Title: All That Needed To Be Said
Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sara/Warrick
Spoilers: Face Lift; everything up to it to be safe
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: Sara comes up with a way to get back at Warrick
Author's Note: I have no idea where this crawled out of; just a short fluffy piece.
***
It took the water beginning to run cold to get her out of the shower, but even then, she still didn't feel clean. No matter that the bathroom was filled with steam, no matter that she'd just used half a bottle of shower gel and washed her hair three times, she could still feel the dirt and grime and ash clinging to her skin, somewhere on a microscopic level. The clothes that she'd worn on the shift were in the laundry hamper, and she had a hunch that there were going to stay there through the next two or three laundry cycles, because it was going to take at least that long to get the smell of smoke out of them. She wrapped a towel around her body, and another around her hair, rubbing the steamed mirror clean, wondering just how she was going to get Warrick back for this.
"Miss Piggy indeed," she muttered, undoing the towel around her hair and beginning to rub at it vigorously.
The thing was, she couldn't exactly do anything to pay him back; after all, this had been her payback, her way of repaying him for not telling Grissom that she was pushing the Spontaneous Human Combustion theory. He'd probably heard it, she knew; after all, if David Philips, nestled deep in the bowels of the C.S.I. lab, had heard it, then Grissom surely had. Still, Warrick hadn't said anything, even though he could have, and as a sign of her gratitude, she'd ended up cleaning up the remains of a bonfire and a dead pig, while he finished up the paperwork for the case. He'd handed it in to Grissom before the end of the shift, coming out of the whole thing smelling of roses. She'd ended up smelling like burnt pork and smoke.
Still, she reflected with a grin, brushing out her hair, at least there was one small way that she could get back at him. Thus, she made her way to the bedroom quickly, choosing her attire easily, then going downstairs.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed against her chest, watching him for a moment as he stood at the kitchen sink, his back to her. He hadn't changed from the shift, save to remove his shirt and shoes, and he was humming something to himself as he piled up soapy dishes.
"I hope you didn't want a shower," she told him airily, injecting a singsong quality into her voice. "I used up all the hot water."
"I figured," he replied, but he didn't turn around. "I'll wait till later."
"This is all your fault," she grumbled, crossing the room, noting as she did so the stack of pancakes on the table. "You were the one who came up with the experiment."
"Ah, but you were the one who came up with the theory and wouldn't let it go," he chided. "Is it my fault that you're so stubborn?"
"No," she allowed, drawing out the word as she closed the distance between them. "But it is your fault I smell like smoke and dead pig." She slipped her arms around his waist, the material of his white wife-beater soft against her skin, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
He chuckled lightly, lifting one hand from the water and taking hers in it, lifting it to his lips. "You smell pretty good to me," he told her, and she used her free hand to smack his stomach none-too-gently.
"Don't try to sweet-talk me Warrick Brown," she ordered, but against her will, she could feel laughter building up inside her.
He laughed out loud then, reaching for a tea towel to dry his hands, before turning to face her, putting his arms around her waist. He looked down at her, mouth open to speak, but then he blinked, taken aback by what he saw. She grinned up at him, lifting one eyebrow, a cheeky grin spreading across her face, taking a step back so that he could see her better. "See something you like?" she asked him, studying his face as he looked her up at down; at the blue pyjama top that was a couple of sizes too big for her, the sleeves, which should have fallen down over her hands, pushed up to the elbows. She especially didn't miss the way that his eyes lingered on her bare legs, the shirt only coming to just above her knees.
He shook his head, pulling her back to him. "Don't you have any clothes of your own?"
"I told you that I preferred pyjamas," she reminded him, winding her arms around his neck. "I just didn't say whose."
He snorted. "Like I've ever seen you wear a pair of pyjamas. I'm surprised you had the night-gown."
"Picked it up at Target on the way over," she admitted, and he smiled. "You owe me ten bucks for that by the way."
"I'd like to see you turn that receipt in." The thought of what Grissom would say to that had Sara laughing, but the laughter stopped abruptly when his lips closed over hers. She responded enthusiastically, pouting slightly when he pulled away. "I left some pancakes for you," he told her, nodding his head in the direction of the table.
"Thank you," she replied, kissing him quickly again before going back the way she'd come, sitting down and tucking in. "These are really good," she told him through a mouthful, and he half-turned to grin at her before turning back to the dishes.
The room was silent then, him cleaning, her eating, and she let her mind wander, not for the first time wondering how they'd ended up here, like this. When she'd first come to Las Vegas, she'd have put good money on Warrick being the last person that she'd get along with. After all, she'd been brought in by Grissom specifically to investigate him, his actions in the Holly Gribbs case. Their first meeting had been an interrogation, and she'd ended up recommending that Grissom fire Warrick. When he'd asked her to stay, she'd presumed that it was because the Las Vegas office was down two people; walking in and seeing Warrick still there was something of a surprise. She'd bit her lip though, said nothing to Grissom, but she hadn't trusted Warrick, any more than he'd trusted her.
They'd begun to form some semblance of a working relationship though, and of course, that had been the time that Grissom had asked her to investigate Warrick again, to find out if he was back gambling on office time. She'd done it, but this time, she hadn't been happy about it, and she'd reluctantly made the recommendation, once again, that he ask Warrick to resign, that she'd found proof that he'd been in a casino.
When she'd found out why he'd really been there, she'd felt terrible about it. But not as terrible as she'd felt when he'd reminded her oh-so-quietly, with hardly a trace of rancour, more exasperation, that they worked together, that she should be able to talk to him.
She'd found him at the end of that shift and apologised, offering to take him out for breakfast. He'd told her that she didn't have to do that, that as far as he was concerned, they were fine, but she'd insisted.
He'd agreed eventually, but the next week, he'd taken her out for breakfast.
She wasn't quite sure when cautious friendship had turned to friendship, or when friendship had turned to something more, but it had been a fairly rapid progression from barely being able to stand being in the same room as one another to practically living together. Which, she was surprised to admit to herself, is what they were doing. Keeping it quiet had taken some doing, and she could hardly believe that no-one had figured it out yet, but it appeared that their luck was holding.
She was glad of that. She wasn't sure how Grissom would feel about two of his C.S.Is seeing one another; for that matter, she still wasn't sure how she felt about it herself. What she did know was that whatever it was they had, she was enjoying it.
"Penny for your thoughts."
The words brought her out of her reverie, and she emitted a squawk of annoyance when he speared the last piece of her last pancake. He was looking at her curiously, head tilted to the side, and from the tone of his voice, she got the feeling that he'd been trying to get her attention for a while. "Nothing much," she said. "Just thinking about the case."
He rolled his eyes. "Leave it Sara. We're done for the night." She raised an eyebrow, looking over to the window and the blue sky outside. He followed her gaze, nodding as he realised what she was getting at. "Day," he amended. "Whatever."
"I know, I know." Grissom had once tried to tell her that she should leave work at work, not knowing that Warrick was trying to get her to do the same thing. "I'm trying." A smile lit up her face. "It's just hard when I still smell like pork."
"You're never gonna let me forget this, are you?"
He already knew the answer, so she didn't reply, just stood up, leaving her dishes in the sink, then taking his hand and padding into the living room. He sat down on the couch, long legs sprawled out in front of him, and she sat down beside him, curling her legs up underneath her, pressing close to him and resting her head on his chest. One of his arms curled around her shoulder, reaching up to play with her hair, and she sighed with contentment.
"Don't think this is getting you off the hook by the way," she told him eventually, her words punctuated by a yawn.
She felt his chest vibrate with suppressed laughter. "You mean watching you flirt with David Philips wasn't punishment enough?"
The words made her look up at him sharply, eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I saw the way you acted around him," he told her, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Batting your eyelashes at him…"
"I did not!" She pushed herself up so that she was kneeling on the couch, eyes wide with a combination of shock and horror.
"Him in that labcoat…that he wore just for you…" He was laughing by now, arm around the back of the couch, and she joined him, slapping his shoulder.
"That's not funny," she protested through her giggles.
"Then why are you laughing?" There was logic to his argument, and still laughing, she returned to her previous position, head nestled against his shoulder.
"David's harmless," she told him when she'd sobered up somewhat.
"I know that." Warrick's tone was a strange mix of distrust and amusement, leaning marginally towards the latter. "But don't try telling me you weren't flirting with him. I saw you…that little smile you get…" He craned his neck to see her face. "The same one you've got going on now, as a matter of fact…"
Sara hastily tried to school her features into seriousness, but she could feel the corners of her lips twitching. "You were jealous," she accused him, turning on the couch slightly so that she could see him better.
"Pfft." He blew air between his lips, waving his free hand dismissively.
"You were too…getting all puffed up…"
"So you were flirting with him to get a rise out of me, is that it?"
She shrugged. "Did it work?"
"Oh, it worked." He took her by the shoulders, manipulating her new position slightly so that she ended up lying on the couch, her head on his lap. One hand was entwined with hers, the other resting on the arm of the couch, and he was looking right into her eyes when he continued speaking. "So, should I be worried?"
His tone hadn't changed that much; still erring on the side of amusement, but there was a serious undercurrent there that hadn't been there before. Maybe it was that that caused Sara to swallow hard against a sudden and uncharacteristic tightness in her throat. "Nah," she managed, shaking her head for emphasis. "He's not my type."
Warrick raised his eyebrows, nodding his head slowly. She'd seen him do the same thing a hundred times, in the lab or at a crime scene, when he was appraising some new piece of evidence. "What is your type?" he asked eventually.
She didn't answer at first; just did to him what he'd done to her earlier; raising their joined hands to her lips briefly before moving them so that they rested against her cheek. "You know the answer to that."
He nodded slowly again, his free hand moving over to play with her hair. "Sometimes I don't think I do."
She took a long pause before she spoke again; unsure of just what to say to that. She moved their joined hands down so that they rested on her stomach, and her free hand traced patterns over them distractedly. "I don't tell you that enough. I know that." She sighed. "But it doesn't change how I feel." Her face was uncertain as she looked up at him, and her stomach twisted painfully, because she knew that she was speaking the truth. She wasn't the kind of person who was overly demonstrative with their feelings, any more than Warrick was. In view of that, it was a wonder to her that they'd ever ended up like this in the first place, let alone that it seemed to be working for them. To wonder how long it might last, to her, had all the hallmarks of tempting fate, because she was beginning to realise that she didn't want this, whatever it was, to end.
There were times when she thought Warrick felt the same.
There were times when she really didn't know.
"I know." His quiet words had her blinking in surprise, and he gave her a small smile, his hand still moving through her hair. "I always know Sara."
"I'm here Warrick," she told him now, hoping that those simple words would carry some weight with him. Because they certainly did with her. She didn't share her life with many people; she'd always been proudly independent, not wanting to let anyone else in. Yet somehow, in short order, she'd found herself able to confide in him, tell him things that she'd never told anyone else. He was the one who listened to her, who talked her around from her bad moods, the one who cooked for her while she showered away the remains of the day. The one who looked out for her unobtrusively in a hundred little ways. The one who did it all without expecting anything from her in return.
He nodded slowly again. "And you're staying."
It wasn't phrased as such, but she knew that it was a question.
Her answer wasn't long in coming.
"Yeah." Their eyes met and held for a long moment, and what she saw there made her face break out in a grin. "If that's ok with you," she added.
"I think I'll manage," he deadpanned. He squeezed her hand briefly, then looked over to the clock, narrowing his eyes. "Now, are we gonna stay here all night, or are we going to get some sleep?"
She pondered the question for a moment. "Sleep?" she asked eventually, lifting an eyebrow.
"Something like that." He tried, and failed, to keep a smirk off his face.
Any other time, she might have teased him about that. Not now. Now she simply swung herself up to a standing position, keeping his hands in hers. They didn't speak as they went upstairs, nor did they speak for the rest of the night. They'd said all that needed to be said.