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: Been sitting on this idea and a few chapters of this for YEARS. And I've been planning on eventually starting to post it for folks to read. Thought the end of Chuck Versus the Birthday would be the perfect time for it to go up. It will build towards the events that take place in Hitchcock's film, but if you've read anything else I wrote, you know I have to set it up first, let you all get to know Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker in this 1950s alternate universe for a while... Before I plunge you into all that voyeuristic intrigue muahaha. Hope you enjoy the first chapter! And for God's sake, if you're American, VOTE TOMORROW.
Disclaimer: I do not own CHUCK and I'm making exactly $0 from this story. Per usual.
New York City
1951
Well, it served him right, didn't it?
What did he expect, going outside without a raincoat or an umbrella, barely even remembering his hat, when the sky had looked the way it looked this morning as he'd glanced out of his hotel suite's window?
He'd taken the fellow on the radio who'd claimed there was a low chance of rain at his word.
And it served him right.
Really, it was emblematic of the way this whole business trip had gone.
Steffen wasn't interested in the 'entertainment frontier of the future', thinking television wouldn't last more than a decade before it faded out of favor again and people went back to packing movie theaters.
He wouldn't put his money into something that he was sure would lose popularity.
Then there was Leonard, who scoffed at whether people cared about color TVs or not. He pointed to polling and surveys that showed movie-going audiences didn't see much improvement when a moving picture was in color rather than in black and white. And he'd given the "kid with good ideas" a pat on the back, telling him that maybe he was just too ahead of his time trying to break into this kind of business.
And Chuck Bartowski was starting to think that maybe he was. Maybe he was ahead of his time, and maybe that meant he'd spend the rest of his life pushing this, having left a really, really good job, existing in a squalor 'til he wasted away.
Now he was caught in a New York rainstorm, damn it all. And taxis were all taken apparently, since none of them stopped no matter how many times he waded into the river at the edge of the street to try to catch one.
What a dismal couple of days it had been, no one willing to take a risk on a twenty-three year old entrepreneur who had proven chops in the electronics business, having been Ted Roark's right-hand man since he'd won an internship at Roark Instruments at sixteen.
Now that he was branching off, already in business, with employees and engineers and ideas sparking, one problem kept coming up. And that was trying to find the capital he needed to keep this going. Once they got these TVs into American households, it would take off, he knew. But he couldn't get the TVs into American households if he didn't have the TVs.
That was something they were really working on here. American-based ideas, with American products, the glass, the wood, the wiring, the metal, everything all created here on American soil. Phillips was sending out for parts made in China and Taiwan. Bartowski Electric would be built different. He was determined.
And no matter who he'd talked to at these conferences, he'd received the same blank stares, the same condescending chuckles.
He'd show them, though. He had the best employees in the world. Employees he'd like to keep employed, and paid for God's sake.
But first, he needed to get out of this rainstorm.
Chuck spotted a bright light beaming out of what looked like some kind of art gallery. He dashed out from the shop awning he'd been taking cover under and raced to the door of the place.
He liked art. He could manage to spend some time here, looking at the…paintings or whatever hung on the walls.
At least until the rain died down.
And then he'd head back to his hotel, take a long bath, and quite possibly drink until he passed out. Only to try again tomorrow.
He owed it to his people to try again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
However long it took.
No one was at the door of the gallery so he slinked inside, wiping his shoes as best he could, shaking droplets off of his hat out on the sidewalk before he entered to make sure he didn't mar the beautiful dark wood floors.
People were in their best evening wear, glasses of champagne in their hands. A few folks seemed to be interested in the art on the walls. And as he wandered further into the gallery, he realized these weren't paintings, but photographs. He'd never been to a photography art gallery before. It was fascinating.
Granted, he didn't think he'd ever been inside of any art gallery. Not to his memory. Not that he was against this sort of thing.
He ignored the din behind him and stepped away from the photograph of a toddler in cloth diapers kneeling next to a puddle, her face reflected back up in the water, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
"My God," he breathed, stepping back to really take it in. It was a photograph of mountains, but the mountains were shaped like something out of one of his fantasy novels about some other world where men in metal suits fought dragons and trolls with swords that contained centuries old magic. The mountain range jutted up into the air, tall and thin, like nothing he'd ever seen before. Snow sat atop them, making their dreamlike quality that much more affecting.
The photograph took his breath away.
Where was this?
He turned to look at the plaque beside it.
Sarah Walker
Torres del Paine, Chile, 1950
Photography, B&W
35" x 25"
$350
Chuck didn't read the rest of the words on the placard, his eyes bugging out at the price. Jesus Christ, were people really paying that much for photographs? And he looked up at the photograph of the Chilean mountains and thought that maybe, someday, he'd have the kind of riches that meant he could buy something this beautiful. Even if it was that expensive.
The beauty was worth the price, he decided.
And then he moved to the next photograph. It was a woman leaving a marketplace in what looked like India, and when he looked at the description, he saw that it was, specifically in Calcutta. She was beautiful, the photo in vibrant color, her lustrous skin, the incredible colors of the sari she wore, her bracelets and the jewelry that decorated her face.
But nothing shone like the smile on the woman's face as she waved towards the camera.
He felt the need to smile back.
This was taken by someone who must have connected with this woman, even if only for that moment in which the photograph was taken. He was in awe.
And people didn't want color television? Baloney.
Color was the future. He knew it.
This… (he looked at the plaque again) Sarah Walker photographer knew it as well. Obviously.
He didn't know how she'd captured so much with just a camera. And he began moving around the room earnestly, looking at this artist's photography, feeling the movement of the animals in the photos she'd taken in the Serengeti. He'd even gotten a little misty-eyed as he stopped at the black and white photo of men in soldier uniforms, guns propped on their shoulders, their faces set in pride, even as there wasn't a single smile in the photo.
A flag with three stripes lie in ruin under their boots, the red, the white, and the blue bleeding out of the photograph even though the rest was in black and white. And somehow it looked like there was still dust in the air, dust from a war apparently.
A war he'd known nothing about, as insulated as he was working on his company.
Sarah Walker
End of the Dutch East Indies, Republic of the United States of Indonesia, 1949
Photography, B&W/color
Indonesian revolutionaries on the way back from a battle won, a war won, and the end of the Dutch East Indies as we know it. Taken days after the last battle and surrender of Netherlands forces. Sovereignty was formally transferred on December 27, 1949.
He spent much longer than he'd meant to in the gallery, wondering at this person who was apparently traveling the world, taking these wondrous photographs, some of them seeming like they very well could have put her directly in harm's way.
There was a whole wall of photographs taken at the Grand Prix a few years earlier, in 1948. One of the photographs was of a race car flipping up with its back wheels in the air, flames erupting out of the side of it.
Chuck boggled at the photograph. How on Earth did she manage this one, he wondered?
And just as he did, a man spoke up nearby, speaking to his female companion. "She ended up breaking a few bones in her hand taking this picture."
"Oh my goodness," the woman groused. "What are they doing letting a young woman get involved in such a dangerous thing? She must've practically been a child. I can't even imagine…"
Chuck smirked a little as they retreated and turned to look back at the photograph. It had already sold for over five hundred dollars. And he imagined that had more than paid for her medical bills getting this photo and breaking her hand.
He couldn't help admiring the absolute guts this woman must have.
After going through the maze of photographs, ignoring everything else but the one glass of champagne he managed to snag from a waiter, he finally resigned himself to going back outside. The rain had stopped, and it seemed there was only a fine mist outside, something he could easily handle.
So he left the warmth of the gallery behind, hurrying back to his hotel, the sights he'd seen stuck in his mind. And without him realizing it, the name sticking there too.
Sarah Walker.
}o{
Los Angeles
1951
She huffed and reached back to rub her shoulder, looking down at the offer.
"Thirty, Mel? Really? Last time it was eighty."
"Last time, I had eighty," the editor said with a shrug. "Listen, Miss Walker. Your photographs are unrivaled. We can't get anything like this from the other guys and that's a fact," he said, lifting her prints. "But no matter where you go with these, you're not going to get anything higher than fifty. It's just the way things are right now. We're being told by the top brass to tighten our belts a little."
"That's fine and dandy for the top brass, but how am I supposed to make a living off of thirty bucks for what I just gave you. Y'know what it costs to fly to Peru?"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Miss Walker. Thirty is the best I can do."
"You said I can maybe get fifty at some other rag?" She reached over and picked up her prints. "You got a name? I'll go get fifty if I can get fifty."
"No, you—!" Mel Peters held up his hands. "God damn it." And then he sighed, shaking his head. "Pardon the language. I don't usually talk like that in front of ladies. It's just… All right, fine. Fifty. If I don't get these, I'll have Jamison kicking in my door demanding why. He's taken with you, you know?"
"So I've heard."
"You could do a lot worse." He cleared his throat then and leaned forward, giving her a fatherly look. "You know, Miss Walker, you're only young once. And a career like this, well…it can only last so long. Brian Jamison is one of the most successful journalists of our time. You'd still get the adventure. I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking the little woman with him on a few assignments here and there. You could still see the world."
"Cut the check, please, Mel. I'm late for an appointment." And she knew being rude wouldn't get her anywhere in this business, as much as everything inside of her burned to grab his hot coffee and splash it onto his lap for what he'd just said. The unsolicited advice he'd just tossed at the young unmarried woman professional photographer. It was exhausting. She bit it all back and gave him a polite smile. "Thanks for the advice, Mel. I'll think on it."
"Oh, of course. What's the point of being old if you don't have that wisdom that's s'posed to go with it, huh?"
She giggled, clenching her jaw, taking the check, and hightailing it out of there.
She waited until she stepped into the elevator alone before she let out a harsh breath, muttering, "Piece of shit."
The indignity she faced when she came back to the states to pick up her paychecks for the commissions, the things she had to deal with at the freaking art galleries her agent forced her to partake in.
And the way they never just allowed people to walk in off the streets. Not a chance. They didn't want some poor person to see her photographs, save what was on the cover of expensive travel and history magazines facing out at the newsstands. Only the upper echelon received tickets. Only the upper echelon paid for her prints to hang in their own art galleries in their mansions. Locking her photos away behind closed doors where the public would never see them.
She was stuck, though. This was what she had to do to be able to live the life she wanted to live. The adventure, the stories she found, captured with her cameras. The political intrigue, the war, the people displaced and hurt by war… all of it felt too important, and she couldn't let someone else document it. She needed to do it, because it needed to be done right. With the sensitivity and truth required. No propaganda. Not trying to sell one way of life over the other or make judgments on other cultures. Just presenting truths, beauty.
Too many in her field were self-righteous asses. And she wasn't letting them control the narrative. She wasn't letting them present the people who lived in tribes in Africa or settlements in Northeast Asia as children who needed civilizing.
But that meant sometimes leaving these beautiful places and people behind, the friends she made in tribes in southern Africa, the wild cats she helped name in Morocco, the Mongolian nomadic families she helped to break down their homes and move, and coming back to the tyrannical world of "civilized" men with their suits and ties and ideas of how and when women should work, or whether or not she was marriage material with her dirty boots and high ideals. She took her paychecks and lived her life here, happy as it was, until she could go on another assignment. Sarah Walker, the ticking time bomb.
Soon her womb would fall out of her and all would be lost.
She snorted as she left Travel Lounge Press headquarters, holding up her hand to catch a taxi back to her LA apartment. At least she wouldn't have to travel to the east coast again anytime soon. Not after that art show opening in New York City a few months earlier. She hadn't sold enough to make the whole thing worth it, but they'd insisted she made a bigger name for herself. If only her bank account had something to show for it.
It didn't matter for now. She would enjoy the sun here, maybe hit the beach with Carina and Zondra, and she would await the call of adventure.
As always.
}o{
Paris
1954
"Just one more, Mister Bartowski." He tugged on his tuxedo jacket lapels and heard the loud click, a bright flash filling the room, making him have to blink a few times, his big grin fading a bit. "That's it! Got it! Thank you, sir."
"Sir," Chuck mumbled as his assistant rushed up to him, already handing him his usual suit he liked to wear, the one that didn't make him look like a very tall penguin. "That feels bizarre."
"Yessir, I know, but—" Miss Gregory stopped, catching herself. "Sorry. It's…habit."
"It's all right, I get it," he chuckled. "I won't melt if you call me sir, Miss Gregory." He paused. "Then again, I won't melt if you call me by the name I was given when I was born."
"Charles?"
He shivered and she snorted. "I only know what I know," she said. "And I'm…uncomfortable with anything more personal than…Mister Bartowski."
He nodded. "All right. If that's what makes you comfortable, I'm all for it. What's on the docket tonight? Please not another one of those situations where men sit around in a smokey room drinking extremely dry whiskey and chortling about their business exploits and, I dunno, golf. I can't do another one of those. I'll explode."
She giggled, seemingly in spite of herself. "Uh, no. You're safe there. But you need to put that suit on. Monsieur Garnier is having a soiree at his hilltop chalet."
"As one with a hilltop chalet does."
She smirked. "Take the suit, Sir—Mister Bartowski." He grinned and pointed at her, taking the suit. "Mrs. Beckman instructed me to tell you no sneakers. She said they work well for a fashion photoshoot if you're going to be on the cover of a magazine, but Monsieur Garnier is a traditionalist. Your shoes you need to wear are in the back of the limousine."
Chuck sighed. "Mrs. Beckman telling me what to do all the way from Los Angeles, then, huh? Is she our director of image and marketing or is she the Queen of England?" He winced. "Don't tell her I said that."
"Don't shoot the messenger," Miss Gregory chirped. "I'm just here to follow orders and tend to your every need until you go back home."
"I know, I know. Anyway, I don't shoot the people who work for me," he said, speeding up to match her quick stride. "I happen to hate guns."
"A pacifist, Mister Bartowski?"
"Just someone who doesn't like loud noises."
She laughed, then pointed him towards his limousine. "You have my number if you need anything else. I'm on call for you twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. If you need anything at all, and I mean anything."
"Do they have Alka-Seltzer in Paris?"
"If they don't, I'll make it, Mister Bartowski."
Chuck gave her a wide-eyed look. They were serious about assigning him a "good assistant" for when he was in Paris for this potential Bartowski Electric expansion project.
"You have a chemistry lab in your apartment, Miss Gregory?"
She grinned. "No, Sir." She cleared her throat. "Mister Bartowski."
He chuckled and shrugged. "I'm mostly joking about the Alka-Seltzer. I've heard of Monsieur Garnier and he scares the hell outta me. The people at those things tend to be…erm, highbrow. I haven't read anything by James Joyce."
"You'll do fine, Mister Bartowski. But you have an hour and a half until you'll be considered late, so I'd beat feet if I were you."
He nodded. "Thanks, Miss Gregory. You're the tops."And he swung down into the back of the limousine, careful not to shut his fancy suit in the door. He waved at the young woman through the window. She merely gave him a professional smile and watched as they pulled away.
}o{
Tapping her foot, she leaned back a little and looked out of the alleyway, to and fro, before she pulled herself back behind the wall again. She eyed the Frenchman closely as he thumbed through the photographs. "C'est lui?" He looked up at her through his eyelashes. "…êtes-vous sûr?"
She rolled her eyes behind the Coke bottle glasses and tucked the hair of her black wig behind her ear. "Oui!" she snapped. "Je veux mon argent. Immédiatement."
He cleared his throat and nodded, tucking the photographs back into the envelope, putting it away in his trench coat and going into another pocket to pull a wad of banknotes out. He slapped it into her palm. She eyed him dubiously. "It is all there," he said in English then, his accent thick. "These modern French women. She raise her voice at me. At me. Jean-Claude."
Apparently, he just assumed she was a French photographer, a good one, and completely useless at English. She'd done her job well, then. And she raised an eyebrow at him, tucking the money into her purse. "Quoi?"
He waved his hand through the air and lit a cigarette. "Rien."
Their business done, she left the alleyway behind. This would always have risk involved, no matter how tame the side job was. She didn't ask questions. She shot the pictures, handed them in, took the dough. That was it.
Asking questions meant culpability. She didn't want to be culpable anymore.
But she needed these side gigs to pay off his debt and keep him from ending up six feet under. She would resent him 'til her dying day, she knew. And she'd love him. She knew that too. In spite of it all.
Once she got out of this itchy wig and these glasses she could barely see out of, she'd take a long, hot bath, call the bank to have the money wired straightaway, and she'd get ready for yet another party where she would blend in physically, with the perfectly set curl to her shoulder-length blond hair, the off the shoulder sleeves on the deep blue ball gown, the long matching gloves…Tall, beautiful women were a dime a dozen at a place like that.
And on the inside, she would yearn to be just about anywhere else.
But these people gave her money for the shots she took. And she had to play nice. If she were a man, she knew she could play the bohemian, she could go full Hemingway, slump around the party in trousers and her tie askew, getting drunk, being rude…and they'd chalk it up to an artist being artsy. As a woman artist, as a woman photojournalist even, she couldn't afford to be anything less than…well, perfect. Her reputation relied on it. And she relied on her reputation.
Rolling her head on her shoulders, she sped her step, her heels clicking against the pavement, echoing through the Parisian night, the sound bouncing off of the old buildings and café windows.
But then she heard something else.
A second set of footsteps.
Following her.
She played like she didn't hear it and she cast her gaze around the street. It wasn't that late, but the sun had gone down, and they'd chosen to meet in this part of Paris because it was off the beaten path, so to speak. Yet another risk she had to take. This man had certainly wanted these photos to blackmail someone—someone he probably intended to damage politically, dragging a reputation through the mud until the person was finished forever.
Both the man who'd paid her and the man she'd taken pictures of seemed like heels.
And that was why she wasn't all that surprised when the footsteps sped up behind her.
She turned and ducked a bit to slam her elbow directly into his sternum, he hit the ground with a loud grunt, and found herself looking down at the man she'd just made the exchange with.
He was in a ball, gasping for breath. But he'd also snagged her purse when he came in to attack.
That was fine.
He'd taken a hit, but like always, he still underestimated her. So instead of trying to run with her purse, he scrambled up to his feet to try to take her on. It would've been a lot more difficult for her if he had run, considering the heels on her shoes were especially tall, thin, and didn't offer much in the way of support if she tried to chase after a bastard thief.
A small oversight on her part.
He pulled a knife and lunged for her. She side-stepped his attempt to cut, catching his wrist, then using her other hand to chop the knife out of his grip. It clamored loudly as it hit the cement at their feet, and she brought that same open fist back across his cheek, backhanding him so hard he nearly tipped back to the ground.
He didn't though, for she kept her hold on him, then turned and slammed him hard against the nearest wall, one fist twisted in the front of his jacket, the other holding her small pistol she'd hidden on her person (for situations such as this) up against the underside of his chin.
Whimpering, he shook his head, squirming in her grip. "S'il vous p-p-plaît!"
Sarah held out her hand then, wordlessly requesting her purse back. He understood, hurriedly handing it back to her. And then she let go of him, gun still against his chin, digging into the pocket in the inside of his suit and producing the envelope with the folders inside.
Ah. There it was.
"Intérêts," she said darkly about the photos, wiggling them up by his terror-stricken face.
He had blown it completely now.
And he would walk away with nothing.
She shoved him once against the building, hard, and stepped back, slipping the envelope with the photos back into her bag. "Au revoir."
Batting her eyelashes, she flicked the gun to the side in a wordless gesture for him to get out of her sight.
He did, scrambling away so fast, he tripped on an uneven portion of the cement and fell hard, but he popped right back up and kept running.
"You think the modern Frenchwomen are bad? Wait 'til you meet an American one," she chirped low, smirking as she slipped her pistol back into its hiding place.
She made quick work of getting back to her hotel, slamming the door shut behind her and locking it. She let herself lean back against the door for a few long moments, taking some deep breaths, letting them out slowly, calming herself down.
This time, she'd lucked out. Jean-Claude had been easy to brush away as if he were nothing more than a pesky bug. He got one look at that gun and he ran. All she needed was for someone to try this on her in the future and not be as intimidated by a woman with a gun and she'd have an actual fight on her hands. One she may or may not win. Depending on how big he was, or if he had a weapon of his own.
She'd made attempts to leave this side of her work, so many attempts. But it still clung to her, the way pasts usually did. It wouldn't let her leave. She would wire her dad the money in the morning. She couldn't stomach it now.
She needed to stop taking slimy assignments from slimy men.
It was hard to do, however, because those were the types of men who needed this kind of work done for them.
Finally tearing off the wig and smacking it onto her hotel room's desk, she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. She needed a bath that was practically scalding, to burn off the last hour or so of her life.
So that she could appear at this charity gala fresh-faced. They told her no camera this time. Garnier wanted her to just enjoy the party, as a guest. He'd apparently seen her spread in the latest Mademoiselle magazine. Models were simple to shoot, they knew where to stand, how to hold themselves to get the best angles. It was one of her least favorite types of assignments, but it got her in front of big names like Monsieur Jean-Luc Garnier. A fashion dynamo in Paris.
And now she was one of his guests, with no ulterior motives of getting her to take pictures that would then be released to the public—the high echelons, the upper crust of society, fashionistas, all gathered together to do good in the world. Envy them, praise them for their charity.
She turned and braced her palms on the sink, staring into her own eyes. Rolling them. She pulled the glasses off and set them down.
Sooner or later, disguises wouldn't work anymore. Or she'd have to do more than cake makeup on, hide behind big glasses, fit her beacon of blond hair under a dark wig. She'd have to learn aging makeup from her dad finally. If she could ever find him for long enough.
Her agent was trying to move her in front of the camera here and there. She still remembered that conversation, sitting in his office in the dim light, the way he'd swept his gaze down to her feet and up to her face again, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and grinding the tip of it into his ashtray, blowing smoke out through his nose, picking a piece of tobacco from the end of his tongue. And then he'd said, Sarah, you know your looks are an asset. You need to start using them. We have an opportunity. We have a model behind the camera. Think of the things we could do, the money we could make, if we put you in front of it too. Let people know you're the most beautiful woman in the world, as well as an artist. You'll be the darling of the art world.
She'd never been altogether happy with Mitch Redding as her agent, but he'd taken her on when no one else gave a damn about practically a teenager with knobby knees under a plaid skirt and a camera around her neck. Her war photos had caught Mitch's eye for artistry.
And now here she was.
Still.
He would never know about her side hustle. That was hers and hers alone. Nobody knew about it. If they did, she'd lose everything. Her reputation would be shot. And her career.
But she needed the extra money.
Taking another deep breath, she turned to the sink and bent low, splashing as much of the makeup off of her face as she could. And then she went to the tub to turn off the water.
She left her clothes on the linoleum floor and sank into the tub slowly, wincing a little when it was hotter than she'd expected.
She plunged her head under the water and stayed there, thoughts running wild in her head, a tumultuous pattern of troubles and uncertainties flickering through her mind like images from an old projector.
}o{
Sarah Walker was assailed only a minute after walking into the party, letting the coat check peel her elegant wrap from around her and hand her a ticket. She hadn't even gotten a glass of champagne or one of those tiny steak cakes encrusted in pastry on the trays waiters were carrying.
But Jessica Laramie curled her fingers around her arm and began rattling on about Mademoiselle and OH Sarah, how did you manage to make Myrna Reginald just GLOW like that. Of course she's a VERY beautiful woman but oh MY she just GLOWED. And DARLING when are you doing another art show?
That was how she passed the first hour of the party, smiling at the man who eventually did pass her a flute of champagne. And sure, he'd smiled back a certain way. They usually did. Ever since she was sixteen and her knees got a little less knobby, her shoulders more pronounced, and she learned how to fix her hair and buy the right kind of dresses for her figure. Once she could afford them, that was.
"And who are you? One of Garnier's models?" the man asked. He lifted a finger to smooth it over one side of the thin mustache over his lips. Almost as if to emphasize it for her, as if saying, Did you see this? I grew it myself.
These men were such boys.
She couldn't even be mad at them for it. Everything around them told them it was okay, so why should they do anything different, why should they act different?
She took a sip of her champagne. "Mm. No. Not a model. I shoot models, though."
"Garnier let a murderer in here? Now that's new."
Sarah laughed. That was actually pretty funny. "Only the ones who are looking a little pudgy around the eyes. Firing them has gotten a lot harder. Unions and all that." She was surprised to find herself flirting a little. It was harmless. In a few moments, she would whisk herself away, disappear into the crowd again, and find somewhere else to hobnob.
The man bent forward with laughter. "That's funny. You're funny. And smart. Your mother never warned you not to be so smart, I suppose?"
"Is that something mothers are supposed to do?" she asked. She wouldn't know.
"Mine didn't. That's why I'm such a rascal."
"Oh, it isn't a mother's place to tell her son what to do," she snarked, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her champagne.
He just laughed again. She thought maybe he didn't know how else to respond to that. "So you…take pictures. I get that right? Have I seen them?"
"I don't know. Have you?"
"What's your name?"
"Sarah Walker. Yours?"
"Cole Barker," he said in his British clip.
"Ah, an oil man. I got that right, didn't I? You're an oil baron."
He chuckled. "Never heard it phrased quite like that before. At least not to my face."
She affected an innocent look. "Oh dear. Does that have a negative connotation I'm not aware of? Do you oil millionaires not like being called oil barons?"
"I get the distinct feeling you're pulling my leg. I like it."
"Strange thing to admit," she quipped, making him laugh again. Only this time it sounded a bit more tentative. She could tell he wasn't exactly used to a woman whose wit ran circles around his.
"Especially in mixed company," she added.
Sarah took another sip from her champagne glass.
"I'd like to be in your company a lot more, Miss Walker," Cole Barker said then. "Get to know you. I hope I'm not being too bold."
"No such thing as too bold when you're an oil man, Mister Barker."
"Are you teasing me again?"
She giggled, shaking her head. "No. There isn't much more to know about me than what you already know, I'm afraid. I am the woman you see here standing before you. I make money by taking photographs of people, places, things… I'm not much more complicated than that. Alas."
He made a dubious face, the wrinkles starting around his eyes deepening just slightly. Matching the greying at his temples. She couldn't deny it gave him an air of responsibility, maybe even some elegance. She could see why women fell over themselves about Cole Barker, English oil baron. The accent, the way he spoke and carried himself. The money.
"I doubt that very much. You seem very…complicated. I like my women complicated."
"Yes, like a Dr. I.Q. puzzle game."
He blinked, not seeming to get what she was doing. "Erm…yes. Quite."
She was going to excuse herself (it was nothing personal), when a man hurried up against Barker's side, thumping him on the arm.
"Cole, my good man. I found the fellow you've been looking for. Come, come. Follow me. We'll get you an in yet."
The Brit turned back to her, eyes wide. "Apologies, Miss Walker. May I find you again later? I'll find you again later."
She merely smiled politely, watching him dragged away to a circle of people surrounding a man whose back was to her. He towered a bit over those who were watching him speak in rapt attention. His dark brown hair swooped up into a messy bunch of curls he'd only barely attempted to style. Or maybe the curls refused to allow him to tamp them down.
The man who'd interrupted the tepid flirtation between her and Cole Barker the oil baron tugged the latter over to the group and sort of shoved Cole into the bunch, making him front and center.
But the conversation continued anyway.
Intrigued, Sarah slinked closer.
"So I said, just someone who doesn't like loud noises."
Everyone laughed as Sarah slowly moved around to see him better.
"So I take it you weren't big on the war effort," one of the older, less fascinated men in the bunch asked. Sarah recognized him. He was situated somewhere high up within the American government. Some unelected office holder. She couldn't quite remember which department. But he didn't seem all too taken with this conversation as he swirled the dark drink in his hand. Probably Defense, she thought.
The tall young man reached up and nervously scratched at the back of his neck.
She finally got a good look at him. She prided herself on being good at observing people, reading them. And the first read she got on this man was that he felt out of his element here. Surprisingly. Because these people seemed to want to know his opinion, they laughed at his jokes. It was a fascinating study, and she moved closer to continue studying.
"Well, uh, Ambassador Lansing. It isn't that. See, I was just a boy when that was all…unfolding."
"But surely you had an opinion? You were old enough to have an opinion. I have a couple of teenagers myself and I know for a fact they love to make their opinions known." There were a few nervous chuckles around him. The air was tense.
Sarah really was fascinated by all of this.
"Ambassador. Sir. As you know, as everyone here must know about me by now, my father was a part of the war effort when he disappeared into thin air. The only opinion I have about the war, or at least the only one I feel comfortable mentioning at the moment, is that I wish my father were still here."
Well, that shut the Ambassador up right quick.
Sarah raised an eyebrow, slipping in even closer.
Someone smartly changed the subject. "Well, I'm just glad those war bonds are over," she chuckled.
"I'm glad we can actually advance our technology with our scientists back at work in society and not slaving away at a war," another man chimed in.
The tall dark-haired young man she still hadn't quite figured out in the slightest shoved his free hand that wasn't holding champagne in his pants pocket. It seemed an almost nervous gesture, and yet he exuded confidence suddenly, as if he was in his element. "Well, Sir, I have to tell you. We seem to be in an age of technological advancement. As my pop used to say, sky's the limit. We have so many ways we can go, and I intend to make it my business to go up."
"You mean the space race?" a woman asked.
"No, no. Not that. Though I find it fascinating, I'm afraid B.E. is still focused on television sets and probably will be for the foreseeable future. You won't be seeing satellites with our logo stamped on the side anytime soon."
"That's a shame. They could use your eye for electrics."
He shook his head modestly. "We have to strive to do great things in our own lanes, and my lane doesn't lead to the moon. We must reach for advancement, though. Humanity can do great things if we build smartly. Science is the future. If we step right, we could create a well of progress that carries on for generations—"
"And what of the humanities? The arts?"
Oh dear. Was that her? Had she just—Was that her voice she'd just heard? They were looking at her now. It had been her. Why did she have to always do this, damn it? She watched the man's Adam's apple bob and he pulled his hand out of his pocket, running it down the front of his tuxedo, straightening his spine and pulling his shoulders back almost unconsciously. She had that effect on people sometimes. "Oh. Yes, they're important. Certainly," he said haltingly.
"No, I'm sorry. I was unclear. I just mean… Science can be a harbinger of great things. Great human advancement. Like you said, going to the moon. That would be an exceptional achievement for humankind. But what of looking at our past, our history, understanding the mistakes we've made, and learning from them, so that we don't repeat them. Understanding the way technological advancement has also done great harm." She glanced in the Ambassador's direction. "We all saw what Hiroshima and Nagasaki looked like after the bomb, I'm sure."
And there she went, bringing the party down. Oops.
"It ended a war that killed millions," the Ambassador said calmly, but she could hear the defensiveness in his tone still.
"Yes," she said slowly. "All I'm trying to convey to Mister…" She paused.
"Bartowski," he provided for her, almost eagerly, a little breathless.
"Thank you. All I'm trying to convey to Mister Bartowski is a need for these technological advancements to occur hand in hand with a deeper understanding of impact—on humanity, on nature, our wildlife, our planet. It should be sustainable. Or else what sort of a future do we leave our children? Mister Bartowski?"
She found she rather regretted pinning him like this, sticking him in a corner. She gleaned from context that he was in the TV business. It was unfair to put all of this on his shoulders. He wasn't in oil. He wasn't mowing down rainforests.
"I apologize," she said then as everyone stared at her. She probably deserved the stares, too. "I suppose I was just trying to provide food for thought and got carried away. Continue your conversation, please. Enjoy the champagne and music." She grinned, excusing herself and making a hasty exit.
She perhaps heard the man—Bartowski, was it?—trying to call her back. But her face burned and she was cursing herself much too loudly to pay much attention to it.
A/N: GO, CHUCK! AFTER HER! HURRY!
What do y'all think? Please review.
Thanks for reading!
-SC
