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: Snapshot continues! I don't have much to say. Except that I hope you all enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own CHUCK and I'm making exactly $0 from this story. Per usual.
Sarah stared at herself in the mirror, taking a deep breath. In spite of everything weighing on her so damn heavily, she saw the brightness in her eyes, the thin line of her lips pressed together looking pleased even as she tried to quash it.
No, worse than pleased.
Happy.
If she was allowing herself to feel something as disarming as happiness, it meant she was stepping into things with a lot less care than she should. Whatever happened to being careful? Whatever happened to paying mind to the decisions she was making, especially where men were concerned?
The reason why things were so good with Mike until the end was because she was careful with how they moved forward, and when. And still, that had hurt when it was over. It had hurt a lot.
Still, that look she had in her face now…
If anything, the smile grew as she stared it down.
They'd made do with the couch for a little while. It was a surprisingly comfortable couch. And then the couch wasn't good enough because they'd needed more—more space, more of each other. And she found herself all wrapped up in his bed's covers, all wrapped up in him, his hands touching her with a need that would have been a lot more overwhelming if she didn't need him back just as hard.
She left him in his bedroom, slowly pulling his clothes back on after the hours they spent exploring again, surging, reaching, discovering. And she was in the bathroom that connected to his room, door shut, where she could be alone, so that she could allow all of this to wash over her in private.
She pulled her hair back up into a ponytail and turned on the sink to splash cold water over her face. It was madness, the way she'd had him, had so much of him, and still stood here wanting even more. She felt greedy. Gluttonous.
If she cared about religious sorts of things, it would almost feel a little sinful.
How was it possible to still want him this much after all of that?
She tucked her blouse into the waistband of her pants and let out a rough breath. She was going home. She wasn't taking more.
For God's sake, girl, save some for later, a salacious voice she didn't even know existed piped up in her head.
She clamped her teeth down around her lips and let out a melodious giggle, stifling it with her fingers pressed to her mouth.
She splashed her face one more time, turned off the sink, and swiped her wet hand over the back of her neck, thinking maybe that might help. She shivered, grabbed his hand towel, and dried herself off.
She needed to be a lot more careful here, and everything in her knew that, and still she didn't want to be. She wanted to walk out of this bathroom, strip herself down, peel him out of his clothes, and dive right back into bed with him, staying there until the morning. They could have breakfast together like they did in Paris. And then she could bury herself in bed with him some more. She could ask him questions—about his life, his work, his family. She could tell him the truth about her work as a photographer, how in spite of how fearless she seemed, she did have so many moments out there when she was terrified. But that fear didn't mean she was losing her nerve. It just meant she was more alert. She would urge him to be more afraid, so that he could be alert… in case bastards like Eberle might try and hurt him, or his company.
Instead, she pushed out of the bathroom and found him fixing the collar of his button-up, squinting to try to see it at the difficult angle. She let herself muse on how cute he was and she closed the distance to fix the collar for him.
"Thank you," he breathed warmly.
"You're welcome."
She smoothed her hand down his shirt, taking another deep breath. "I've gotta find my shoes, grab my camera, and get home before my curfew," she teased.
Sarah recognized the look in his face because she wanted it, too. She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay so badly it hurt. But he didn't ask, perhaps recognizing that she was tentative. Maybe he thought he'd ask and she'd say no.
She might say no.
In fact, she was sure she would.
Unless he used those magnificent lips of his, then perhaps she'd be powerless.
Instead, Chuck nodded. And she took his hand, leading him out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He stood to the side as she put her shoes on, gathering herself, picking up her camera. But then he finally stopped her, curling a hand around her shoulder and stepping in close.
"Let me take you home."
She turned to look up into his face, the sincerity, the need. It was a different kind of need this time. She didn't think sex had much to do with it. It made nerves run through her. Because she felt it, too.
"What, you got a driver on call somewhere?" she teased, because sincerity was a little scary right now.
She felt…vulnerable.
"No," he said, a small smile on his lips. "I have a car, though. And I'd like to drive you home. All this talk about knives and how you can protect yourself aside, the thought of you out there walking around at night… Well, I'd like to make sure you get home safe, that's all. I hope I'm not overstepping or…"
"You aren't," she said, cutting him off eagerly. She wasn't keen on him thinking she didn't want him to care about her safety. That was a different thing altogether. "And…well…okay." She shrugged one shoulder shyly.
His smile made her potential slip worth it.
"Okay. Good. Thank you. L-Let me…erm, let me get my shoes."
And she watched him dash off to do that, disappearing down the hall, leaving her standing there in her jacket, with her camera hanging around her neck, biting her lip, unsure of whether she was just overreacting. Burned as she was by her last relationship, on top of the numerous secrets she was harboring, and then there was all of the unwanted attention this bond would bring.
She'd come to terms with that at least. This wouldn't affect her career, she refused to let it. But would her career affect this? That remained to be seen.
Chuck came back with his sports jacket on, shoes adorning his feet, and a hat in hand. "Shall we?" He stalled, then held out a large coat. "I'm not sure if what you have on is warm enough so I, um—You-You can use this. If you'd like to."
"Oh." She glanced out the nearest window. "The sun was still out when I got here, wasn't it?" She took in his kind face, the lift at the edges of his mouth, and her traitorous brain reminded her of all of the places on her body where she'd felt those lips not so long ago. She cleared her throat and turned so that he could help her shrug the coat on. "Thank you. I suppose I didn't plan to be here for so long."
She felt those lips against her cheek now as he pulled the coat closed around her front, his arms strong as they hugged her close to his chest. "Any regrets?"
Sarah smirked, then turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes steadily. "None."
That wasn't true. She had so many.
But the time she'd just spent with him wasn't one of them.
They left his condo behind, Chuck locking his door behind him, and at some point during the journey to his car in the basement parking lot below, her hand fell into his. Had she taken his, or had he taken hers? She didn't know.
Their fingers were intertwined nevertheless, and his hand was warm and felt so good around hers.
It was cold. The sun went down and the chill set in over the city.
Sarah raised an eyebrow as she took in his pristine Bentley. "Nice car…"
"Thanks. I usually take one that's a little less, erm…flashy. But you're a special passenger, so you get a special car." He winked as he held the passenger door open for her. He reached around to offer his hand and she couldn't help grinning at him, taking it and letting him help her inside. She pulled the too large coat out of the way so that he could shut the door, her jerk of a brain continuing its misbehavior by letting the fact that Chuck Bartowski called her "special" ring in her ears as he trotted around to the driver's side, diving in behind the wheel.
It was the same sort of line she'd heard before, hadn't she? From enough men. Men whose cars she'd climbed into for dinner or whatever else. Some of them had nice cars, maybe not as nice as this one, but nice enough. She'd been looked at, smiled at, in ways that made her aware of her own beauty.
And here was this man with a lot of money, a sleek, beautiful car, a condo that looked like it was straight out of a movie—the nicest condo she'd been to that she wasn't being paid to take pictures in. His existence was flashy, he owned flashy things, things he'd paid a lot of money for. She found herself wondering if all of this was somehow circumventing her usual good sense. Was she falling prey to the same things she, Carina, and Zondra constantly talked about never falling prey to? Carina joked she went into romances with men like that with her eyes wide open.
Because where lines like that fell flat from the lips of so many men, when it came from Chuck Bartowski's mouth, it made her insides buzz. He had more money, more power and prestige, than anyone she'd met or spent any amount of time with. Was she not as immune to those things as she'd always thought?
Or…was it just him?
She subtly cast her gaze to the side, watching him guide his glamorous car out of the garage and onto the street, the streetlights playing with the shadows on his face. He began to nibble on his bottom lip thoughtfully. She wondered what was going through his head. Was he looking for a way to fill the silence in the car?
How did she let him know she didn't need him to do that?
She leaned against the door to her right and looked out at the late night streets of Los Angeles, and when the turn came up, she pointed with a quiet, "Left."
"Oh, right. Thanks. I-I mean, correct right. Not right right, as in directionally speaking." He made an agonized face as he turned left.
"I knew what you meant," she said with a short giggle, reaching over to squeeze his arm reassuringly. "Right again in two blocks."
"Sure, sure," he breathed with a nod. "Say, how'd, uh, how'd you get over to my part of town, anyway?"
"Streetcars," she said with a shrug.
"Oh! Of course." He cleared his throat. "You know, the streetcar used to be my number one mode of getting around. Before I could, um, afford a car."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. "I own a car," she informed him, unable to keep the dryness from her tone.
"Oh." He cleared his throat again. "Sorry. N-No, I know you do. I mean, that's not a surprise or anything."
"I'm not that poor."
"No, of course not. I didn't mean to insinuate—" He caught the look on her face and she thought he was most likely blushing as he ducked his head, turning as she pointed again. "Ah yes. You're teasing me. I am sorry if I came off like an ass with a lot of money."
"You didn't," she giggled, pointing again to guide him towards her apartment building. "I take the streetcar because it's more convenient sometimes, depending on where I need to be, parking around my place being what it is… But I can't snap photos while I'm driving." She picked up her camera and wiggled it. "I can if I'm on a streetcar. Got some good ones on the way to your neighborhood."
He smiled. "Good point. I'm a little embarrassed to say it's been a while since I've taken a streetcar."
"You don't need to. You have a car like this. And a driver."
He shrugged. "Still, it's almost like I've…moved away from my roots or something."
Sarah kept quiet outside of telling him where to turn. She didn't know Chuck Bartowski's story. But she did remember what he'd said that night in Paris, how when he was a boy, he'd steal a ride to the theater when he couldn't afford the fare for the ride and the movie together. It told her that he hadn't come from a lot of money, and while she was sure he couldn't possibly have a deadbeat con artist for a parent, things likely weren't easy for him. And if those were his so-called roots, why the hell go back to them when he didn't have to?
She didn't say it, though, not wanting to offend him or make him think she was criticizing him again. She didn't get a say in how he lived his life, or the rules he lived by. Specifically not when she did what she did, helping criminals commit their crimes for a little extra skin here and there.
"Is this it?"
Sarah looked up at her building at the end of the block. "Yes, that one there. The brick building at the end."
"Ah. It's very nice."
She snorted and gave him a look. "You're very sweet but you don't have to say that. It's just barely better than a dump, but it's…home." She shrugged.
Miraculously, Chuck was able to find a nice little spot against the curb to sneak into, and then they sat there together with the car rumbling around them, silent.
He finally turned it off.
There were likely expectations, and damn it, she hadn't thought of it until now. He'd driven her home, she'd allowed him to drive her home, and now he would want to come up, see her apartment. She knew he wanted to get to know her better, and God, didn't she want to know more about him? She wanted to know everything about him. She couldn't blame him at all if he expected to come up.
But he couldn't, and it was that simple.
She still had photos hanging in her makeshift dark room. She hadn't taken the time to take them down before going out on her afternoon excursion. If he caught sight of any of those, he'd know that she'd been looking into Eberle's operation. He wouldn't exactly know it was Eberle, or who Eberle even was if he saw the name, but it was much too close for comfort.
He needed to stay in this car and drive away.
As much as she hated the prospect of walking away from him, spending the rest of the night in her own place, alone.
"Thank you for driving me home," she said suddenly, interrupting the silence, and she heard how much finality there was in it. There was no way he missed the implication: that the night was over.
Chuck gave her a long look, and she thought she spotted her meaning dawn in his face for a moment. He nodded slightly, casting his gaze to the side. "Of course. Always. Anytime."
She smiled at him, and she was almost certain the buzz inside of her wasn't the money, the power, or the prestige. He was kind of wonderful, wasn't he?
Leaning in close, she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, a slow kiss, lingering. She inched back, meeting his gaze, and breathed, "Good night."
His Adam's apple bobbed, and before she could pull all the way back and get out of the car, he framed her jaw with gentle fingers and kissed her solidly on the lips. They stayed there for a long time.
When he finally broke the kiss, she felt him smiling against her lips, his nose nuzzling hers. The kiss had skewed his had a bit on his head, so she reached up to fix it. "Now goodnight."
He chuckled. "G'night."
She realized she was still in his coat, so she tried to shrug it off, but he stopped her, his hand wrapping around her shoulder to keep the coat covering it. "I'm giving you back your coat…"
"Keep it for the walk to your door." She opened her mouth to argue but he shook his head and cut her off. "Please. I insist."
Sarah narrowed her eyes at him, dubious as she opened up the door and turned to ease both legs out, feet on the sidewalk. "Mhm. And now you'll orchestrate some way to see me in order to get this coat back, won'tcha?"
Chuck laughed. "I hadn't thought of that. That's a great idea. Please keep the coat. I'll orchestrate some way to see you in order to get it back."
She laughed with him, squeezed his hand one last time, and swung herself out of his Bentley onto the curb, standing to her full height before turning and stooping to look into the car at him. "Thank you again, Chuck. I had a fantastic night."
"So did I," he said so readily, sincerely, warmly, that she straightened up, shut the door, and practically floated up the front steps of her building, key already in hand.
}o{
Six hours earlier
She pulled the wide-brimmed hat lower over her forehead, doing her best to cover where the mask and wig overlapped, in case the putty she'd used to eliminate seams was deteriorating. She poked at the fake mustache as well, making sure that was still sticking.
She'd done a rushed binding job this time and her breasts were absolutely aching, but she'd disguised her chest, and the pillow from her bed taped around her midsection added some extra padding that helped disguise it too.
Tucking the briefcase under her arm, she pulled open the door to the six-level business building, its plain brick facade hiding whatever was going on in the offices inside.
Offices that included those of John Casey, ex-military man, and his security firm.
She found them on the directory and immediately ducked into the stairwell, avoiding the elevator. She didn't want to be noticed or seen, not by anyone, not even for the length of an elevator ride.
And so she walked up to the fourth floor, eased open the door, and slipped into the hallway, walking the way a man who was older than she was and with extra weight in the middle might walk. She ducked her head a bit as two men in dark suits and long coats strode past, making sure they took it as a greeting rather than an attempt to hide her face.
Shouldering her way into the door that read Casey & Associates, Private Security on the fogged glass window, she glanced around the place. There were a few desks, but no one sat at most of them. Instead, she found a woman peering up at her from behind a name plaque that read Mrs. Phelps.
"Yessir? May I help you?"
"I'd like to leave this with you. Mr. Casey's gonna want to take a look at it," she said, lowering her voice, putting a scratch in her voice to try to disguise it. Sarah set the briefcase on the nearest desk, held up a hand to wave, and turned on her heel to leave.
She heard a door pop open, footsteps…
"Wait just a tick."
Uh oh.
"Sir?" she asked over her shoulder.
"You just set a briefcase like that on one of our desks and hightail it outta here?" the man who'd stepped out of the office asked, pointing at the briefcase. Sarah knew from Carina's research that this was John Casey. The boss. The man Chuck had hired for security.
"Nothin' personal," she said jauntily, facing him a bit better with a shrug. "I's got paid to leave it here, that's all. Got anotha job ta get ta."
"Someone paid you to leave that here…" Casey's eyes went wide. "Ain't a bomb issit?" He made a dash for it as Mrs. Phelps gasped, going white as a sheet.
"No!" she snapped, thankfully remembering the disguise to her voice. "They said it was pict-chas. Ya know… photographs."
"Of what?"
"Dunno. I was paid extra not ta look."
Casey opened the briefcase then, before she could make a run for it, and his jaw nearly dropped onto the desk. "Hey. Don't you move."
She froze. Shit, she really should've planned this better. She should've made sure to show up here when the boss was gone on a job, at Chuck's store, anything that meant not meeting the man himself.
"Who gave you these?" he demanded to know.
Sarah shrugged. "I dunno. Fella stops me on the street, says he'll give me cash if I take this to John Casey at this buildin'…so I says, a'rright, but cash up front. What do ya know, he agrees, slaps it right here." She slapped her own palm. "Then he gives me that briefcase an' off I go."
"What'd he look like?"
"Er…" She shifted her weight. "Taller 'n me. Shorter n' you. No wait. Shorter n' me. Shoes had thick heels."
"Aw Jesus. You get any sort of name from the guy?"
She shook her head wordlessly.
"Lotta help you are." He growled in frustration, going through the photographs. "A'rright, you can get outta here."
As she took hurried steps out of the office, she heard, "Well, slap my Aunt Zelda. Norma! I know it's her day off, but get V on the line and get 'er in here. Now."
}o{
He shifted his sleeve out of his way to read the time. He still had an hour until his appointment but he was also slightly worried he might be late if he didn't get a move on here.
There were just way too many options.
What he really needed was a professional, not a salesman. He knew salesmen well enough; his best friend sold his television sets better than anyone in the world. He didn't need that. He needed someone who knew the product backwards and forwards, who used it for their career, and who didn't care whether a big sale was made or not.
He needed Sarah Walker.
But he hadn't seen her in three days.
"…and it has a shutter speed of 1/10 to 1/300. Right here, see that at the top? Sturdy hot shoe if you want to do shoots with models, hehhh?"
Chuck shook himself a bit, looking down at the camera the salesman was showing him. "And, erm, what's this one called?"
"Argus C-Four. It's nice and lightweight, see? Hold it."
Chuck did. "Oh. Yeah. Mhm."
"Viewfinder's coupled rangefinder and shutter—"
"Sounds great. I'll take it. I can…take pictures with it, right? I put the film in, point it, and press this button." He touched the button. "And this is to play with the focus. This dial thing here, right?"
"Erm…yes."
"Great. Thanks. You've made a sale today…" He looked at the man's name tag. "…Bob."
"Oh. Sure, do you want the accessories? Carrier case and the—"
"Throw those in too, yes. Thanks. And I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude…it's only, I have an appointment… You sell film, too, don'tcha?"
Within ten minutes, he was out of the door, not quite sure what he'd just done. But he hadn't been able to wipe that conversation about taking streetcars and buses, being able to take pictures along the way which couldn't be done if you were behind the wheel of your car…and the image he had of Sarah with her camera, specifically with the camera up by her eye as she took photos of the things she saw from the window, that smile of hers she got when she didn't think anyone was watching.
He'd seen it a few times now… Well, perhaps only once, twice at the most. But it existed and it was impossibly lovely. She was impossibly lovely, so there was nothing new there.
Chuck walked out onto the sidewalk and fixed his hat on his head, looking down at the camera in his hands, the carrying bag he bought slung over his shoulders. He'd had the salesman show him how to load the thing with the film, and now he was ready to go.
Lifting the camera, he looked at the approaching streetcar through the…viewfinder? Sure. Sounded like that's what that was. He remembered the tips Sarah'd given him in the hotel in Paris, he really did. Only it was a little hazy because she'd also been standing so close to him, her breath making his hair near his ear flutter as she spoke, her touch as she slid her hands over his on her camera…
He got the streetcar in focus as it approached, then pressed the button to take the photo, hearing the satisfying click and whir sound.
But then the streetcar seemed to be ambling past without actually stopping and he froze, lowering the camera. "Oh. Oh, damn it. Damn! Hey! Wait! I'm-I'm getting on!" he yelled as he dashed into the street, holding up one hand and shoving his new camera into the bag. "Please!"
The street car slid to a halt and relief flooded him as he rushed up to it and hopped up onto the step as the doors opened. "Hi. Hi, thank you," he called out towards the driver. "I'm good. I'm good." He glanced at the perplexed teenaged boy sitting nearby and muttered so only he could hear, "This is the S-Line…?" The teen nodded. "Oh, thank God."
He moved to hand over his fare for the ride and walked along the aisle to sit towards the back of the streetcar, plopping down right as the streetcar took off. It had been years since he'd done this. Sitting in the seat of a streetcar, or even a train or a bus. Headed somewhere. Paying the fare.
He must've been nineteen or maybe even younger, because with the pay Roark forked over to his interns, he'd bought a car first thing. He couldn't help it; he'd always dreamed of it. Having his own car. Sure, his first one was a second-hand pre-war Ford Super DeLuxe but when Bartowski Electric slipped into the green, he immediately traded it out for bigger…better.
Sitting on a streetcar, waiting for stops, being around other people…it hadn't seemed necessary anymore once he'd gotten a car. And now here he was, twenty-six and back in the strangely stiff seat at the back of a streetcar.
It was…sorta fun.
And he grinned out the window at the sights of the early evening streets of Los Angeles, cars whizzing past, stopping at lights, buzzing away as they waited, kids chasing each other along the sidewalks, tall women walking long-legged dogs, short men walking little stout dogs. The kid yelling headlines at the top of the newspapers they were selling on the corner. On other corners, women selling hotdogs, some selling what looked like tamales.
He took his camera out, Sarah's admission about why she took the streetcar sometimes even if she did own a car trapped in his head, and he pointed it out of his window as the streetcar stopped at a light.
A man was standing at the crosswalk, an off-white hat on his head that matched the shirt he wore under a dark-grey plaid sports jacket. He was lighting one of the biggest pipes Chuck had ever seen. He snapped a photo of the guy right as the light changed. He wasn't sure if he got it.
In fact, as he took pictures from the moving vehicle, he didn't know if anything he took was even remotely in focus. It didn't matter. He was seeing his home in a new light.
He was terrible at this photography thing, but he understood why Sarah dove into it so completely. Why it guided her whole life's trajectory. Why everything revolved around it. Maybe it helped her see the world in different ways.
That was rather incredible.
He didn't have the time for a hobby like this…not really. And he hadn't the talent. But it was fun to play with it as he heard the stop near South Central where he was supposed to get off called towards the back of the streetcar. "Oh. Me! That's me!" He clambered up from the seat, shoving the camera in his bag, and he rushed to the doors as the car stopped. "Thanks! Have a nice night!" he called back towards the front, jogging down the steps and hopping down onto the street, hurrying carefully through the road the rest of the way to the sidewalk and hopping up onto that as well, safe from oncoming traffic.
Chuck peered up at the tall brick building, zipped up the camera bag, and checked his watch again.
Damn, that was so much quicker than he thought it'd be. And now he had fifteen minutes to spare.
He was too intrigued not to go right up anyway, and he hurried in, looking at the directory on the wall just to make sure he remembered right, and he stepped into the elevator, headed for the fourth floor.
The electrics mogul looked down at the bag, the large Argus C-Four tag on it, and he muttered, "Argus C-Four", then shook his head, snorting. He'd have to ask Sarah if he completely screwed the pooch with this one. Was it a bad camera? Had the guy just unloaded their worst camera in the place on him, a product they were having a terrible time trying to sell? He'd walked in and they'd most likely pegged him for a sap, easy, right off the bat.
Damn.
He'd talk to Sarah about it. And she'd make fun of him probably. That was fine. As long as he was sharing the same space with her again.
Maybe someday, a frustrated voice in his head droned.
He missed her and he felt as though his connection to her was perhaps a bit too deep for how incredibly new this acquaintance was. Oh God, he'd just thought of it as an acquaintance. That was bad, wasn't it? Instead of a romance? Was that some sort of subconscious awareness that she wasn't as deep into this as he was? As serious as he was?
Could he perhaps stop spiraling before he walked into this office? Because John Casey suffered no fools.
And he felt like an utter fool having thoughts like this about the acclaimed photojournalist.
He paused outside of Casey & Associates, took a deep breath, and turned the knob, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Mrs. Phelps glanced up from whatever she was typing and beamed at him. "Mister Bartowski. So nice to see you. Please come in."
"How are you, Mrs. Phelps?"
He shut the door behind him.
"Much better now that you're here." Chuck nearly smiled, but then: "Maybe now he can stop the damn pacing back and forth in the office waiting for you. It's like listening to a dinosaur stomping around in there."
The young man laughed, tugging on his suit jacket a little. "Well, you can tell Mr. Rex he can stop pacing now because I'm here." She gave him a quizzical look. "Erm…Mr. Rex, as in…T-Rex? Tyrannosaurus…Rex?"
"Oh. I see. Good one."
Well, obviously it wasn't.
Mrs. Phelps leaned forward and buzzed John Casey. "Boss, he's here."
"Finally!" Chuck heard Casey roar out of the speaker. "Been waiting all afternoon, damn it!"
Chuck cleared his throat as Mrs. Phelps blushed a little, sending him an apologetic look. "He…probably thought you'd picked up the phone to buzz him instead of using the speaker, huh? Honest mistake…"
Casey opened his office door and gave the younger man a furrowed brow and curled lip. "I knew she had it on speaker."
Chuck narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. There was nothing he could really say to that, was there?
"Get in here. We need to talk."
"You did say we were meeting at five-thirty…?" Chuck glanced at his watch again as he hurried past Mrs. Phelps's desk to follow the private security agent into his office, and saw it was just barely five-twenty.
"Sure, sure…" Casey reached around him to slam the door, the blinds rattling precariously on their frames. "Seems there are a lot of anonymous tips flying around to bring down these bastards what planned on robbing your flagship store, Mister B."
Chuck blinked. "A lot? What do you mean? There are more than just the one I had left on my desk at Bartowski Electric headquarters?" He watched the other man closely.
"Mmm. Better sit down, 'cause this is gonna make your knees rattle like a dying engine. Sit."
The CEO sat in the nearby chair, then watched as a thick file was slapped onto the desk in front of him. "What's…this?"
"Well, look, why don'tcha?"
Withholding the withering look he wanted to send the private agent, he instead flipped open the file, tilting the photograph at the top towards him so that he could look at it.
"This…" He squinted at the photograph, the lists of numbers going up and down the page. "What is this?"
"You're the fella that owns the company and you don't know the monthly sales reports from each of your store's locations?" Whistling low, the man shook his head.
"Wait, what?!" He looked closer. God, it was. He'd signed off on these. "Why did someone take a picture of it like this? This is incredibly dangerous and highly unethical."
"Nobody took a picture of your sales reports, Mr. B. They took a picture of the sales reports that were sitting on a desk in one Larry Eberle's office. That name ring a bell?"
Chuck wracked his brain. "No," he replied, shaking his head, perplexed.
"Then count yourself lucky. Guy's been pulling jobs like the one he wanted to pull on your store since he was a teenager. Only he's gotten a lot better at it since then. And he's got a whole staff on payroll, too."
Shaking his head, he looked down at the list of numbers again. "I'm confused. Why would—Oh. Oh, no. He had these?"
"He had those."
"How'd he get 'em?" Casey shrugged. "Ohhh…Oh, boy. He targeted me because he knew what kinds of sales we were getting as opposed to other companies that weren't pulling in as much. And he knew which store made the most."
"Bingo. Wait. Just a…" He went to the buzzer, picked up the receiver, and pressed a button, waiting… "V. Come in here. The kid's—Erm, Mr. Bartowski's here." He paused and then… "Right now."
Within moments, a tall brunette surged into Casey's office and shut the door behind her. "Mr. Bartowski…"
What was her name again? He'd forgotten. And calling her V felt strange. There was something in the air the last time he'd been here, asking for Casey's help protecting his flagship store. Specifically in the air between them. It was like a vibrant competition sort of air but with tension and something else that felt volatile.
It almost made him uncomfortable.
"Hi, how are you?" he muttered, deciding not to use her name at all.
"V, explain where we got these." She sent her…boss, was he? Or were they partners? Casey grunted. "'Scuse me. V—Erm, Gertrude Verbanski, this is Charles Bartowski. V runs the show here while I run it out there."
"Nice to see you, Ms. Verbanski," Chuck said with a smile.
She straightened her blazer collar, tugged at the hem a little, and smirked. "Likewise. And for the record, I run things out there, too. Most of the time."
Casey rolled his eyes. "Just tell 'im where we got these."
She straightened her spine and crossed her arms at her chest, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. "Some random fellow came into our office like a whirlwind, put a briefcase down, said it was for John here, and tried to bolt out of this place."
"What? A briefcase?" Chuck prompted.
"Mhm." She nodded. "John caught him before he could disappear again and asked what it was, where he got it, the usual questions… Someone shoved it into his hands, gave him heaps of money, and told him, A, not to look at the contents, and B, to take it here, to John."
"So he did," Casey said with a shrug.
"Do you know who gave it to him? What's all in here?"
"No, we don't know who. The description we got from the courier was…piss-poor. At best. Take a look at it. I've snatched a lot of the files out because they're…erm…not exactly pertinent to your case."
"And we need to get those to the fucking FBI," Chuck heard V mutter under her breath. Shit, seriously? The FBI?! Casey gave his partner a chastising look for it, but she merely gave it right back to him and he grunted, shifting his weight. Fascinating… Really weird…
Chuck was uncomfortable again, swallowing the lump in his throat and squirming in his chair. He went to the file and starting turning through them. "This is… Oh God. Oh my God. Plans for my store. And-and this is the locksmith I use on the locks we have on our doors. Here's the type of safe we use for the cash. And here's records of our inventory count. How—?!" He felt himself pale.
"John, get him some water," V rushed out, and the older man left, coming back a few moments later with a Dixie cup with tepid water in it. Chuck downed it in spite of it not exactly being as cold as he'd normally like it to be.
"Thanks," he rasped. "They were actually planning to hit my flagship store. They were going to steal our television set shipments, our record players…their plans are all right here. They were gonna hit the safe, too. And…oh…oh boy…" Chuck shook his head, feeling numb. "It was all real."
"They would'a done it if you hadn't acted quick on that tip and hired us, kid."
God, he was so grateful to whomever had left him that tip, but he was also glad he'd taken it seriously and hired Casey & Associates, Private Security. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you so much. Both of you. All of you. Without you all, I'd be in some serious trouble, and maybe…I don't know, maybe my people might've been hurt or worse."
Casey nodded.
"We didn't bring you here for your gratitude—" V started. Casey sent her a look again and she cleared her throat, shrinking back just slightly, uncomfortably adding, "though it is…appreciated." She snapped right back to business just as quickly. "We are bringing Eberle and his goons down. All the way down to Chinatown."
"She means fireworks. Lots of 'em," Casey added.
"You're going to have to answer some questions, no doubt. LAPD…FBI…whoever it is." Verbanski gave him a look, as if challenging him not to run out of the office, shirk himself of all of this responsibility, and hide under his bed.
"That might not be great PR for your company, you gettin' called in to talk to coppers an' feebs," Casey said with a little more tact. The beefy fellow sat on the desk and crossed his arms. "So we wanted to run it by you first."
"Do it. Turn it all in. I'll talk to whoever…whatever. Take down the bad guys!"
V almost looked amused as Casey blinked. "Oh…hm…that was easy," he muttered to the woman standing next to him.
"My company's image will be perfectly fine. It'll survive. No one cares so long as their TVs aren't so expensive and they work with the colors looking all…colorful." He shook himself. "None of that matters, though. This guy meant to harm my people, take from them. I'm not letting that stand. If I can help ruin his day, then sign me the hell up." He looked down at the file, thumbing through the pictures again. "Where'd all this come from? This evidence, I mean."
"Best guess we've got is someone who was likely a part of the outfit, or at the very least knew how they operated, and where, broke into their headquarters, snapped all these photos of every piece of evidence they could get their hands on, and decided we were a good place to send it." Casey sucked air in through his teeth, making a quiet squeaking sound. "Whether they know about you and care what happens to you or not, this person's a little like your guardian angel. This is why I called you a few days ago and told ya we're taking a new job."
"Is this the new job?" Chuck asked.
"No. We can multitask. Turning in files to the FBI doesn't take our whole firm." V gave him a look like he was the stupidest person she'd ever seen in her life and he cleared his throat, pursing his lips.
"So you're in? We can give 'em your contact info?" Casey continued.
"Yes. Do it. Definitely."
They both nodded. Casey cleared his throat. "And V here has agreed to show you how better to safeguard your, uh, assets. So bastards like this can't get access to it all quite so easily."
He blushed a bit as she sent him another smirk. "I appreciate that. And I'm more than happy to pay extra on top of the fee for showing me that if you'll throw in a lesson on how to keep criminals from stealing our inventory files."
"Done."
Chuck stared down at the photographs, photographs a guardian angel had taken. This guy who'd planned a heist on B.E. was in deep shit, and so were the men who worked for him. The evidence was all here, and V had muttered something about other files, meaning there was even more evidence of unrelated crimes. Crimes that would get the FBI involved.
Adrenaline spiked in his chest.
There was a buzz in the air.
This was a fascinating turn of events.
A/N: Sarah Walker, master of disguise. Hahahaha! Also, there was no way I was going to leave out the extremely weird thing Casey and Verbanski have that's unsettled and uncomfortable for everyone around them. More coming soon. Thanks for reading and if you can review, I would appreciate it a lot!
-SC