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: More 1950s Charah? Say it ain't so. It's so. I don't have much to say, but I hope this week lands gently for everyone, that you get enough sleep, and drink plenty of water. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own CHUCK and I'm making exactly $0 from this story. Per usual.
The air in the room was tense as she shifted her weight in the chair, crossing her legs.
"You…said you had another job for me, Mr. Jamison?"
He made a dismissive sound, waving his hand through the air. "Please. Brian." She just smiled politely as he leaned forward, his elbows braced on his desk. Just an inch to the left and he'd put his arm in a wet coffee ring. She wanted it.
That was unkind.
…And still.
When he realized she wasn't going to respond or correct herself, he continued. "There's a track meet this weekend, over in Pasadena. We need good shots of the people…running, throwing heavy…you know those big metal balls…"
"Shot put…?"
"Sure. That." He scooted his chair in closer. "See, there's yet another reason why I always find myself coming back to you, Sarah." He tapped his temple. "You're smart. Well-read."
"Why do you need a photojournalist for a track meet?"
"They're qualifying for the Olympics. So I hear. I need to do a piece on Jeremiah Copley. He's been the world record holder for, um…" He shuffled through the papers on his desk, his sleeve regrettably missing the coffee ring. "110 meters hurdles. Hear the man has legs like an ostrich." Jamison threw his head back with a laugh. Sarah smiled politely again, considering this man was her next paycheck.
He cleared his throat. "He's the biggest athlete in the world right now so we need to start building him up. Magazine wants a big four-pager for him. American Hero, Jeremiah Copley. Good ol' Jerry. JerBear." He sucked his teeth a little, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully and smoothing his hand through his thinning hair. "Everyone's Talking About the Cop. What do you think?" She opened her mouth and he cut her off with another hand wave. "Well, I'll think of something. You stick to the photographs. What do you say? I can pick you up. We can go together. I do the interview, you snap the photos. We'll be like a team." He raised his eyebrows, his smile a bit watery.
God help her. Over three years now this man had been trying.
And it wasn't that he was altogether ugly. And he really was good at what he did. Brian Jamison could take even a puff piece about an athlete and make it compelling. Alongside her photos, this thing would be a big seller, a triumph. They did make a rather good team, and he didn't mind giving her credit the way some of these writer fellas had minded in the past.
But he wanted her to marry him and she'd never shown even the smallest bit of interest in him. There was an entitlement in it. Single woman, unmarried, obviously she was his for the taking.
She took the jobs, did the work, handed him the photos and negatives if the magazine needed them, grabbed her check, and disappeared just as quickly. He still had an old-fashioned sense of where women should be, what they should put their minds to. And he thought every woman needed a man. She needed a man; she needed him.
She. Did. Not.
"We do make a good team, Mr. Jamison. And I'll take the job. I'll get the footage you need for your article." She jotted down some notes in her notebook. "I'll just need a write-up of the sorts of things you're looking for. I don't need too many details, you know how I mostly like to go off the cuff."
"Oh, I know how you operate." He sat back against his chair and crossed his arms. "You just give me your address and I can pick you up that morning. Sometime around nine-thirty. We can grab coffee on the way."
Sarah stopped him before he could get too far. "Oh, no…I-I'm afraid you misunderstood. I will take the job, but I will drive my own car to the event."
"But I'm inviting you," he explained with a shrug. As if she didn't get that from the original statements.
But he wasn't seeming to get what she was saying. "I don't know that it'd be…professional, and I would like to keep things that way. Professional, I mean."
Jamison pursed his lips. "Nonsense, no such thing. You're freelance. You aren't in my employ."
She narrowed her eyes and squirmed in discomfort. He wasn't going to take her word for it, it seemed. Here was the reminder of why she wasn't interested in this particular…arrangement—his utter lack of respect. If he respected her as much as she knew she deserved to be respected, he would have listened well enough to hear her the first time when she said no. Three years ago, sure, but also just now.
And now he'd just insinuated there was no such thing as an "unprofessional" situation between her and someone who was clearly her work superior? Well, sort of. She was technically freelance, but his magazine was paying her, and he was giving her orders. She was absolutely in his employ.
She supposed she had to speak in the only language men like him could hear.
"I didn't want to say it, Mr. Jamison, because it's…" Not your business. "Well," she said instead. "It's just that I'm seeing someone."
Jamison frowned. "It's that patent lawyer, isn't it? M-M-M—Started with an M. But I thought that was all through!"
Sarah felt her insides turn to steel. What she wanted to do was get up and walk out, but she needed the money. She really needed this job. And unfortunately that meant having her life pried into, jimmied open, spilled out all over this damn desk like she was some sort of piñata at a child's party. And she couldn't do anything about it if she wanted this job. If she wanted any job.
Brian Jamison had pull in the journalism world. The guy had a Pulitzer and he was only in his mid-to-late thirties.
He could take her career out at the knees if he really wanted to. At least the photojournalism side of it, and without that, how could she ever get another show like the one she'd had in New York City a few years ago?
Sure, he didn't seem like the type to do that, but she didn't want to press her luck.
"It…isn't him. I've moved on from that. There's someone else."
All of that was true. Maybe before Paris happened, she wouldn't have been telling the truth if she talked about how she'd moved on… She had in some ways. She'd let go of Mike, made peace with him being out of her life, out of the picture, but it still ached that she hadn't been what he needed. When she felt like he was what she'd needed. She was okay alone, okay not being in a relationship, okay with herself, with the decisions she'd made. She knew she wouldn't have been happy as Mike's little woman staying at home while he worked his fulfilling job as a patent lawyer. It wouldn't have worked. Still, it stung when she thought about him, about the relationship. Because Mike had felt good in her life.
And then…Chuck Bartowski happened.
Somehow walking away from him in Paris had stung so much worse. She'd had an ever-present ache in her when she came back to LA, distracting herself with work as much as she could, but always going back and peering at the photographs she took during their time together and having regret after regret after regret.
Reuniting with him here in Los Angeles, deciding to throw the fears she had in Paris about starting a relationship with him to the wayside and dive in headfirst (sort of, she really wasn't a headfirst sort of gal), had put so much into perspective for her. Mike was good, but better than good was possible. She'd found it with Chuck.
It was a lot easier to be okay with losing something good when you were experiencing something so much better.
"Pfft." Jamison snorted. "Here I am holding out for years and you go under my nose and find yourself another young man once you've cut the strings from the first fella. Or are you just saying that to get me off your case…?" he tried to tease.
But she could tell he was put-out.
She genuinely found she did not care a bit. He would soldier through just fine.
"Oh, he's real. Very real."
And now she was thinking about him and she was having a hard time keeping the smile from her features as she ducked her head, fiddling with her bag on her lap.
"Mm. I'll believe it when I see it." He slapped his desk with an open palm and gave a good-natured chuckle. "Oh, fine. Fiiiine. We won't go together. But you still owe me a coffee date. Invite this…new man, too. I'd like to see my competition."
"Ha," she tried, swallowing the disgust. Competition? She did her best to keep that disgust from her face. That word applied to two men who were very differently situated in her existence made her skin crawl. Even putting Chuck Bartowski on a pedestal in comparison didn't sit right with her. It meant she'd considered one of Jamison's romantic overtures, and she hadn't. Not for one second, not by any iota of her being. Even the traditional voice in her head that told her she needed security and only a man would get her that hadn't been tempted by Brian Jamison.
She didn't want to be a homemaker. She didn't want to hang up her camera.
She didn't want to set food on the table in front of a man because it was what was required of her. Never. Not ever. And she knew she didn't have to. She would make it on her own at the very worst…without that sort of emotional and mental burden on her.
She refused.
Not for him, not for Mike, not for anyone.
"I'll call Mel about the advance, then," she said, getting right back to business. "Fifty up front, fifty when the job's done?" Jamison's eyebrows flew up into his hairline. "Only fair. I heard Wilson Pepper got one-fifty for shots of the Tour de France. Mirror Sprint seem to pay pretty well. What've they got that The Revenue hasn't got, Mr. Jamison? I'm cutting fifty off of that. Fifty now, fifty when I turn in the photos. I could ask another rag for one-fifty, after all."
He glared a bit at her. "I'll run it by Mel but I don't have much say."
He did have plenty of say.
"Tell Mel I'll pay him a visit Friday for that fifty dollar advance," she said, climbing up to her feet. "That is…if I've got the job."
"No one else I'd want for it," the journalist said, his eyes straying below her thin belt wrapped around her dress, following the line of the skirt down her long legs. She shifted so that she was levered a bit more behind the chair. "Saturday then. And maybe a late lunch after, hm?"
She decided not to keep this conversation lasting much longer by responding. She had a feeling something was going to come up and she'd have to get the hell outta Dodge before he could repeat his offer of a lunch date.
Because apparently even the potential specter of another man wasn't looking like it would stop Brian Jamison from making his advances.
She gave him a small wave on her way out and waited until she was in the stairwell to shiver. She hated the idea that was already streaming through her, but damn it, she wasn't above considering it.
Sometimes the modern woman had to make concessions to survive.
}o{
She slapped it down on his desk a little harder than she'd needed to, he thought, his eyes wide.
"Don't give me that look, kid. I've told you to look these over at least thirteen times since last week. It's this week. All you gotta do is look, for God's sake!"
Diane Beckman pointed to the one on his left. "Now, we like the kids in front of the television, but the problem is that we don't want to be that company that promotes letting your kids sit and rot their brains instead of playing outside."
Chuck frowned. "Rot their brains? Not a chance! They're learning!"
"Learning what?"
"…Lassie! He's a good dog!" Chuck blurted.
"Lassie's a she," Diane groused, shaking her head at him and crossing her arms.
"Oh."
"Then there's this one. Option two. Teenagers. It has less of a rotting of the brain implication."
"Why?"
She gave him a look like he was foolish for not picking up on her meaning immediately. "Because they're teenagers. Their brains have developed enough by then. And…you know teens. They're out doing things, starting to drive around, putting everyone else out on the road in serious danger."
"Veronica learning to drive now?"
"What?!" Diane snapped. "No, of course not. She's seventeen. Too young."
Chuck made a face. "Mrs. Beckman, with all due respect, the legal age is sixteen."
"Absolutely not. Not 'til she's eighteen. She won't be driving until she stops using words like…supermurgitroid."
He tilted his head. "…Bless you."
"That wasn't a sneeze," she snapped, but he still spotted the amusement in her face, underneath the severe bun she'd tugged her red hair into at the back of her head. She fixed her glasses. "It's up to you. You're the boss. Our advertising execs need the final say before we ship these out to the printers. Kids in front of the television, or teenagers?"
He pursed his lips, then leaned to the side. "Is Miguel still out there?"
"He's on lunch. You sent him on lunch."
"Damn." Chuck winced. "Pardon me." She glared at him and he shrugged. "Habit. Swearing in front of—"
"Will you decide? You're making me half-crazy standing here."
"I wanted Miguel's input. He has kids both ages. Your daughter is graduating from school soon."
"Not that soon," she said defensively, and he knew Diane would be the type of mother—was the type of mother who found letting her children go very difficult. Veronica was going to have a hard time going out on her own.
Chuck felt like a fool for the envious spike in his chest.
He didn't know what having a mom felt like—he couldn't even really remember at this point, it'd been so long ago when Mary Bartowski walked away—so he certainly didn't know what having an overprotective mom felt like.
He'd give anything to know.
Pushing that all far, far out of his mind, Chuck took a deep breath and pointed to the teenagers. "I think young folk are the future of our industry, but I also think you're right about not wanting to look like we're trying to brainwash America's children."
Diane nodded. "Good choice. I'll get this down to them."
"Hey, that reminds me…" She hung back, raising an eyebrow in question. "Are you our director of advertising, or are you director of public relations?"
The short redheaded middle-aged woman gave him a haughty look, raising her chin, pride in her face. "Well. Someone needs to do it. And I trust myself more than I do anyone else."
He would make a note to give Diane Beckman—public relations director and apparent acting advertising director—a raise at the start of the next fiscal year.
"Well." He bit the inside of his cheek to keep a serious look on his face. "We aren't going to find a bigger culture-vulture for the job, are we?"
"You're a stinker and I wonder why I put up with you," she drawled, her voice set in the driest tone he thought he'd ever heard. "In f—"
They both stopped when they heard the outer door of the office pop open.
"…Hello?"
Chuck immediately burst to his feet, his heart slamming so hard against his ribcage he thought he might pass out. Or maybe that was lightheadedness from standing too fast and shock from hearing that voice after so many days.
So many long, long days.
He hurried past Diane, probably quite rudely, and stopped at the threshold of his personal office, a crooked grin growing over his face.
She was standing there halfway in, one hand on the door, the other clutching the purse strap over her shoulder. Her hair bobbed a bit as she stepped all the way inside. "Oh. Hello," she said quietly, a beaming smile on her face.
He made a point of looking at the high-waisted yellow capri-pants she wore, the flower-print blouse she'd tucked into them and the white blazer with sleeves that stopped at her pretty elbows. Even her flats were a matching yellow. She looked like a summer day and it lit up his whole existence.
He pulled his gaze back up to her blue eyes.
"I'm sorry, Miss. You must have the wrong place. The modeling agency is next door. You can't miss it."
She gave him a droll look, snorting. "Oh please."
As she shut the door behind her, not looking away from his gaze for a moment, that smile of hers still glowing on her incredibly stunning face, Chuck closed the distance and wrapped his hand around hers.
He moved in as close as he dared as she tilted her head back cutely to look into his face, and he brought her hand up to press his lips to her knuckles. She melted a bit closer to him, as if unconsciously drawn towards him, and her features softened.
I missed you was on his lips, because he had. So much. But as her eyes lowered down to his lips meaningfully, her intention clear as day, Chuck saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, rearing his chin back just slightly, hoping the photographer got the hint as he flicked his eyes to the side towards where Diane Beckman quietly, and likely very uncomfortably, waited.
Sarah furrowed her brow, but then followed his hint, her jaw falling open slightly. She definitely hadn't known someone else was here.
But she did now.
Chuck cleared his throat again. "Ahem, yes. Erm. I'd like you to meet Diane—Mrs. Beckman—Diane Beckman. She's the director of public relations for the company." Diane sent Sarah a kind, polite smile, thankfully not showing her teeth. Diane was a bit…frightening when she showed her teeth. "Mrs. Beckman, this is Sarah. Sarah and I are d-dating. We're dating." He looked at Sarah, swallowing thickly, giving her a questioning look.
He wasn't sure if that was right, if she'd agree with that, but she smiled wider at him and then turned to face Diane. "It's very nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you." The older woman gave Chuck quite the arch look, but at least there was some amusement in it—dry amusement but still amusement. But then she froze, and she turned wide eyes to Chuck, before setting them back on Sarah. And then they swung back to Chuck. "Sarah…" She crept a bit closer, almost carefully, her eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't happen to be a certain Sarah…Walker?"
Uh oh…
The Bartowski Electric CEO hadn't thought about this part of things. Sarah had just shown up and Diane was here and oh boy, he'd have to explain some things to his head of PR later. Would he ever. Ooooh boy.
Sarah frowned curiously for a moment, glanced at Chuck, and then turned her gaze back to the older woman. "Y-Yes…? Yes, that's me. I'm Sarah Walker." She raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. "Do you know me? I mean, should I know you from somewhere? Have we met?"
"No, no." Diane cut her hand through the air and shook her head. "We haven't met, but…I do know who you are." She slowly turned, her heel planted on the floor, and she tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at her boss. "Mr. Bartowski, are you going to tell her? Or shall I?"
He felt Sarah get almost tense beside him. He didn't blame her, what with a phrase like that coming out of his head of PR's mouth.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He felt Sarah's stare on his profile, burning a hole in his cheek. He couldn't help glaring a bit at Diane, and she just looked so pleased with herself, didn't she?
With one last look that clearly said Damn you, Chuck then faced Sarah and cleared his throat again. "Right, well…?" He squeezed Sarah's hand, lowering it between them again and just holding on. "You remember in Paris…when I got that phone call to my room?"
She seemed uncomfortable talking about that with someone else in their presence, but she nodded anyway, a small smile tilting the corner of her mouth.
"It was me," Diane filled in, lifting a hand in a motionless wave, and Chuck felt like there was a good amount of smugness and humor with the way she was enjoying his fumbling through this.
"Mrs. B found the tabloid article in that gossip rag. The one WhatsHerFace wrote. That awful busybody…Oppenheimer? Was that her name?"
"That was her name all right," Diane groused. "I had to wrestle that snake the hell away from us after she wrote that utter nonsense. Came this close to threatening to tank her job," she said smugly. Chuck sent her a wide-eyed look and she shrugged haughtily. "I didn't say I did it, just that I came close to doing it."
Chuck heard a short giggle come from beside him and he turned to see Sarah pressing her fingers to her lips, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She lowered her hand when she saw him watching and shrugged with a wince. "Well, I wouldn't exactly be unhappy if she were suddenly without a job. Worse things have happened is all I'm saying."
Diane snorted.
The CEO turned back to his PR director. "We…That is, I mean, we found one another again. Here. In L.A. and, erm…"
"You're dating," the redhead filled in, folding her hands together in front of her. He sent her a dry look for that. "Well, this should be interesting."
He had no idea what in the hell that meant.
And he was one hundred percent certain he was going to be getting an earful soon. He wasn't getting off easy.
Not in a million years. And definitely not with Diane Beckman.
Diane slid the advertisement boards under her arm and closed the distance, sticking her hand out. "It was good to meet you finally. The actual you and not the farcical caricature that damn hack drummed up out of her ass." She cleared her throat as Sarah raised her eyebrows at Chuck, taking Beckman's hand in the meantime. "Excuse me. I should take care with my language."
Chuck let out a snicker. "Much too late for that, Mrs. Beckman. But you needn't fear with Sarah."
"No," Sarah rushed out. "Please. Curse all you want. You're in good company."
Diane let out a thoughtful "Hm" as she shook Sarah's hand, and a nervous sensation came over him as she watched the two women meet gazes, both of them lifting their chins, pulling their shoulders back and straightening their spines… Sizing one another up.
There was a small twitch at the corner of the shorter woman's lips then and she nodded, finally letting go of Sarah's hand. "I hope to see more of you, Miss Walker."
"Sarah," the blonde said steadily. "And I hope to see more of you as well, Mrs. Beckman."
"Diane."
Sarah just nodded, and they both watched the powerhouse public relations director leave the room. Chuck got a very pointed look over her shoulder before she shut the door behind her, and he tried to disguise the nervous chuckle with a slight clear of his throat.
Silence pervaded for a few uncomfortable seconds and then Sarah slowly turned to face him again, her hands folded in front of her. There was a certain shyness to her features now as she shrugged one shoulder. "So that's who called to warn you about the Oppenheimer gossip column in Paris…"
"Uh. Yes. That-That's B.E.'s… She does public relations, and she makes sure that the company continues to be squeaky clean, erm, and look squeaky clean. When things like that column drop, it's her job to be on top of them. And she is. Every time."
"Your guardian angel?"
He snorted, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I suppose so. Sometimes. Other times, I feel like I've got a stern auntie looking over my shoulder, making sure I step right."
She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe you need that."
Chuck's jaw dropped and he let out a teasing gasp. "Oh, do I?" He chuckled and ducked his head, feeling an atmosphere of tentativeness in the room, the newness of this connection making itself known to the both of them apparently. "I actually do. I can be a little…rash with the decisions I make."
"Rash, hm? I feel like you wouldn't be where you are now if you were that rash."
He gestured toward the door. "And she's one reason why. I hired her in the beginning, when this was a glimmer in my eye. She's helped me avoid landmines since then."
"Mmm." She shifted her weight then, leaning her hip against Miguel's desk. "Those landmines wouldn't happen to be shaped like…this, would they?" She pointed to herself, then swiped her hand down her side, popping her hip a bit more.
Chuck swallowed the lump in his throat, his blood rushing hot. He couldn't help it. Sarah Walker wasn't a landmine…but if she was, she'd be an insanely stunning one. He inwardly shook himself, pushing that strange thought out of his head. "Erm…"
She smirked. "That answers my question, I think."
"No, it—Okay, fine, maybe there've been…women. Certainly none of them shaped like…you. You're…Uh…" Amusement and a bit of a blush showed on her face. He rushed on. "But it isn't on a consistent basis or anything. Most of the time, it's that I'm a little too trusting of people, like in interview situations sometimes, I tend to give too much away because I trust 'em not to twist it into something it isn't…and Mrs. B swoops in to rescue me from bad faith reporters. And sure, I suppose there's been a woman. Or…two."
Her smirk widened, and then she glanced away, pushing herself off of the desk a bit and tucking her hair behind her ear. "Not to stick with a dead metaphor, but, uh, d'you think Mrs. Beckman sees me as a landmine? I mean, after the Oppenheimer gossip bit. That could've done some damage and then here I am again, in your life, the possibility of damage…" She pursed her lips thoughtfully, her blue eyes finally lifting to peek at him through her eyelashes.
The CEO shook his head, meeting her gaze steadily. "You aren't a landmine. And she doesn't see you like that. You're a human being. She's…certainly going to want to have a conversation about this with me and I'm not looking forward to that."
He wondered if that was too much honesty. He should've just outright dispelled her fear.
But Sarah smiled warmly at him, maybe appreciating his honesty. "She's going to tell you to be careful with a girl like me."
"Why d'you say that? Because you're an adventuress?" Chuck grinned toothily, moving in closer. She lifted her chin, looking up at him as he looked down, careful not to touch her even with their chests being a mere inch away from touching.
"Maybe. But I was thinking more in the wealth gap direction. I'm not exactly working a steady job, freelance work being what it is."
Chuck shook his head, denial on his lips. "No, that's not—"
"Chuck." She put her hands on his chest, a slight pressure that made his heart race. "It's a reality that sits here, between us. Or over us, depending on how you wanna look at it. It doesn't help anyone to pretend it doesn't exist."
He sighed, nodding. And he draped his hands over hers. "You're right. But Mrs. B isn't the type to see that as a bad mark against you right off the bat. It isn't distrust. Even though there have been a few women over the years who…did see my success as, erm, a draw. To put it nicely."
"Gold diggers, to put it not nicely," she provided.
Chuck winced, reticent to use the phrase, even though it was applicable. "My point is, Mrs. B doesn't think that about you. But after what happened in Paris, the way we decided not to pursue things further, and now…"
"Changing our minds?"
"That, yes. She likely has some things to say to me about that. I'm going to have to be careful. We…both might have to be careful."
Sarah nodded. "Don't worry. I'm very realistic about this arrangement. It isn't going to be easy. We can't wave this in everyone's faces. Every step we take together…out there…" She flicked her head towards the door. "…will have to be precise…clinical."
"I can be precise and clinical."
Giggling, she fixed his tie for him. "Cutie." He knew beyond all doubt that he was blushing, and that she could see it clearly in his face. "And here we just got done talking about how your PR director has to keep tabs on you because you're rash."
Chuck winced. "I may…misstep," he admitted. "I'm human, certainly not perfect."
"So far, you seem pretty damn close," Sarah said immediately, all in one breath, and then she bit her lip and looked away as if she hadn't meant to say it at all.
Fuck this, he thought to himself.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "Maybe that was too—"
Too what? He didn't know, and he wasn't going to know, because he stopped her mid-sentence, stepping in so that his chest crashed into hers and grabbing her gently with his hands framing her face, kissing her.
Sarah Walker swallowed her words and he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders. He shut his eyes even tighter and enjoyed the feeling of her lips on his, the way her mouth parted as she pulled him in even closer. A heady sensation went through Chuck and he melted against her, humming happily.
She giggled against his mouth, her chest bouncing against his, and she broke the kiss. He couldn't help the pitiful whining sound he emitted, and she giggled harder. "Oh you are so good for my ego," she muttered, beaming up at him as she nuzzled his nose with her own. "I promise, I didn't come here just to have my ego stroked."
He bit back the saucy and perhaps inappropriate question about what she did come to have stroked. And he silently chastised himself for even having the thought. Instead he asked, "So there was another reason?"
But then Sarah pulled back and tilted her head, a look that almost resembled a wince on her face. She nodded a little. "There…was."
Chuck raised an eyebrow in question.
Oh boy. Oh no. He felt his nerves rising.
"Chuck, you won't have to cover all of the financially insecure new woman in your life's meals, at least not for now. She's got a new assignment!" she chirped, beaming. He saw abject relief in her face and he allowed himself to feel grateful he didn't work freelance. And then he gave her a bit of a droll look for knocking herself like that.
Then what she said actually hit him.
He raised his eyebrows and began to smile just slightly. "Wait, a new assignment? You've been hired for a job?"
"Yep."
"That's amazing! Congratulations!"
He realized suddenly that he was dating a woman who oftentimes went on assignments that took her to the other side of the world for who knew how long, and that this was likely one of those assignments. Just when things were starting to warm up a bit.
Chuck cleared his throat, trying not to let her see any of what was going through his mind on his face.
How many weeks, or months even, might he have to cope with not seeing this woman he was quickly becoming addicted to being around?
"S-So, um… When do you…leave for your assignment?" he asked, an excited smile plastered onto his face, hiding the sinking feeling he couldn't seem to bat away. He found it quite easy to be both ecstatic for her and blue about the idea of having to say goodbye to her for who even knew how long.
The photojournalist furrowed her brow in question. "…Leave? What do y—Oh." She blinked, and then she smirked at him, reaching up to play with his tie again, meticulously flattening her fingers against the knot and running them down its length slowly. "I'm not going anywhere. Well… not really. It's an assignment here in town. One town over technically. Pasadena."
Relief flooded through him and she chuckled, apparently having seen it in his features, try as he might to hide them. Damn him for not being able to keep anything off his sleeve.
"Did you think I'd be flying off to Milan to shoot a fashion show?"
He shrugged. "That sounds like a great gig to me." His chest was still buzzing, so endlessly glad she wasn't flying off to Milan to shoot a fashion show.
Sarah pursed her lips. "Mmm. It pays well so I'd take it in a heartbeat but it isn't what I like to do best." He nodded, because he knew that, didn't he? She'd said it to him in Paris. "This assignment isn't much better but I'll take what I can get at the moment."
He took her hand and pulled her away from Miguel's desk, through the door, and into his personal office. "What's the assignment?" He paused, seeing her perch on the edge of his desk instead of taking the much more comfortable chair like he'd expected her to. He shook himself. "Or-Or am I allowed to ask that? Am I allowed to know?"
She snorted. "I'm not a judge, Chuck. I don't have to keep the details under my hat."
Narrowing his eyes, he stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. "Oh, right."
Sarah reached back and braced her palms on his desk, crossing her legs and tilting her head. He tried to ignore how massively attractive the pose was, how good she looked, and how distracting the particular swoop of her hair was where it rested at her shoulder. "The Olympic trials for track and field are happening in Pasadena. Fella by the name of, erm…I forgot his name now. But he's supposedly the fastest guy in the world. He's s'posed to win the whole thing at the Olympics next year. I'm taking action shots of him while he's competing. Jam—The guy who hired me, he's a journalist and he's going to be interviewing this super fast fella—"
"Fastest guy in the world. …You mean Copley? Jeremiah Copley?"
The photographer snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "That's him! Golly, you're good!"
Chuck's jaw fell open and he yanked his hands out of his pocket, clasping them together in front of him, bending his knees in excitement. "H'ooohhhh! Oh! Oh my God! Sarah, you're taking pictures of Jer Copley?! THE Jer Copley?!" She blinked and shrugged in the affirmative. "This is such a big—You're going to meet him, I'm assuming. Yes?"
"Probably. I'll need some close-ups—"
"Close-ups! H'oh. Oh…hhhh'aaatcha mama." He stuck his fist in his mouth and bit down, whimpering.
"I take it…you're a fan?" she asked, amusement in her stunning features.
He took his fist out of his mouth, composing himself. "You could say that, yes. A lot of people are. The man runs like…He's a god, Sarah."
"Oh. Wow. Maybe I'm underselling this job then, huh?" He gave her a flat look for that and she giggled. He couldn't help smiling back at her, it was such a soul-lifting sound. "Is he that great?" she asked sincerely.
Chuck scoffed, putting his hands on his head excitedly. "Oh. Oh, Sarah. The man is…fast. Faster than fast. And it's more than that. He's strong. He has endurance no one else can match. He runs the smartest races I've ever seen anyone run. He-He has this way of…dictating pace to everyone around him. So the race starts at this steady pace, he doesn't waste his energy, and then they get to a certain point in the race and out of nowhere he just…bursts in front of everyone." He made a race car sound with his mouth and moved his hand towards her. "Like that." Sarah laughed, watching him with a certain light in her eyes he was completely missing as he continued to wax poetic about the athlete of his dreams. "He smokes 'em, Sarah. Easy. Breaks records, even with the slower start. No one can come anywhere near him. I'm telling you, he's a god. It's utter joy, watching him race." He whistled low, shaking his head slowly.
She smiled up at him, that light still there, shining in the blue of her eyes. And yet, he wasn't seeing it, even as he looked right at her. "So you've gone to one of his…meets before?"
Chuck frowned and shook his head. "Nah. No, I've never had a chance. I've only watched his races on television. In color!" he added teasingly, lifting a scholarly pointer finger and grinning widely.
Sarah laughed.
Then she nibbled on her bottom lip, her whole face lighting up. And this time he did see it. "Come with me."
Chuck's grin fell and he gave her a blank stare. "W-What?"
"Come with me and watch him run his races." She said it like it was the most common sense thing in the world. "You'll get to see all of that stuff you just talked about in person." She tilted her head adorably. "What are you doing on Saturday?"
"N-Nothing," he mumbled, feeling almost numb.
"Not nothing. You're coming with me to see this Jer Copley god of yours run around in circles."
He cracked up. "Well, that's one way to describe track." She shrugged, seeming almost proud of herself. He loved it. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes," Sarah said easily. "Come with me. I'll even drive."
Chuck felt a grin come over his whole body practically. "Does this qualify as being precise and clinical? Showing up to a sporting event together?"
Sarah Walker raised her eyebrows and cast her gaze to the side. "Honestly? I don't know. But I want you to be there anyway."
Her words draped over him like a warm blanket, head to toe. "I…want to be there."
"So come."
Biting his lip, he nodded. "All right. I'll come. If you're sure. I-I won't be a distraction or a burden or anything, will I? You're there to work…"
"Just don't scare this Copley fella with your…enthusiasm for his talents. At least not until after we get our interview and pictures." She reached over to tug his tie teasingly.
Chuck blushed. "Oh. I, um…I'll try not to."
"Good." She giggled and pushed off from the desk, standing at her full height. "I'll swing by that morning. Maybe we can get some breakfast and coffee on the way?"
"Perfect."
She surprised him by darting in to kiss his cheek, her hands on his shoulders. "See you on Saturday?"
He shut his eyes tightly, a deep urge in him, and he didn't check it this time, instead curling his hands around her biceps and holding fast, preventing her from stepping away. She peered up at him with wide, curious eyes.
"Saturday is…days away. Maybe I can see you before then?" Her eyes widened further, her lips parting in surprise. "I understand if not. I know you're busy. And I'm not trying to be…overly, erm, ardent. I just wanna see you. Soon. I'd like to see you soon. If at all possible."
She bit her lip. "Things are sort of…piling up for me. I'm not sure if I can or not. That-That isn't a no," she rushed when he nodded, intending to back down from the subject altogether. "I simply don't know what the rest of my week is going to be like." She put an apologetic hand on his chest. "I'm sorry."
"No, no. Hey. Please. Don't apologize. I understand." And he did, but it still stung. And then something occurred to him. "I know," he muttered, snapping hiss fingers. "I usually eat lunch between twelve-thirty and one at a cafeteria called Clifton's. You know it?" She stared blankly at him and shook her head finally. "Well, it's no Ritz-Carlton but it's kinda fun, nice, food is pretty good. I go alone so I do a lot of…people watching. I'll be there Wednesday…twelve-thirty. The one on Olive Street. You, uh, can't miss it."
Sarah shook her head a little. "Chuck, I'm not sure I can—"
"I know. I understand. But if you can swing it, I hope to see you there. I understand if not. Guy's gotta eat anyway. They've got tacos with ahi ahi that'll make your mouth water before you even take a bite out of 'em."
She giggled. "I'll try."
Nodding, he finally let go of her, sticking his hands in his pockets again. "Thank you. I appreciate that."
Sarah was the one to step in close this time, rounding his shoulders with her arms, hugging him tightly, pressing her lips to his jaw. "If I can't make lunch on Wednesday, I'll see you on Saturday?" she breathed near his ear.
"Yes. Definitely."
She pulled back, but before she went, she cupped his face in warm gloveless hands and kissed him. His office flipped upside-down for a moment and he smiled against her lips, and then the kiss was over and she was flitting out of his office with a cute wiggle of her fingers.
Chuck Bartowski knew there wasn't anybody or anything who'd be able to wipe the grin off of his face for the rest of the day as he popped open his desk drawer and pulled out the camera he'd bought, turning it over in his hands.
A/N: I love Diane Beckman. She's such a versatile character to write. Love her. Can't wait to show y'all more of this fic soon. Please review if you can.
Thanks!
-SC