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: Welcome to chapter 3 of The 1950s Charah Meet Cute Show! I appreciate the reviews and kind words! Yes, I am working on my other stories as well, for those of you asking. I'll post chapters when they're ready. :)

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


She closed her eyes, letting the music fade into the background, the din of voices in the room, the crooning of the man at the microphone on stage… All she felt was the slight pressure of long, gentle fingers on the small of her back, fingertips scorching through the gown she wore. It was almost as if the navy blue chiffon wasn't there at all.

And maybe she shouldn't let her thoughts stray in that direction.

He smelled magnificent, a hint of spice and sea mist. His hand was curled around hers and she had this strange sensation that her smaller hand fit perfectly in his. The touch of his arm against her side, his chest brushing hers just barely… It was all intoxicating. And it felt dangerous, somehow.

And even as it felt dangerous, there was a safety here that she hadn't felt before. Safe enough that she kept her eyes shut and trusted him to guide her around the dance floor, as much as he'd insisted he wasn't much of a dancer.

True, his feet weren't as sure as the feet of the many men she'd danced with before. She could feel him tense every so often, as if he was thinking too hard about where to put his feet, trying not to crush hers. He'd blushed and apologized when they first stepped together to dance, and not a minute later, the sole of his shoe grazed the edge of her heel, a near mishap.

But he was thinking less now, she thought, a few songs in.

And he was tightening his hold against the small of her back, pulling her in a bit closer. And closer… Closer still.

Sarah Walker took a deep breath as she felt him press his cheek to her temple, tilting his head just so to create another point of contact between them. She smiled, nuzzling him gently. And she moved her hand from where it was on his right shoulder, sliding it along his upper back to be closer to him, their chests finally pressing together tightly.

Curse this band for only playing slow songs.

Then again, she could kiss that bandleader for it.

She was a mess of contradictions dancing in this man's embrace.

That alone was enough to scare her.

Still, she stayed, enjoying the sensations.

"Tell me about that marketplace in Calcutta."

She blinked her eyes open as she heard his quiet, deep voice in her ear, felt the vibration of it against her breast. Something about his question, the wonder in it, made her feel a strange thrill in her chest. There was a need almost, a feeling of wanting to protect him. She didn't understand it one bit.

He was waiting for her response.

"Hmm. Where do I begin?" she asked, just as quietly. Almost as if speaking in quiet tones, just between the two of them, it would make everything else disappear, and it would be Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker, alone, no one else around.

"Anywhere."

"Well…" She paused, shutting her eyes again, thinking back three years ago, the first and only time she'd been to Calcutta. "It was years ago now. But what I remember is these wide open spaces, rooms with only three walls. Long, wooden posts that had tarp strung across them to keep out afternoon sun and dust kicked up under the feet of bustling citizens. Mahua was being served inside, workers sitting on upturned baskets on the floor, taking a break from the heat. The sound of laughter, sometimes music. Mridangams, flutes."

"Mrid—"

"Mridangam. It's a type of drum. It's played with your fingers." She mimicked what she'd seen with her fingers that rested on his upper back, making him chuckle. "Oh! You'll like this." She pulled back just a little to look at him. "There was a man selling tropical birds. He had them in various little cages he hung from each end of a beam that he perfectly balanced on his shoulder as he walked about, selling his birds."

He grinned. "You're right, I do like that. What an image that conjures."

She smiled back. "The colors you saw in that photograph on the wall in the gallery that day are merely a fraction of what existed at that bazaar. Spices and silks and rugs that were handmade by these incredible women who were better than most of the artists we see today selling their artwork for thousands of dollars."

"It sounds like a magical place."

Sarah nodded. "Yes. But if you care to look a bit harder, of course there's…" She moved to press her temple into his jaw, staring at one of the crystal chandeliers, her voice becoming even quieter. "I took photographs they didn't want in the gallery. They liked the jeweler, which is what you saw. But I planned to accompany that with smaller prints that showed a different side of Calcutta. They thought nobody would want to see those."

"Like what?"

"You really want to know?"

"I do."

She sighed. "I took a photograph of a family—with their permission. They were pavement dwellers. They build their homes on city roadways up against other buildings after fleeing…who knows what? Anything, really. Famine, war, drought, religious persecution."

"Pavement dwellers…"

She nodded against him. "They have almost nothing. Build these…slats that run down from the wall and are propped on wood or cardboard boxes. And they use tarp, clothing, rags, dried leaves to make a roof. I spoke to a family living in one. There was an earthquake where they lived, leveled their home. So they went to Calcutta. They lost their way of making a living so they found bits and pieces of work every day to be able to afford food but couldn't afford housing. So they slept outside on the pavement."

"Hm. Our fancy ladies in their silk gloves, pearls, and diamonds might feel put off by the sight of hungry, unhoused, poor people, is that it?"

Snorting, she held him tighter. "I do believe that was their thinking, yes."

"I wish they would have let you use those."

Sarah looked at this man closely, a small smile on her face as she tried (and failed) to figure him out. "Me too."

"So that's what you do then. You capture both the beauty of the world…and its harshness."

She raised her eyebrows at that. "Yes, I suppose so."

"You are amazing," he said quietly. "I mean, people who do what you do… You're serving a purpose greater than anything else I can think of. Providing images that transport people, allow someone to put themselves in another person's shoes, or-or like the photograph from the Serengeti. It reminds us that this planet we live on is home to more than just…mankind. Humanity. There is more than just Paris and Rome and New York. Calcutta."

Sarah pulled back to look at him yet again, her face set in wonder. "You know, all I have to do is look up at the stars when I'm in a desert or someplace away from the lights of the city, and I'm reminded of how very small I am. This world is so massive. And that isn't isn't even considering everything that exists up there, outside of our world."

"Martians," he drawled, making her snort and giggle, rolling her eyes at him as he wrinkled his nose adorably. He gave her a serious look then, brushing away his own silly response with a slight shake of his head. "I think that's a reminder we could all use every once in a while," he said softly, looking into her eyes. She was struck for the first time by their color, now that they were standing in proper lighting. He had brown eyes. And yet, there was a shimmering gold to them too. Or perhaps something deeper than gold even—an amber-colored brandy. The best cognac in the world.

"It is," she said quietly. "And we could."

"Maybe we can have the ceiling on this place removed altogether and force all of these folks at this benefit gala to look up at the sky for a bit."

She laughed lightly, shaking her head at him. "Do you think that would work?"

"Perhaps." He shrugged in her arms. "I have faith in people. Which is why those like you who are showing us the truth of the world, broadening horizons, opening borders, and…ohhh, I don't know, popping bubbles—" Sarah giggled at that as he grinned toothily. "That's why you're all so very important. Instrumental, even."

Sarah took a deep breath and shook her head at him. "I don't know that I share your faith, Chuck," she admitted. She'd seen too much. Her own father had proven himself to be rather faithless, hadn't he? And he'd taught her much of his faithlessness. Only sometimes did she feel like she'd grown away from that, out of that. And another job would plunge her right back in again.

"That's all right. You don't have to for me to admire you. And I do. I admire you."

There was a monumental lift in her chest, so sudden and powerful, that she nearly gasped. Instead she just smiled, feeling her cheeks go pink. "Thank you for saying that."

"I wasn't just saying it."

"No, I know."

The song ended and people around them stepped apart to clap for the band. But they just stayed there, with their arms around one another, hands clasped tightly still. Sarah broke his heady gaze and turned to look at the band, smiling. And she finally pulled herself away from him. He gently let her. She clapped, a silly, futile exercise with these gloves on. She wished to take them off and feel his hand in hers, really. Skin on skin. But in mixed company, these people in particular, that just wasn't to be done.

The band picked up another song, and before she could really pull away from Chuck, guide him away from the dance floor, or anything else she might've had a mind to do, he picked her back up in her arms, stepped in close again, and they were dancing once more.

And really, who was she to argue?

}o{

She saw him approaching, finally breaking her out of the spell she'd allowed herself to slip into as she danced in the Bartowski Electric CEO's embrace. Dread spilled through her. Out of all of the men in this room, the pushiest and most unwelcome one had spotted her after mercifully leaving her alone for much of the night.

And she would be forced to leave this blissful bubble she'd found surrounding her and this supremely singular man.

She wanted to stay in the bubble damn it. Stay with this man in her bubble.

Get away from my bubble…

The oil magnate Cole Barker turned his greedy gaze to her and smiled, his teeth showing. Oh, she saw it in the way he held his chin up, pulled his shoulders back in that deep blue suit he was wearing. He was an oil man, after all. They didn't have to follow the rules of fashion, not even in Paris. There was another one in here somewhere she would've been able to pick out from a mile away, in his cowboy hat and a particularly gaudy bolo tie, a buffalo head carved into ivory with leather strings dangling down with and beads on the end.

He was certainly a Texan oil man, in particular.

And Sarah knew this British one was sure he was rescuing the damsel by sauntering over. His eyes flashed, pleased with himself and what he was about to do.

No, please…

Please…

She froze in Chuck's arms and he must've felt it because he tensed a little, in curiosity. And then Mister Barker raised his hand and cockily tapped Chuck on the shoulder with two fingers. Twice.

Chuck shifted to face him better, taking Sarah with him, and she watched his face as he raised his eyebrows in question. "Oh, hello, Mister Barker." He cleared his throat. "Pardon me, did we not conclude our business? I thought we had, that's my mistake."

Cole Barker didn't seem to expect that response. It was clear to all three of them what the tap on the shoulder meant.

It was the wordless gesture for May I cut in? and Chuck Bartowski seemed intent on playing ignorant. This was fascinating.

"I gave you my business card, didn't I?" Chuck continued.

Barker cleared his throat, that easy, charming grin on his face again. "You didn't. But I gave you mine, ol' chap."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He let go of her waist just long enough to tap his temple before he put it back again. "I have so much going on in here at any given moment. I'll be sure to have Miss Gregory get a business card to your assistant by the end of the weekend."

Sarah was brimming, just barely keeping it in.

"Ahem. Actually, friend, I thought I might take this lovely burden off of your hands." He switched his gaze to Sarah and she raised an eyebrow. Burden!

Chuck squeezed her waist a bit tighter, then turned to look at her. She gave him her most secretive, subtle look of pleading she could muster. But she knew his hands were tied. That was the socially appropriate thing to do, step aside and allow for women to be passed around the dance floor like chattel.

She knew that Chuck, for all his money and power, would be held to those same standards, even if he could tell she didn't want to go anywhere with this man.

And still, she couldn't help pleading. Don't. Please. Don't make me. I don't want to.

Preparing herself for the inevitable, she instead went wide eyed when Chuck finally turned back to Barker and responded.

"How very polite. Much appreciated, Mister Barker. I find that this isn't a burden at all, and in fact, I'm doing just fine here. You have a good night, sir." And he leaned in, pressing his cheek to her temple again, two-stepping away from Cole Barker, deeper into the crowd of dancers, leaving her so shocked she was barely able to keep from gawking at him.

Chuck suddenly broke, beside himself as he gave her a shocked look, a grin spreading on his face. She couldn't help laughing. It erupted from her, and she only just managed to keep it from attracting attention.

"I can't believe I just did that!" he hissed. "Oh, I never would've done that before. I don't know what came over me. I never would've done that in a million years." He let out an adorably boyish giggle, seemingly almost adrenalized after his act of rebellion. She didn't think she'd ever been so damned drawn to anyone else in her whole entire life. He was glowing.

"Well, thank you," she said with a relieved look on her face.

"So I did read you right. Oh I'm relieved. I was afraid I might offend you."

"You did read me right," she said, feeling a certain glee in her chest. "I'm not offended. I didn't want to dance with him."

"Well, then… You shouldn't have to."

He said it as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

"That isn't really how these things work."

"And what the hell is the use of all this quote endquote power people ascribe to me if I'm not using it to change the way things work?"

She raised her eyebrow. "Social rebellion. All to dance with one girl…?" she teased.

"Maybe. But really, he called you a burden, which was a load of… I shouldn't say."

"You don't have to. I get it." She giggled. "I heard that word too."

"Charming," he drawled sarcastically.

Oh, she liked him. She really liked him. And as the songs continued to play, they continued to dance, moving around the floor together, sometimes talking about nothing at all, and other times just being quiet, cheek to cheek as Fred Astaire once sang.

And she reveled in it. All of it.

She didn't pay any mind to the way people were noticing the infamous electronics magnate and the relatively unknown but arresting photojournalist staying on the dance floor, embracing, as an hour turned into two hours. Or how when they finally left the dance floor, they picked up champagne flutes from the passing waiter, then clinked their glasses together before drinking, hiding away in the corner of the room to enjoy each other and their drinks. Or how they took part in group conversations without leaving one other's side. She didn't notice that there weren't any other men trying to step in, tap Chuck on the shoulder, and whisk her away from him.

For once, she let herself exist in the moment and take in the sound of his laugh, the way it settled in a spot just behind her ribcage and stayed there, blossoming, bathing everything around it in light. She let herself bask in the way his brain worked, how he engaged in complicated issues with a mind that was open to listening, absorbing. When older men with money offered up ideas for his company, even those who had no experience in technology, she found he had a habit of saying "I'll certainly chew on that" to be polite.

Sarah was well aware that she'd been one of those people earlier on in the night, when she first met him. And she still felt the sting of embarrassment from what admittedly ended up being not one of her best moments.

And as night turned to early morning, she missed the stares, the giggles, the winks and nudges from the people around them. She missed the quiet gossip reporter in the lime green ball gown who eventually realized it was in her best interest to watch every move of the Bartowski Electric CEO and the beautiful adventuress photojournalist.

}o{

He lost her somewhere in the middle of the hand shaking and goodbyes and good lucks. And it sent a panic through him like nothing he'd felt before, at least not in a long, long time.

Not even a goodbye?

He needed her to know this had been the best night of his life, and that she was definitely the reason for it.

"Charles! Charles Bartowski!" He spun around to see Skip Farrelly holding up his hand in a wave, a notebook and pencil in hand. "Can I get a quote, Mister B?"

His panic increased, but he kept his cool and grinned at the reporter. One of the first things he learned when Bartowski Electric was first starting its ascent a few years ago was to be as nice to press as possible. All press was good press, as they always said, but he still preferred the positive spins. And angering a reporter was never a good idea. "Hiya, Skip. Sure thing."

He tried not to look over his shoulder—he needed to pay attention to that he didn't misspeak and face the wrath of Diane later—but he couldn't help scanning the room for her. Where did she go? She'd been right there behind him and a few handshakes later, he turned to find her gone.

"How do you feel about Monsieur Garnier's latest pet project? We've now gone from animal rights to political activism, being involved in campaigns and donations, and then he shifted gears to cancer, and now he wants to end child poverty."

Chuck did his best not to play into the reporter's negative twist on Garnier's apparent fickle activism, and instead, he stuck to the important part of the question. "Child poverty isn't just a one country issue. It isn't just something we find in poorer countries. Even in my home country of the United States of America, child poverty is a serious issue that few have the guts to try to tackle. Because it's a big issue, it's an issue with many layers, a lot of grey area. And one solution isn't going to fix it for every child. My hope, however, is that our efforts here tonight have pulled some of these children out of poverty and will right some of the wrongs done to these families who've been forsaken by our systems for far too long."

"Thanks, Mister Bartowski. You have a good night."

"You too, Skip. Good luck with that article."

He turned to look for her again when he heard, "Quite a quote, Mister Bartowski."

Oh, boy. Not tonight.

He turned slowly. "Hello, Henry Mannis." They really let anyone into these things these days. He had to fight to get the next words out and make them sound like he wasn't trying to strangle the blonde with them. "How are you?"

"Oh. Well. Very well. And you?" The other man stuck his hand out and Chuck took it, shaking it.

"Over the moon. Hah," he joked halfheartedly with the Chief Engineer of Final Frontier Corp.

"Ahhh. I get it. Because I'm beating NASA to space, is that it?" the man asked with a forced grin. "Funny…" He felt Henry's grip tighten and he tightened his back, clenching his jaw behind a polite but thin-lipped smile. "You always were a funny guy back at Roark's."

"I guess some things never change, eh, Henry?"

"Guess not."

They finally let go and Chuck pulled his hand away, folding it together with his other one behind his back where his forever-rival wouldn't see him rubbing the aching digits after that handshake of death.

"What brings you here?"

Henry Mannis gestured around him, in his stupid pristine white suit. With his perfect blond, straight hair that was never out of place, even during those all-nighters in the Roark computing labs with the other fellas back when they were both eighteen and fighting for the top spot at Roark Instruments' internship program. "What else? It's for charity. The Mannis family is all about charity."

Bullshit. As if he cared about children living in poverty. The man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. If this going to space gambit ended up going under some day (fingers crossed), he'd still be set for the rest of his life. As would his children. And their children. And so on.

Outshining Charles Bartowski, son of Teddy Roark's childhood friend Stephen J. Bartowski, had been like a game for Henry Mannis when they both won internships at R.I., and Chuck thought this fun little game of his would continue until they were old men. In fact, he'd make a competition out of who died first. Chuck once joked with his sister that Henry would be on his death bed and he would resist dying until he heard Chuck had breathed his last breath, and one minute later, he'd die as well, grinning.

She hadn't been happy with the joke, but Chuck wouldn't put it past the mean bastard.

"How are things with B.E., old man?" Henry asked then, nudging his shoulder. "I heard there was a hiccup with the antennas on the new B.E. color television models that were sent out… Bad news."

"Oh, we got that straightened out. Just a quick fix," he assured his ex-work chum. "The good news is that if someone's TV antenna doesn't work, it's a little less of a catastrophe than if one of your rockets have a loose screw as they're carrying a few good men through our stratosphere and into space. Ha ha."

That didn't seem as funny to Henry, as he pressed his lips together, his jaw twitching. "Yes. Well. While my rockets beat NASA to the moon, your TVs will hopefully be able to capture that history in full color, Charles. Good to see you, old chum. G'night." And the other man thumped him hard on the shoulder, grinning cockily as he turned on his heel and walked off towards the exit.

Chuck had half a mind to grab the nearest half full flute of champagne and throw it at the other man's perfect head with his perfect hair.

He didn't.

Because watching Henry Mannis's retreating form meant looking towards the coat check counter, and the person he'd been looking for since he lost her five minutes earlier was there, leaning forward over the counter, pointing towards the back as she spoke to the attendant, the little number clutched in her gloved fingers.

And before he lost her again, he rushed over, weaving through people, excusing himself when he bumped an older man with his shoulder, but finally arriving at her side.

"Thank you," she was saying to the attendant as she took her coat. She pulled the dark grey coat to her chest then and turned, stopping as she saw him standing there. She grinned when she saw him. "Oh, hello."

"Hello. I was saying goodnight to a few of my peers and when I turned around you were gone. I-I was afraid that you'd left."

"Oh. No, I haven't. Well, of course I haven't." She rolled her eyes at herself and snorted. "I just wanted to grab my coat and handbag before I forgot them."

"Of course. Oh! Here, lemme help you." And he plucked the handbag from her fingers, then took the coat, moving in behind her to hold it while she slid her arms into it. She shrugged the coat on and turned to face him again, buttoning it shut, taking the handbag back.

"Thank you," she said genuinely.

"You're very welcome. I—Wait here. Wait here, please? I'm just going to get my hat and coat from the…counter."

She smiled and nodded shyly, holding her handbag against her chest, and he hurried to the coat check counter, handing them his number and waiting. He couldn't help turning to make sure she was still there, waiting. Of course she was, facing the door, watching as others filed out, waving at each other, still shaking hands and blowing air kisses as they went.

He moved back to her side once he got his hat and coat, putting both on hastily, and he gently put his fingers on her arm that was now covered with her tailored coat sleeve. He took a deep breath as they walked out of the doors together, into the Parisian night air. People were climbing into their cars as their drivers pulled up to the curb.

Sarah stayed at his side, hugging herself. He knew it was probably only a little colder than it had been a few hours earlier when they stood out on that balcony together. But it felt a lot colder somehow. Maybe it was the end of the night looming.

"I, erm… I'll wait with you until your driver arrives," he said quietly. He could see Raoul parked off to the side, patiently awaiting his employer beckoning him.

She gave him a surprised look. "My driver? Oh no." She snorted. "I don't have one of those. You're very sweet for thinking that, though." The wry look on her face was extremely pretty. "I took a cab. I just have to find one to get me back to where I'm staying. Easy enough."

Chuck pulled his shoulders back a bit. "A cab? At this hour of the ni—Well, at this hour of the morning?"

She looked almost smug, which was even prettier somehow. "I've found cabs in much stranger hours—in much stranger places—while I've been in Paris. I'll find one, don't worry."

But he did worry. He glanced at his watch. It was after two. And sure, Paris didn't sleep. Their coffee houses and pubs and literary clubs were open at all hours of the night. But it didn't sit well with him that she'd be standing here trying to call a cab, alone, at this hour.

And in the cold.

So he shook his head and fiddled with the sleeve of his coat. "I have my driver. Raoul. He's parked just over there." He pointed behind him. "Let me drop you off somewhere. Please."

"Oh." She spun to look at him. "No, please. I can't let you—"

"Let me. Please." He stepped in closer. "I-I don't mean to come off any sort of…way to you, but I'm afraid if you don't let me drive you to where you're staying, I won't be able to sleep a wink."

She smiled. "I don't want to impose."

"You aren't. I swear it."

Sighing, she nodded. "All right. Thank you. It's very sweet of you."

"It's sweet of my driver, Raoul. All I have to do is sit in the back with you as company."

Chuck knew his grin was giddy and he didn't know what it was he was conveying to her as she gave him a bit of a look, amusement in her face, but he was just so relieved she'd agreed. It felt like a much safer alternative, and it meant he'd get another chance to spend time with her—for however long that may be.

The length of this car ride apparently.

As they approached the limousine, Raoul hurried out from behind the wheel and grinned his big grin at them both, his gaze lingering on Sarah just long enough that Chuck read the question there.

"Raoul, I hope you don't mind. We're dropping Miss Walker off at her hotel."

"Of course you are welcome, Mademoiselle," Raoul said with a polite bow of his head.

"You're staying in a hotel?" Chuck asked her. She nodded. "Which one?"

"The Beau Jardin."

He turned back to his driver. "The Beau Jard—oh." He spun back to Sarah and blinked. "I'm staying there too."

They merely stared at one another, and he was forced to look away as Raoul popped open the back door of the limousine with a "Monsieur?"

Sarah accepted Chuck's hand and let him help her inside of the limo, and he smiled at Raoul. "The Beau Jardin," he said with a shrug.

Raoul tipped his hat with a "Oui, Monsieur" as Chuck climbed down to scoot in beside her. The driver shut the door and hurried to the front.

The air between them was…quiet, to say the least. And yet, it felt charged in a way it hadn't before they discovered they were staying in the same hotel here in Paris. Why was it suddenly so charged?

"So." He cleared his throat, sweeping his hat off and dropping it in his lap. "Same hotel, huh? What are the odds?"

"Monsieur Garnier told me to stay at the Beau Jardin. And it was within my price range," she said, giving him a cute one shoulder shrug.

"Ah. It's…a good hotel."

"I've liked it so far."

"View is really nice. Eiffel Tower is right there. Right off the side of my balcony."

"You have a balcony off of your room?" she asked enviously, gaping. "I only have a window that barely opens about this much." She held up her fingers about three inches apart.

"Oh. Y-Yes, I do. The balcony is off of the suite's main living area."

"I see. You have a suite," she said with a nod. "That's why. I'm on the floor without the suites and without the balconies." She snorted. "Just the, uh, one room."

Chuck nodded, feeling like maybe he should shut up about the suite now. Or change the subject. Sarah changed it for him gesturing up towards the front of the limo as they made their way through the Paris streets. Raoul, like a true gent, had put the partition up.

"Raoul is your driver, huh? Does he go with you everywhere? Like if you're on a business trip in France?"

"Oh no. No, I've hired him for this trip. I have my driver back in Los Angeles, but he doesn't work as often as Raoul's had to work here in Paris. I have a car there, I tend to like to drive myself if it's feasible."

"That might be why Raoul is French…" she said wryly, rolling her eyes at herself.

He laughed. "Hey, you never know. Plenty of French expatriates in Los Angeles."

"So Los Angeles?" she said.

"Yes. That's where Bartowski Electric is based. We've got our headquarters, our flagship store, and many other storefronts dotted around the city where we sell our color television sets," he said with a grin. Giggling, she nodded. "Ever been there? LA, I mean."

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "It's where I rent an apartment."

Chuck sat up straighter. "Nooo. Really?! Well, that answers my question. You live in LA…?"

"I do. Yes. Well, mostly. When I'm not on assignment in a country on the other side of the world, at least."

Smiling, he crossed his arms, and then he changed his mind and instead fiddled with the brim of the hat he had in his lap. "So is that where you were born?"

"Los Angeles?"

He nodded, but she seemed to squirm almost, as if uncomfortable. "Sorry, that was too personal. You don't have to answer—"

"No, it's-it's all right. It isn't—Nobody asks me questions like this." She paused. "But, um, Southern California. East of LA. More towards the desert. But we, uh, we moved closer to the city to…make our fortune. Just like so many do, right?" He grinned at her. "You? Where were you born?"

"Los Angeles. Well, more in the suburbs on the outskirts of Los Angeles. But there, um, there was this trolley that used to go from the next neighborhood over from ours. A pal of mine and I would pay the couple o' cents to take it into the city center. And we'd go see movies. Specifically Jimmy Cagney movies. All of 'em. Whenever one came out, you could be sure we'd be there. Front row."

Sarah giggled. "Cagney? Your parents were fine with that? His movies are a bit…"

"Violent? Probably not great for kids? Mhm. But, uh, no, our parents probably wouldn't have been too thrilled. But we had it all planned out, seeeee?" He affected a Cagney accent. "We'd get to da end of da Cagney flick, and we'd run ovah to da movie we was s'posed to be seein', seeee? We'd catch da end of it so's we knews what it was about, and den when we got home and 'ah folks asked what da movie was about, we'd be able to ans'ah, seeee?"

She was laughing, shaking her head. "Well, then. If you were going out and watching that many Cagney movies, why aren't you more of a tough guy like the fellas in those gangster flicks?"

He liked that she was teasing him, flirting. He affected an offended look. "I'm not a tough guy?"

She giggled at that. He shrugged and smirked. "Hey, it isn't for lack of trying, trust me. Sometimes you just can't beat your nature."

Sarah looked away then, the smile on her face dimming just slightly, and she stared down at her lap, not responding to that.

There was a knock on the partition then and Chuck looked up to see they were pulling up to the hotel.

}o{

"Ah. We're here," Chuck said.

Why did that trip feel so short? It had felt so long when she'd been in the back of a cab headed for the Garnier chateau. She wasn't ready for this to be it. Stepping into the elevator, pressing the button for her floor, saying goodbye, walking away from him.

She wasn't ready.

After spending all night by his side, leaving him only the one time to go to the powder room, but otherwise staying glued to him, knowing it probably looked a certain way. And that was only if anyone had been paying attention. She doubted they had been. Who would pay attention to some woman they didn't know? Surely she was a wallflower in a room like that.

She didn't even think about the fact that she'd become less of a wallflower once she pressed herself up against Charles Bartowski's arm. All she thought about was that it had felt good being with him, talking to him, dancing together.

And now it was over, just like that.

She felt her heart thumping like mad, and her mind was going a mile a minute. She needed to think of some way to stretch this out as she took Chuck's hand and allowed him to help her out of the back of the limousine.

They met gazes and she melted into those brown eyes of his.

"Let the front desk know if you need me, Monsieur Bartowski. I'll be around."

"Merci, Raoul," Chuck said to his driver, but he never once looked away from her as he spoke. Their hands were still clasped and she'd never hated her gloves more than she did in this moment. She wanted to feel him without the barrier. Just once before this was over.

And then they both turned and walked away from the limousine, up the front steps of the hotel. The doorman opened it for them and Chuck stepped aside, letting her enter first.

She thanked the doorman, walked inside, and waited for him to join her.

And then they both waited for the elevator to arrive. It was after two in the morning, and everything inside of her was not only entirely awake, she felt alive. How did she walk away from him, crawl into bed, and sleep after tonight?

And it was only then that she realized she didn't have her clutch. "Oh. Oh no. I forgot my—It's in the back of your car."

Chuck looked down. "Oh. Your purse! I'll get it. I've got it. Wait here." He cupped her elbow then dashed off, literally sprinting through the lobby to the concern of the staff. Sarah didn't know what the protocol was for the drivers of these rich folks when they were on call like this man Raoul seemed to be. Did they just park off to the side in some spot somewhere and sit there waiting? Even at night?

Perhaps he drove to his own home?

No, he said to alert the front desk if Chuck needed him, which meant he'd be waiting somewhere close by. But all night?

Either way, Chuck was chasing him down for her bag which was sweet, and unnecessary, really. They could always ask the front desk to have the driver come back. Especially if he'd be nearby anyway.

Still, Chuck reappeared a minute later, and as he came back into the lobby from outside, he held the clutch up in his hand triumphantly. She beamed at him and laughed lightly, hugging herself as he trotted back to her side, putting it into her hand. And then he leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing. "Raoul made it further than I expected and it has been much too long since I've exercised. I'm rather out of shape perhaps," he gasped out.

She put her hand on his hair comfortingly and when he straightened up, her hand went with him, wishing her fingers could feel just how soft his dark brown curls were. The elevator doors slid open and she slowly lowered her hand again. She really didn't need that extra knowledge of just how soft his hair was, how good it felt between her fingers. So maybe it was for the best.

"Do you want a drink?" she said then. She thought that was her, she was pretty sure that was her. "Have a drink with me. A nightcap."

"Absolutely," he said without seeming to have to think about it very hard.

They both stepped into the elevator and as the doors slid shut, she frowned. "W-Wait, I—My room doesn't have drinks. I'm sorry. I invited you and I don't actually have—"

"There's a full bar in my suite."

And that was that, wasn't it?

She smiled at him and leaned back against the railing in the elevator, propping her hands on it behind her. He smiled back, reaching over to press the button for the top floor. The suite floor.

Yes, that was that. She just didn't know what to do with…that.


A/N: She never knows what to do with him and it's why I love her so much. More of these mid-century dorks is on its way. Leave a review if you're so inclined. Thanks, folks!

-SC