Commitment

…

Prelude to 'Transitions.' NickSara.

…

"I remember everything about conceiving Andy. The score of the game on the TV, the cases we worked earlier that day, which tee shirt Nick had been wearing. I remember his exact words in my ear, the flavor toothpaste his kisses tasted like, which lamp had been left on in the living room, that we could make out the shadow of the light from under the door."

Sara took a deep breath as her voice hitched, and Jillian's heart broke as Sara tried desperately to hold herself together.

"We weren't thinking. Or trying. We had been working this heinous hate crime. He looked so broken hearted, like his faith in humanity had been lost, like he had just realized that there might not be such a thing as love anymore, only lesser degrees of hate, until you reached indifference."

She took another sip, letting the warm liquid wash over her tongue and down her throat.

"We're scientists. Sometimes the only way to find comfort in such an abstract concept is to find comfort in its physical manifestation."

They'd become zombies.

Souless, emotionless mechanical robots, void of human qualities, droning on and processing the evidence they continually discovered each time they arrived at a fresh scene. They had to. If they didn't disassociate, they were going to burn out.

It was the worst brand of crime scene… the brutal beating and stabbing of the WLVU soccer-star-turned-field-goal-kicker for the university's football team. Not only had it been Owen Jacobs' first season on the football team, but it was also Owen Jacobs' first season out of the closet. Doc Robbins hadn't seen such a mixture of both sharp and blunt force trauma in his many years in the Coroner's Office.

He'd be lying if he said it didn't affect him; the sheer brutality of the act was enough to make anyone with less than 10 years of experience sick for days, and even Sara, Greg, and himself, with hardened stomachs to such atrocities were profoundly affected. Greg had cringed through the autopsy, compassion for their victim written across his features, while Sara had mostly retained her professionalism, only to grasp his fingers tightly as they made their way back from the morgue. And he was still fighting off the nausea. In the sweltering heat of a desert July, all he wanted to do was go home and enjoy the Nevada summer with his five year old, before she spent the majority of her days in a kindergarten classroom in the elementary school at the end of their street.

He should be pushing his daughter on the swing set in their backyard. He should be teaching her the fine art of the curveball, walking down the glittery strip once or twice with her on his shoulders, so she could tell him stories about the bright lights and the happy people. He should be showing her how to make ice cream by kicking around cream and sugar and ice in a coffee can.

No, that was not his July. His sister had picked up Lauren three days ago, driving up from El Paso with a bright smile and a friendly promise to teach Lauren how to groom a horse. He should be doing that, not staring at the thirteenth planted hair sample, wishing for the simplicity of a B&E. He ran his hand through his espresso hair, cringing that it was a few inches longer than he liked it. He should be getting a haircut.

He should be doing a lot of things.

Sometimes, he hated this job.

He should be clocking out at the end of his shift. Should have showered in his house instead of in the smells-of-feet-no-water-pressure locker room. Should have kissed his girlfriend today. Yesterday.

He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed Sara. Told her he loved her. Seen her smile. The amused grin that had taken up residence on her features had dissolved into a determined, depressive grimace as soon as the call had come in, moments after his oldest sister, Justine, had packed his little girl into her car, and putted away down the street. He and Sara were left by themselves to be the workaholic slaves of the county they were in their old life, the one where he could only dream of curling up to her each night.

He took a deep breath, leaning his hip against the cool metal of the layout table, tossing his ALS glasses off his nose, and rubbing tiredly at his eyes. The practice jersey and dirty sweats Owen Jacobs was wearing when he died weren't going to tell him anything other than what was already running through DNA. He threw the ALS equipment down as well, wincing as it bounced heavily on the illuminated surface of the table. All he wanted to do was kiss his girlfriend, hug his little girl.

"Hey. Fingerprint on the hammer was a bust. Nothing in CODIS, but Jacqui only salvaged a partial." Greg walked in, his attention caught by the documentation in his hands.

"Fantastic." Nick leaned heavily on the layout table, his eyes squinted in concentration. "This is horrible."

"Yeah. Grissom says we all need to go home and get some sleep. Everything's on a rush, but it'll be another 15 hours before any results come through." Greg frowned, rubbing at his eye and taking in the sight of his friend with a concerned expression, speaking quietly. "Sara's asleep on the couch in the break room."

"I should get her home." The older man sighed, sifting a hand through his espresso hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

"I'll take these back to the drying room. Go home." Nodding a weary thanks to Greg, and shuffling out of the layout room; making his way down the hallway to the break room to collect his wife. Girlfriend. The thought of the tiny velvet box stowed carefully away under a collection of underwear and socks made him smile faintly, for the first time in days. He'd never admit it to her, but his dreams were riddled with a silver band shining dully on his left hand, matching hers.

He had laid awake, long after she drifted off to sleep, letting thoughts of daisies and wedding rings and a white dress that blows gently in the breeze captivate his imagination for the entirety of their relationship. They'd never discussed it, however. He was battling his irrational fear of gambling the life they had, and losing everything, despite the fierce support and plentitude of encouragement he had received from the trusted members of his team.

He should have smiled, upon rounding the corner and letting his gaze fall upon his wife. Girlfriend. His girlfriend, all curled up on one side of the ratty couch, an open file under her arm, DNA results from the razor they had found embedded in the victims wrists spilt out onto the floor. He was simply too tired, however.

"Sara." He called softly, smirking as she stirred only just. "Sara, darlin' time to go home." His eyes crinkled softly as the smile came, softly and small, as Sara groaned.

"Waitin' for Trace." He just made out the mumble, kneeling down to press a delicate kiss to her hair.

"Trace is backed up, darlin' if you're gonna stick it out you're gonna be here for another shift at least. Come home with me." His smile broadened slowly as she twisted tiredly onto her back, arching an eyebrow at him. "C'mon." He straightened, holding out a hand to her, pulling her gently to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist and hugging her body to his. Sara laid an arm around the breadth of his shoulders her fingers going to the nape of his neck as he buried his face in her shoulder.

"I missed you." She spoke softly, smiling as she felt him chuckle against her, tightening his grip, placing a delicate kiss on her shoulder before pulling away and catching her lips.

"Home?"

"Okay." She stepped out of his arms, holding her hand out for him, and flashing him the best reassuring smile she could muster, failing miserably to be convincing. They made their way dejectedly down the corridor, trudging the short distance hand in hand. Nick paused at the locker room door, holding it open as Sara slipped in before him, his hand moving to the small of her back for only a moment before they broke away from each other in favor of their lockers on opposite sides of the bench in the center of the locker bay.

The locker room, and the adjoining collection of shower stalls were silent; with the exception of the rummaging and shuffling Nick and Sara were conducting, and the hollow, rhythmic drip from the loose showerhead at the end of the row. She quickly gathered her jacket and her keys, unclipping her service weapon and her holster before placing both in her handbag and kicking shut the thin metallic door with a clank that echoed dully through the room. Sara slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and leaned back against the locker bay, watching the muscles in Nick's back flex and constrict beneath the faded black of his tee shirt as he fumbled through the back of his locker, extracting his well loved gray jacket, turning toward her with a forced smile as he pulled at the zipper.

"We aren't going to make any headway without fresh eyes, love. We owe that much to the Jacobs family." He watched her nod reluctantly, leading her out to the parking lot silently.

The drive home was quiet, mumblings of the Dodgers/ Astros game coming in at a grainy frequency that lapsed into static freely, causing the score of the last inning to be announced in a staccato manner not unlike Morse code. As Nick pulled the Denali into their driveway, he paused a moment, making out, finally, that his team had succumbed to Los Angeles by three runs. Sara climbed out of the truck as the engine died, awkwardly shuffling through her keys for a handful of moments before sliding in the house key and nudging the front door open with her hip. He followed her in, turning on the dregs of the game in the living room out of habit, too weary, too troubled to deviate from his routine.

It already hurt enough to be so far away from his baby girl.

He watched Sara make her way to the kitchen, standing disinterestedly on their tile floor before sighing unenthusiastically at the idle stove, and circling back out into the cozy living room. Nick flopped down on the couch, scrubbing at his eye as she crossed the room, folding her legs gracefully under her in his ratty old armchair, leaning over and smacking the play button on the answering machine. The mechanical voice declared that they had one message. Nick let his attention drift to his girlfriend as the message clicked on, and Lauren's voice filled their home.

"Hi Mumma, hi Daddy! I miss you! I'm having lotsa fun with Auntie Justine and Rusty-The-Horse. G'luck catching the bad guys, I love you!"

Nick smiled softly as he leaned forward on his knees, listening as the phone obviously changed hands, and Justine's voice swelled in volume as his daughter handed his sister the phone, Justine Stokes' voice coming in clearly seconds later. "Hey guys, hope all is going well. I'll bring Lauren up to Vegas on Thursday, if that's alright. See you then." The sound of Justine ending the call was immediately followed by the alarming beep signaling the end of the message. A dozen or so moments passed in silence, and finally, Nick sat back, breaking it.

"Good to hear her voice." He mumbled, and Sara nodded, climbing out of the armchair and making her way to the stairs. She paused beside him, leaning down and cupping his jaw in her hands, pressing a loving kiss to his lips, as affectionate as she could muster.

"I'm going to grab a shower." Her hand slipped to his shoulder for a mere second as she continued, climbing the stairs as steadily as her exhausted legs would allow. Nick slumped against the cushions of the couch, the images of the post-game analysis of the Dodgers' win drifting to his eyes, but his attention had followed his wife to the second floor, where he listened to the water run in the bathroom upstairs.

Girlfriend.

He groaned, glancing at his bare left hand fleetingly before settling his gaze on the portrait of them and Lauren that Greg had taken when Lauren was born. The bottle of Jack that had been on sale at the liquor store down the street had been the best mistake he had ever made. It had brought him his daughter, and his girlfriend. It had been the catalyst he and Sara had needed to construct this loving, contented life that had exploded all over the house.

They had made it. He had never thought there would be such joy in his life, after so many years of the pages in his little black book decomposing faster than the bodies he processed. He had given up on having a family; and now he was so grateful to have them in his life. It was Lauren's toothy grin, and the feel of Sara's hip curved snugly against his that made the draining profession he had chosen worthwhile.

Sara. She had let him in, let him love her, and had returned his affection fiercely. In the few years since Sara had become pregnant, they had carefully constructed a brand of trust that had become so precious to each of them. Their commitment to each other transcended their private life, having a positive effect on their solve rate when they worked the occasional case together.

He sighed heavily, lifting himself up off the couch, and making his way up the stairs. What he needed was a sleep cycle in his own bed, curled up to his girl. He needed to feel like a husband, instead of a criminalist. Boyfriend.

Whatever.

Nick took a few strides from the top of the stairs, pausing at the trio of photographs of himself and Lauren when they had taken the trip to San Francisco, before stepping into his and Sara's bedroom and pulling the faded black tee shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor. He sat on the edge of their bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks, tossing them in the general direction of the hamper. He ran a hand over his face and stood, unbuckling his belt, and popping the button of his jeans, letting them fall, stepping out and making his way to the bathroom.

"Hey." His greeting was hoarse, soft, as he navigated through the steam. Sara only cranked the hot water so liberally when a case had really gotten to her.

"Hey." Her voice wavered vulnerably, breaking his heart from the far side of the cheery shower curtain. He turned to the sink, picking up his toothbrush and running it under a short burst of water from the tap, wiping the fog off the mirror in one go as he pushed out a dollop of toothpaste, and began scrubbing his teeth. It had been three days since he'd slept in his own bed, three days since he saw his daughter, two days since he'd taken a shower, and almost twenty-four hours since he had brushed his teeth.

A pink smear reflecting in the mirror caught his eye, and he squinted, spitting into the sink before turning around to investigate. Sara's shower puff remained hanging on the curtain wrung where she normally left it after showering. He reached up, touching the soft spongy surface, frowning as he found it dry. Words of compassion and concern flooded his mind, but none of them made the leap out his mouth. He waited a moment, listening for her breathing on the other side of the shower curtain, biting his lip in worry as he heard her choke back an uneasy sob.

Nick shifted his weight, placing his hands along the waistband of his boxers, deciding the best course of action. Abruptly, he turned around, rummaging around beneath the sink until his fingers found her favorite body wash, stowed away for occasions such as these. He delicately untangled the chord of the puff, flipping open the cap and squirting out a generous amount of gel. He stepped out of his boxers and pulled back the end of the shower curtain furthest from the showerhead, climbing over the edge of the tub, and stepping into the shower.

Sara remained still, bracing herself with stiffened arms against the wall of the stall, the steady jet of water bursting over her head, running down her features, letting her tears mix with the stream and fall unnoticed. He reached out to her, touching the curve of her waist to avoid her trademark-startled alarm. She had mellowed in the years they had been together, and instead of jumping out of her skin, she lolled her head to the side, out of the direct spray, and straightened, rolling her head to the side, leaving him ample room to press a kiss to her neck. She groaned, wiping the water from her eyes and pushing back the strings of flattened curls that had fallen into her face.

Nick reached around her, steadying her with a hand along her waist, wetting the puff and working up a lather with the other, his fingers splayed against her stomach strongly, holding her against him reassuringly. He didn't have to catch her eye to know the spark and amusement that usually found residence there had been doused. Owen Jacobs' murder had rattled them both, dissipating Sara's faith in the justice system, and his own faith in mankind. She needed to know that love was real, that the good in the world was not lost.

"Nick." It was a protest, but it was a poor one, and he won her over with a half dozen deliberate strokes across her back, scrubbing the weight of the shifts off her.

"Lemme help." It was a mumble into her shoulder, accentuated by a trail of kisses, each attempting reassurance. He scrubbed in gentle circles, respecting the natural curves of her body as with a vague politeness that had been refracted into companionship and devotion, the need for contact and the opportunity. He placed a lingering kiss to her hip, causing her to shift under the heavy spray from the showerhead. She turned a handful of degrees as he moved lower, running the puff over her backside, and down the length of her thighs. She began to relax, tangling her fingers in his hair as he turned her around to face him, working his way back up her body affectionately, curling around her calves to her shins, making his way up her thighs and her stomach, soaping his hands and kneading her breasts, dropping kisses along her neck.

Nick ducked under the spray, leaning in to kiss Sara deliberately, catching her as she tilted against him, letting him pull her body flush with his. She let out an inaudible moan, coiling her arm along his shoulders, the other lingering on his waist, holding his hip against hers. He kissed her harder, hit with the heavy weight of arousal as his fingers left cleansing suds in the curl between her thighs. He backed her up against the tile directly beneath the showerhead, skimming his palm with even pressure along her thigh, from the inside around the top, coming to grip the curve of her rear. Sara lifted her knee, curling her leg around his waist of her own accord, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, feeling the muscles constrict and stiffen under her touch. He was hard against her, making her gasp and squirm as he caught her between himself and the tile. She pulled away, leaning her head back against the wall, taking in the welcome sight of Nick Stokes' bare body deflecting the white, heavy spray of the water, the brown of his eyes sparkling with dedication and fidelity and want and love.

"I love you, Sara." He kissed her again, breaking away to lean his forehead against her temple. Her fingers slipped to the curve of his neck and lower, touching the length of his collarbone, causing him to shiver. "I'll never leave you."

She pulled him forward, guiding him into her and arching her hips against his, kissing him fiercely as he groaned from the sensation of her around him. The water pounded steadily against Nick's shoulders, and he leaned out of the spray just enough to kiss her hungrily, easily catching Sara's other leg as she pulled his neck for leverage, wrapping both knees around him, whimpering as he drove into her, cringing a trace of a smile as she felt his resolve begin to crack. She leaned forward, placing a delicate, feather light kiss just below his ear, her words coming as hoarse whispers wrought with tender emotion, bringing about his end.

"I love you too, Nicky." She constricted around him, making him shudder. "I'll never stop loving you."

An hour later, Sara curled into Nick's frame, weaving a knee between his thighs, an arm casually thrown across his chest. Her dampened hair had curled eagerly, falling along his shoulder, tangled in his fingers. The angle of the soft yellowish glow under the bedroom door told her the tall lamp in the far corner of the living room had been left on, along with the television, as the commentary of the midnight syndication of the Dodgers' feat over the Astros was all but faint mutterings through the oak of the door. Nick's clothes remained scattered haphazardly a few feet from the bed, the black of his tee shirt creating a void in the sliver of soft, even glow from the lamp. Sara wriggled against Nick lazily, turning his body toward hers and letting out a chuckle as he sought out her lips, crashing his against hers adoringly, still tasting, faintly, of mint toothpaste.

As Nick's arm snaked snugly around her waist, pulling her close and cuddling in, Sara fleetingly thought that maybe love was real after all.

…

Andy's conception, days before the events detailed in my pride and joy, 'Transitions.' Hope you enjoyed. Thanks to Robyn, for suggesting the location forever ago, and in a different context… lol. For those of you who haven't read 'Transitions,' I hope this enticed you. To those of you who took that arduous journey with me, here's a little something special, just because.