Title: Not Your Traditional Thanksgiving

Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sara/Warrick

Feedback: Makes my day

Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/csi/csific.htm) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

Summary: How Warrick spent his Thanksgiving

Author's Notes: Please bear in mind that this fic is what happens when an Irish fan, who's never celebrated Thanksgiving in her life, stays up until one in the morning looking at the American football double-header, and reading CSI fic during the commercial breaks. Any grievous errors can be blamed on either my nationality, time difference, or sleep deprivation!

***

It hasn't been your traditional Thanksgiving, certainly not one of which Grams would have approved. That woman could have represented her country when it came to cooking a dinner, and Thanksgiving, Christmas, holidays like that, they were her favourites. She would spend the day before preparing the vegetables, the turkey, making sure that everything was just so, and on the morning in question, you'd be woken up while it was still dark outside to the sounds of her clanking around the kitchen. You'd turn around, go back to sleep, and when you finally got up a few hours later, the house would be filled with the smells of cooking food, and you'd forgo breakfast in order to leave plenty of room for dinner and dessert. You'd do your best, but she'd always have enough food to feed the proverbial five thousand, and no matter what, there were always enough leftovers to keep you both in lunches and pickup suppers for most of the next fortnight.

That was your traditional Thanksgiving, but this isn't. You haven't had one of those in a while, not since Grams died.

For starters, you spent most of today in bed.

Not that there's anything unusual in that. Thanksgiving or no, working the graveyard shift means that you spend much of most days in bed, unless you're working overtime, and when that's the case, you'd much rather be in bed. The last few Thanksgivings, you've slept through most of the day, no traditional dinner with all the trimmings, no sitting in front of the football, hoping that the Cowboys will lose, if only so you don't have to listen to Nick crowing about their win.

You did spend most of today in bed though, and what's unusual about this compared to previous Thanksgivings is that you weren't alone. She came home with you from the lab today, like she's been doing a lot lately, and you were so tired that you didn't even care if you attracted second and third glances from the people who were around. She didn't care either, just got into your car, closed her eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Home James."

You did as you were told, and you woke her up when you got to your place, almost having to carry her up to your bedroom. It's true that the woman doesn't sleep much, but when she gets tired, it'd take a bomb going off to wake her up. She padded across the floor to the bed, stripping her clothes off as she went, not bothering to hang them up, just dropping them on the floor as she went before slipping under the covers. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, and on other nights like this, you might have picked up her clothes, at least put them in a pile, but not today. Today you did exactly the same thing as she did, leaving your clothes scattered around the floor before climbing in beside her, wrapping your body around hers. Asleep she might have been, but even then she still pressed against you, snuggling closer to you, and you were asleep in seconds.

For all her tiredness though, she still was awake before you; in fact, she woke you up, planting kisses along your neck and chest, and you have to admit that you didn't mind that in the least. You made love slowly, the perfect start to the day, and afterwards you lay there quietly, talking about Thanksgiving, the traditions that you'd both grown up with. It's not often that you get a chance to share memories like that, even less often that she's willing to, so you enjoyed it while you had the chance, savouring every moment.

When all that talk of food made you both hungry, you dialled up the Chinese place around the corner, ordering dinner for two, rising reluctantly to pull on some clothes, a T-shirt and sweats, and go downstairs to wait for the delivery. You looked back at her and she was flopped back down on her side on the bed, covers pulled up under her chin, eyes closed, and you fought back a smile, knowing that it was going to be a while before you saw her again. You busied yourself in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee, because she was going to need it, no question about it, pouring also two glasses of orange juice, downing one yourself, leaving the other on the table for her.

The first football game was already well under way by then you knew, and you turned it on in the living room, noting the score with no real interest, and when the doorbell rang, you got the food, paying the guy and bringing it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table. Grabbing her glass of orange juice, you brought it upstairs to her, putting it down on the bedside locker, sitting on the bed beside her, waking her up the same way she'd woken you up, by pressing a kiss to her exposed shoulder. She wasn't in a deep sleep, lucky for you, just dozing, and she stirred easily, a sleepy smile coming to her lips. "Food's here," you told her, and she nodded once.

"I'll be down in a minute," she promised, and you made to rise, pointing out the juice on the locker, but she wasn't going to let you away with that, smile becoming more sassy than sleepy, her hand gripping your wrist. "Hey," she said, giving your arm a tug, and you took the hint, bringing your lips to hers.

It wasn't a long kiss, in fact, it was fairly chaste by your standards, and you left her to come to on her own, going down to the kitchen and piling the food on plates. You heard her coming down the stairs, but you didn't turn to look at her, so the first you saw of her was when she stood beside the couch, squinting over at the television, checking the score of the match. You looked up at her then, and your breath caught in your throat, because she was wearing the blue shirt that you'd thrown on the floor when you got home, the hem just barely coming to mid-thigh, and suddenly, the last thing on your mind was food or football. When she realised that the Patriots were winning, and doing so easily, she did a little victory dance, which lead you to tease her about how a good California girl shouldn't be rooting for a team from New England. She just turned and stared you down, pointing out that she spent four years studying in Boston, and while she hadn't known a thing about football before she went there, that she'd learned, and learned fast. You just shook your head, told her to sit down and eat something, that she was blocking the television, and you tried not to notice, when she sat down beside you, legs curled up underneath her, how the shirt rode up slightly, not helping your concentration any. She reached hungrily for the plates of food, asking how much she owed you for it, and when you told her that it didn't matter, she arched an eyebrow, saying that she'd pay you later. You didn't say anything, just reached for the kung pao chicken, because she says that every time, but you never let her pay, no matter how many accusations of male chauvinist piggery she throws at you. In fact, it's almost worth the insults just to see her get all riled up like that.

You drank coffee and ate the food, and when the plates were empty, you curled up on the couch together, watching the remainder of the game, and you chose not to point out how interested she must have been, considering her eyes were closed against your chest for much of it. She revived momentarily when Bon Jovi came on for the half-time show, but slept for much of the second half, only waking when you shifted slightly, trying to move her without waking her before the Dallas game came on. On realising that the Patriots had won, she muttered something about hoping that Dallas lost, if only so that she could never let Nick forget about it, and you didn't even try to stifle your laugh.

You returned to the couch after stacking the dishwasher, taking her in your arms again, and despite the fact that you both wanted to be able to tease Nick about the game, once you were there like that, there were far more interesting things to do than watch it. She put up no resistance, her hands just as busy as yours, and you lost track of time after that. You lost track of time so much that when you looked up again, you realised that it was past time that you both should be getting ready for the shift, and you had to get ready in a hurry, forcing yourselves to share a shower, dressing with no real thought after once again losing track of time and it was only when you were at the front door, one hand on the handle that you stopped and turned to her.

She stared up at you, blinking in surprise, then in worry when she saw the look on your face. "You ok?" she asked you, and you nodded.

"It's Thanksgiving," was all you said, and a line appeared between her brows as she stared at you.

"I know…remember, football, lack of turkey, doubtless soon to be rectified by Catherine?"

You smiled, one hand reaching up to tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear. "Just remembering what I'm thankful for," you said, and her curious face softened into a smile, and you pulled her closer to you, pressing your lips to her forehead. "Happy Thanksgiving Sara," you whispered as her arms went around your waist, and you felt, rather than saw, her smile.

"Happy Thanksgiving Warrick," came her muffled reply.

You held her, thinking about Thanksgiving, thinking about Grams and the hours of work she'd put in, thinking about all the things that they told you a traditional Thanksgiving should be. And you realise that this wasn't a traditional Thanksgiving, not even close, but you wouldn't have it any other way.