on any guest list, which is probably why you don't remember seeing my name. See, it was raining that day…"

"I remember the rain."

"Yes. And I, um, needed someplace to escape the rain for a few minutes. I saw the art gallery and I ducked inside." He winced. "This is awkward. Nobody was at the door, so I figured fair game…"

Her jaw fell open. Her voice was quiet as she asked, "Chuck, did you crash my art show?"

Chuck braced himself, not knowing where this conversation might lead. "I think so. I didn't know I was doing that 'til now, if that's any consolation."

Sarah said nothing, just staring at him…

And then she laughed. She laughed so hard she rocked forward into him, reaching out to grip onto to his bicep. He raised his eyebrows, and then he chuckled with her, relieved.

"It is a small world, isn't it?" she remarked once she sobered up a bit, but her grin was still lighting up the entire night sky. At least for him. "I'm glad someone who wasn't on that list got to see my photography."

He snorted. "I apologize for not buying anything."

"Oh, don't," she said with a roll of her eyes. "If you'd tried, they would've clocked you as not on that invite list and you would've been booted out of there."

"Well, maybe they should've stationed someone at the door. Anybody could've just walked in and had that champagne and those little treats they were serving. It was a little puff pastry with some sort of melted brie inside. I remember it still. Took the chill out of my bones."

"You had the champagne and food?" She laughed, throwing her head back. "This gets better and better."

"I'm glad you aren't sore that I broke into your art gallery."

"You didn't break in," she groused, making a face. "And what kind of a person would be sore about that? Though…there is a consequence for your actions, I'm afraid to say." She pursed her lips and tilted her head, batting her eyelashes teasingly.

"Oh dear," he teased back. "And what is my consequence?"

She dropped the look and suddenly seemed almost shy, nervous. She cleared her throat, glancing out over the beautiful sight of Paris sprawling towards the horizon. "What did you think?" And she turned and raised her eyes to his, but only for a split second before she looked away again. "Of my photographs?" she clarified.

So this was the consequence. Not so much a consequence and more of a privilege, he thought to himself.

"Well, I'll put it this way. At that point in my life, I'd never really been to an art show. I mean, nothing like that, a showcase of one artist's work. I'd been to museums, certainly, but that's…different. And it was raining, so I really just wanted someplace to hide out until it stopped, thinking I'd just look around for a few minutes and dart outta there again to get back to my hotel. The rain stopped maybe ten minutes later and I could've gone, but I stayed there for almost an hour."

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Did you?"

Chuck nodded. "I'd, um, I'd never seen anything so arresting. Mesmerizing. Your art, it-it's magnificent. It took my breath away, it had me transfixed. And the emotions it made me feel were…" He shook his head. "I found myself feeling joy, grinning, chuckling, and then I'd move to the next piece only to find it made me feel this deep…ache." Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath, shifting closer to him. "There was one…I remember this one clearly even years later. This woman coming out of a marketplace in Calcutta…"

She smiled softly. "Yes, I know the one."

"The colors, Sarah. She-She was beautiful. I can still see her face now when I think about the photograph. But the jewelry and the clothes she wore draped over her body, the colors of the marketplace behind her. The spices and the silks. It was so vibrant and lifelike, I felt like I was there with her. Like she was smiling…at me. Sounds silly now that I'm saying that out loud." He shook his head at himself.

"It doesn't at all," she said immediately. She seemed filled with excitement, almost like adrenaline, as she leaned in even closer, looking up into his face. Breathless, eager. It took his own breath away. "Her name is Sita. Someday I'd like to go back to Calcutta and see if I can find her again, see how she's doing. She was a ray of light moving through that marketplace. She sold jewelry she and her two daughters made together. I bought some the day I took that photograph of her. Still have it. She did have a smile that felt…transporting. So full of life."

"What is it the French say? Joy du veev?" He wrinkled up his face in embarrassment as she giggled.

"Joie de vivre," she pronounced properly. He tried to repeat it like her and shook his head, giving up. She just beamed at him. "Thank you for saying those things about my photography, Chuck. That was very sweet."

He smiled at her. "I meant it." And then something else popped into his head. He raised his eyebrows. "Oh. Wait. There was a photograph from Africa. The Serengeti. I remember this one clearly. I stood in front of it for five whole minutes. It was during sunset and the oranges and reds were stunning. The sun was just this big vibrant ball sinking down behind the horizon and there was one of those—you know those African trees…"

"Acacia trees?" she helped him, glee lighting her face.

"Yes! Those! It's…one of those and there's this elephant reaching up with its trunk, and its baby standing beside it. Just their silhouettes, though, because the sun is behind them. And… God, what I wouldn't give to be in that moment again. Standing at that photograph. People talking behind me, but I didn't care, I couldn't look away." He sighed. "I dunno, there was this sensation I got. Like there are still places on this Earth of ours where things like that exist, untouched by…us, by mankind. Thriving. Healthy."

"No machinery, or gas-guzzling buses and cars…"

He smiled down at her. "Or color televisions."

She giggled happily. "Or color televisions. That was how that place felt. I've never been more at peace than I was in the Serengeti."

"I'd like to hear more about it. About all of your adventures. You're a real artist, you know? And I can remember your name now, on those plaques. I see it. I remember."

Sarah seemed to almost melt against his arm, and her hand fell onto his where it rested on the railing.

He still felt the power of all of that coursing through him, and it erased any sense of self-doubt or lack of confidence he might've felt even just five minutes earlier, because he turned to look at her unrivaled beauty and he breathed, "Would you like to dance with me?"

Meeting his gaze, she kept her features immovable as she ducked her chin just enough to look at him through her eyelashes. "Out here?"

Chuck blinked a few times, standing up straighter. "Oh. I—Well, there's no music out here. I thought maybe inside where the band is." Her mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. "I'm not much of a dancer as it is, and without music I'm afraid I would…" He ran his hand that wasn't still under hers down the front of his tuxedo jacket bashfully. "Embarrass myself."

She broke into a smile and giggled. "Not much of a dancer and yet you ask me to dance?"

"Yes." He blushed, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "Truth is, I'd dance with you, with or without music." He shrugged modestly. "Well, I'd try at least. You're worth the trying."

Sarah took a deep breath and nodded. He sent a questioning look and she turned her hand over in his, pursing her lips and twisting them to the side shyly. Threading their fingers together, sending electricity up through his arm and cascading along the rest of his limbs, she pulled him toward the doors that led back into the party.

Chuck bit his lip and followed eagerly.

He had no way of knowing how demonstrably his decision to follow Sarah Walker back into that party would forever change everything.


A/N: Small world indeed. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! There's more. Please review, it does make a girl feel things.

-SC