Love Comes Softly
Chapter Eight
Author's Notes: OK, so this starts out sappy, becomes VERY angsty.
Disclaimers: Blah blah blah, CSI is not mine. Does anybody even care if we add the disclaimer or not? Maybe someday I'll just forget about it and see if I'm struck by lightning or something.
Thanks: Well, we've got a whole list today! As ALWAYS, Tash!!! You're so great, Tash! You're always saying such nice things about my writing, you make me want to keep going! Thanks also to Allison, for reading chapter seven before/during it was posted and reviewing :) And for the mutual love of pasta and chili that we share. And also thanks to Alisha, for reviewing chapter six, being funny, making me laugh, and not caring how many times I insult you, especially on my good days when I just can't contain myself.
I wish now more than ever that I OWNED Warrick.
Enjoy.
Note: I have no idea how Warrick feels about TV or movies.
She woke up for the fourth time that night, waiting for her eyes to adjust so she could stare at his face. Dark, beautiful, loving, it was always the one thing she liked most about him. The way he wore every single one of his emotions on it, the way it never hid anything. She felt like she could read his mind when she looked at his face, like she could always give him whatever he wanted if she only saw what she was supposed to see.
He stirred, but didn't wake. No wonder, she thought, when she saw the digital alarm clock resting on the table beside her. 3:00 AM. The blaring red letters mocked her wide-awake eyes. She sighed, softly. Wished she could wake him but knew she'd never dare. Just watching him sleep was a blessing. And lately she'd been counting her blessings very carefully.
She rolled over, deciding to try again to coax the sleep she knew would never come.
He pretended to be asleep until he heard her breathing become even, the rising and falling of her chest slow and steady. Then he moved closer to her, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness so he could watch her sleep. The way her lips parted just slightly, the way her eyes, her beautiful eyes were hidden beneath her smooth eyelids. The way her hair blew so slightly when the wind came in through the open window.
He'd never been a man drawn especially to movies, or television. Video games, sure, because they let him make use of his mind, but all of those things seemed so useless when he considered what he had lying beside him. The perfect woman, one he could never grow tired of watching, no matter what she was doing.
He had never been so happy as he was now. One miraculous night spent in her company was enough to make him giddy, but now.... now she was going to become his wife. She was his fiancee. He could barely contain a smile as the words circled around his mind. Catherine Brown. It fit somehow. He almost laughed when he thought of what she would have to say to that.
"Warrick Willows." She would probably retort.
Things were so much different with her than they were Mandy. Ever since he started dating Catherine, he could actually think about his former girlfriend without tears coming to his eyes. Now the sadness had been totally lifted, along with his spirits. He was free.
The bathtub was full of warm water and bubbles that Catherine had added just for fun. When Warrick saw them he groaned, pretending to be annoyed, but he grinned when she said,
"Oh come on! Bubbles are so much fun!" He couldn't suppress his laughter. She was just like a little kid.
"You're cute." He told her, holding both her hands and kissing her nose softly. "I guess I can live with the bubbles, if you prove as sufficient enough a distraction."
"I can't make any promises." She said, putting one foot in the water and running it through. "C'mon, it's the perfect heat, hop in."
He did as he was told, helping her in after him. The water smelled like she always did. The air around them was heavy and hot, and the mirror had already begun to fog up. He dipped a hand into the bubbles that lay on the surface of the water, and flung them in Catherine's face.
She looked shocked for a few seconds, before yelling, "Now you're going to get it!" And flinging double the amount of bubbles at him, covering his face in white foam.
He responded by pinning her against the wall of the tub and flinging more and more bubbles and water into her face until finally she sputtered, "Alright already! You win!"
"Say it." He said, an evil glint in his eye.
"I will not say it."
"Just say it."
She sighed, knowing he wouldn't let up until she did. "Fine." She finished wiping the foam from her face and looked directly at him. "You, Warrick Brown, are the king."
"What was that? I didn't hear you."
"Oh shut up." She said, giggling and swapping him on the arm.
"Hey Cath, you were right. Bubbles are a lot of fun!"
She got home early that night from work, but she was still dead tired. The farther up the stairs of her apartment building she climbed, the more her steps slowed, dragged almost. Finally, Room C13. She sighed and unlocked the door.
As soon as she entered the room her senses clicked into action. The strange, fuzzy feeling of the atmosphere caught her off guard, and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She stood, motionless in the middle of her living room, and stared at a book lying face up on her couch.
"The Art of Forensic Science by Wynette Deann.", sat still, mocking her. She hadn't touched that book in two years. Its place was on the bookshelf, where it had remained since she first became a C.S.I. Somebody had been in her apartment. A somebody that, she sensed, was still there.
Her investigating mind went into overdrive. The couch cushion was crumpled, indicating someone had recently sat on it. She turned on the TV, the volume was set at 25. She never had it at anything but 10. The door of the bathroom was wide open, allowing her a glimpse of the yellow light pouring from it. It was then that she heard the slow, steady thump emanating from the far left side of her apartment.
She grabbed her gun, and began to walk slowly to the washroom. She tried to quiet her breathing, but it kept coming in short, choked waves. She forced her eyes open when she reached the door. Swinging forward, her gun was her only protection against this unknown.
She saw him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, tapping his foot against the floor. Thump, thump. He saw her, then, his blue eyes flashing with fear. He jumped.
"Sara.." He said, but her gun remained pointed at him. He walked towards her and she saw that worry creased his face, playing with the ends of his eyebrows. "Sara, it's me. Put the gun down."
She finally did as she was told, and he reached out to hold her. The hot tears scalded her cheeks. What had gotten into her?
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked quietly, gently, when she pulled away from his touch.
"How did you get in here?" She asked him. He saw in her eyes that she was still afraid.
"You gave me a key, remember?" He spoke to her like she was a child. She sighed and shook her head, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks.
"I'm sorry, Grissom." The use of his last name made him even more worried. Confused. There was something going on here that he didn't know about. "You just scared me."
"Please don't ever point a gun at me again." His anger surprised her, and she turned and left the room, once again denying his offer of a hug. He followed her, though, and she heard his quickened, agitated steps behind her.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" He asked her.
"Why did you have the TV volume at 25? That's so loud." She remarked, completely ignoring his question. She went over to the black machine that rested on the wooden table and turned the power on. Glancing at the screen, the voices screamed out at them, echoing throughout the room. Sara winced. Grissom did not.
"It's not loud for me." He answered, then moved to turn the TV off.
"What's wrong? You don't like Frasier?" She knew she was being immature by avoiding the problem, but she really didn't want to hear any more of his questions.
"Sara, what happened at work tonight?" She glanced at his face for half a second before moving her eyes to settle on the blank TV screen. The absence of the noise from it made the silence deafening.
"Nothing. Just the usual stuff." He put a hand on her arm and pleaded with her silently to talk to him. She ignored his wordless request. "What's with all the stuff in the kitchen?" She pointed to the cooking ingredients and utensils that laid on the table.
"I was going to cook you dinner." He stated simply. "You got home early, though."
"Yeah, we were done the case. Warrick said for me to tell you to not take days off anymore, because Catherine is horrible at being supervisor." Grissom almost laughed. He knew she was using humor as a mask for frustration, which is why he remained silent.
He was ready to give up on her altogether, until he saw the tiniest glint of a tear in the corner of her eye. "Sara?"
She turned to him, her body shaking violently. She was trying to hold it in but the longer she tried, the harder it became. Finally she gave in. "It was a teenage girl, Gil."
His heart broke, and he reached out to her. This time she let him hold her. "What happened?"
"Her father... the bastard, he was raping her and-" She stopped to wipe a tear that had fallen down toward her lips. "She was too afraid to tell anyone, so she kept quiet. But then one night he got especially violent. He raped her and then he shot her. Twice in the head."
Grissom and Sara both knew that a second shot to the head was not meant for killing someone, it was just a sick, disgusting way to show your cruelty. He shivered at the thought of finding that girl dead.
He hugged her tighter, her sobs vibrating against his chest. Rubbing her back, the pain tore at his heart. Damn being professional to hell, he thought. Sometimes, when you get home from a case like this, you need to cry. He thanked God then and there that this time, Sara had someone to hold her.
Once her cries had become softer, he lifted her from him and looked into her eyes. "Sara, I would never..." He stopped, taking deep breaths to steady his emotion. "Never do anything to hurt you."
"I'm sorry, Gil." She apologized again, and this time she meant it. "I brought the case home. I was afraid. Seeing trust betrayed like that-" She referred back to the case, shuddering at the thought of the girl and her father. "I couldn't see straight."
He hugged her again, kissing the top of her head. She stood up, taking his hand and motioning toward the bedroom. "Let's go to bed. I'm so tired.." Ironically, she then yawned. "I can barely keep my eyes open."
He nodded, and followed her. They both crawled into bed, and she immediately nestled herself in his arms. He watched her breathing become even, and once he was sure she had fallen asleep, he felt it safe for him to do the same.
Chapter Eight
Author's Notes: OK, so this starts out sappy, becomes VERY angsty.
Disclaimers: Blah blah blah, CSI is not mine. Does anybody even care if we add the disclaimer or not? Maybe someday I'll just forget about it and see if I'm struck by lightning or something.
Thanks: Well, we've got a whole list today! As ALWAYS, Tash!!! You're so great, Tash! You're always saying such nice things about my writing, you make me want to keep going! Thanks also to Allison, for reading chapter seven before/during it was posted and reviewing :) And for the mutual love of pasta and chili that we share. And also thanks to Alisha, for reviewing chapter six, being funny, making me laugh, and not caring how many times I insult you, especially on my good days when I just can't contain myself.
I wish now more than ever that I OWNED Warrick.
Enjoy.
Note: I have no idea how Warrick feels about TV or movies.
She woke up for the fourth time that night, waiting for her eyes to adjust so she could stare at his face. Dark, beautiful, loving, it was always the one thing she liked most about him. The way he wore every single one of his emotions on it, the way it never hid anything. She felt like she could read his mind when she looked at his face, like she could always give him whatever he wanted if she only saw what she was supposed to see.
He stirred, but didn't wake. No wonder, she thought, when she saw the digital alarm clock resting on the table beside her. 3:00 AM. The blaring red letters mocked her wide-awake eyes. She sighed, softly. Wished she could wake him but knew she'd never dare. Just watching him sleep was a blessing. And lately she'd been counting her blessings very carefully.
She rolled over, deciding to try again to coax the sleep she knew would never come.
He pretended to be asleep until he heard her breathing become even, the rising and falling of her chest slow and steady. Then he moved closer to her, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness so he could watch her sleep. The way her lips parted just slightly, the way her eyes, her beautiful eyes were hidden beneath her smooth eyelids. The way her hair blew so slightly when the wind came in through the open window.
He'd never been a man drawn especially to movies, or television. Video games, sure, because they let him make use of his mind, but all of those things seemed so useless when he considered what he had lying beside him. The perfect woman, one he could never grow tired of watching, no matter what she was doing.
He had never been so happy as he was now. One miraculous night spent in her company was enough to make him giddy, but now.... now she was going to become his wife. She was his fiancee. He could barely contain a smile as the words circled around his mind. Catherine Brown. It fit somehow. He almost laughed when he thought of what she would have to say to that.
"Warrick Willows." She would probably retort.
Things were so much different with her than they were Mandy. Ever since he started dating Catherine, he could actually think about his former girlfriend without tears coming to his eyes. Now the sadness had been totally lifted, along with his spirits. He was free.
The bathtub was full of warm water and bubbles that Catherine had added just for fun. When Warrick saw them he groaned, pretending to be annoyed, but he grinned when she said,
"Oh come on! Bubbles are so much fun!" He couldn't suppress his laughter. She was just like a little kid.
"You're cute." He told her, holding both her hands and kissing her nose softly. "I guess I can live with the bubbles, if you prove as sufficient enough a distraction."
"I can't make any promises." She said, putting one foot in the water and running it through. "C'mon, it's the perfect heat, hop in."
He did as he was told, helping her in after him. The water smelled like she always did. The air around them was heavy and hot, and the mirror had already begun to fog up. He dipped a hand into the bubbles that lay on the surface of the water, and flung them in Catherine's face.
She looked shocked for a few seconds, before yelling, "Now you're going to get it!" And flinging double the amount of bubbles at him, covering his face in white foam.
He responded by pinning her against the wall of the tub and flinging more and more bubbles and water into her face until finally she sputtered, "Alright already! You win!"
"Say it." He said, an evil glint in his eye.
"I will not say it."
"Just say it."
She sighed, knowing he wouldn't let up until she did. "Fine." She finished wiping the foam from her face and looked directly at him. "You, Warrick Brown, are the king."
"What was that? I didn't hear you."
"Oh shut up." She said, giggling and swapping him on the arm.
"Hey Cath, you were right. Bubbles are a lot of fun!"
She got home early that night from work, but she was still dead tired. The farther up the stairs of her apartment building she climbed, the more her steps slowed, dragged almost. Finally, Room C13. She sighed and unlocked the door.
As soon as she entered the room her senses clicked into action. The strange, fuzzy feeling of the atmosphere caught her off guard, and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She stood, motionless in the middle of her living room, and stared at a book lying face up on her couch.
"The Art of Forensic Science by Wynette Deann.", sat still, mocking her. She hadn't touched that book in two years. Its place was on the bookshelf, where it had remained since she first became a C.S.I. Somebody had been in her apartment. A somebody that, she sensed, was still there.
Her investigating mind went into overdrive. The couch cushion was crumpled, indicating someone had recently sat on it. She turned on the TV, the volume was set at 25. She never had it at anything but 10. The door of the bathroom was wide open, allowing her a glimpse of the yellow light pouring from it. It was then that she heard the slow, steady thump emanating from the far left side of her apartment.
She grabbed her gun, and began to walk slowly to the washroom. She tried to quiet her breathing, but it kept coming in short, choked waves. She forced her eyes open when she reached the door. Swinging forward, her gun was her only protection against this unknown.
She saw him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, tapping his foot against the floor. Thump, thump. He saw her, then, his blue eyes flashing with fear. He jumped.
"Sara.." He said, but her gun remained pointed at him. He walked towards her and she saw that worry creased his face, playing with the ends of his eyebrows. "Sara, it's me. Put the gun down."
She finally did as she was told, and he reached out to hold her. The hot tears scalded her cheeks. What had gotten into her?
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked quietly, gently, when she pulled away from his touch.
"How did you get in here?" She asked him. He saw in her eyes that she was still afraid.
"You gave me a key, remember?" He spoke to her like she was a child. She sighed and shook her head, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks.
"I'm sorry, Grissom." The use of his last name made him even more worried. Confused. There was something going on here that he didn't know about. "You just scared me."
"Please don't ever point a gun at me again." His anger surprised her, and she turned and left the room, once again denying his offer of a hug. He followed her, though, and she heard his quickened, agitated steps behind her.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" He asked her.
"Why did you have the TV volume at 25? That's so loud." She remarked, completely ignoring his question. She went over to the black machine that rested on the wooden table and turned the power on. Glancing at the screen, the voices screamed out at them, echoing throughout the room. Sara winced. Grissom did not.
"It's not loud for me." He answered, then moved to turn the TV off.
"What's wrong? You don't like Frasier?" She knew she was being immature by avoiding the problem, but she really didn't want to hear any more of his questions.
"Sara, what happened at work tonight?" She glanced at his face for half a second before moving her eyes to settle on the blank TV screen. The absence of the noise from it made the silence deafening.
"Nothing. Just the usual stuff." He put a hand on her arm and pleaded with her silently to talk to him. She ignored his wordless request. "What's with all the stuff in the kitchen?" She pointed to the cooking ingredients and utensils that laid on the table.
"I was going to cook you dinner." He stated simply. "You got home early, though."
"Yeah, we were done the case. Warrick said for me to tell you to not take days off anymore, because Catherine is horrible at being supervisor." Grissom almost laughed. He knew she was using humor as a mask for frustration, which is why he remained silent.
He was ready to give up on her altogether, until he saw the tiniest glint of a tear in the corner of her eye. "Sara?"
She turned to him, her body shaking violently. She was trying to hold it in but the longer she tried, the harder it became. Finally she gave in. "It was a teenage girl, Gil."
His heart broke, and he reached out to her. This time she let him hold her. "What happened?"
"Her father... the bastard, he was raping her and-" She stopped to wipe a tear that had fallen down toward her lips. "She was too afraid to tell anyone, so she kept quiet. But then one night he got especially violent. He raped her and then he shot her. Twice in the head."
Grissom and Sara both knew that a second shot to the head was not meant for killing someone, it was just a sick, disgusting way to show your cruelty. He shivered at the thought of finding that girl dead.
He hugged her tighter, her sobs vibrating against his chest. Rubbing her back, the pain tore at his heart. Damn being professional to hell, he thought. Sometimes, when you get home from a case like this, you need to cry. He thanked God then and there that this time, Sara had someone to hold her.
Once her cries had become softer, he lifted her from him and looked into her eyes. "Sara, I would never..." He stopped, taking deep breaths to steady his emotion. "Never do anything to hurt you."
"I'm sorry, Gil." She apologized again, and this time she meant it. "I brought the case home. I was afraid. Seeing trust betrayed like that-" She referred back to the case, shuddering at the thought of the girl and her father. "I couldn't see straight."
He hugged her again, kissing the top of her head. She stood up, taking his hand and motioning toward the bedroom. "Let's go to bed. I'm so tired.." Ironically, she then yawned. "I can barely keep my eyes open."
He nodded, and followed her. They both crawled into bed, and she immediately nestled herself in his arms. He watched her breathing become even, and once he was sure she had fallen asleep, he felt it safe for him to do the same.
