Title: Dollar Thoughts
Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sara/Warrick
Spoilers: The Sounds of Silence and everything up to it.
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: Warrick told Sara she doesn't like other women in Grissom's life - now she wonders what he meant.

***

"Hey!"

It took a forkful of her scrambled eggs vanishing from her plate to break through Sara's reverie, and she narrowed her eyes indignantly at her breakfast partner, bristling as he chuckled at her reaction. "I was going to eat that," she told him, glancing down at the plate, the contents of which remained mostly untouched. By contrast, his plate of waffles was almost empty.

Either her protest or its obvious untruth made him snort with laughter, and he reached for his glass of orange juice to cover it up. "Yeah," Warrick told her, brows arched over green eyes that danced with mirth. "That's why you've been staring out that window for the last five minutes."

"I haven't," Sara protested, scooping up a forkful of eggs, realising only when she felt the decidedly lukewarm texture that she had indeed lost track of time.

Her discovery must have shown on his face, because he just looked at her. "Uh-huh." His scepticism was palpable.

She made a noise that was half-sigh, half-laugh, shaking her head, her hair falling down to hide the blush on her cheeks. "All right, so I may have been deep in thought," she admitted finally, but that was all she was going to admit.

Warrick though, wasn't going to let it go. "Do I have to toss a penny at you, or you gonna let me in on it?"

She shook her head, in protest this time. "They're not even worth that," she murmured, but he didn't look as if he believed her, so she tried again. "It's nothing."

"If it was nothing," Warrick pointed out reasonably enough, "You wouldn't have been staring into space and letting your food get cold." He reached across and tapped the plate with his fork for emphasis. "You think I bring you here because I like the décor?"

His words made her smile with nostalgia, because way back when, that had been precisely why he brought her here. It had been a few weeks after she'd begun to work in Las Vegas, when Grissom had asked her to stay beyond the week she'd initially agreed to. It had taken her a long time to settle in, to feel comfortable with the other CSIs on the graveyard shift, and she spent large amounts of time telling herself that it was going to take time, that Rome wasn't built in a day. One day however, they'd all been talking about going out to get breakfast after the shift, which had led to her complaining that there was no place in Las Vegas where you could get decent scrambled eggs and toast. The rest of the team had looked at her askance, and she'd shrugged her shoulders, telling them that as an impoverished college student, moreover one whose prowess in the kitchen was severely limited, she'd become converted to the nutritional merits of scrambled eggs and toast. "Many's the all-nighter that was pulled with that as fuel," she'd told them, and they'd laughed and smiled, but they hadn't really believed her.

It surprised her therefore, a couple of days later, when Warrick found her in the locker room as they were going off shift. He asked if she was doing anything, and when she replied in the negative, he'd told her to follow him. Perplexed, she'd done it, and he'd led her to this place, telling her that he'd thought she'd like it. When she'd walked in, she'd known why he'd brought her here. It was an old style diner, the kind that you saw in television shows and movies, the kind that you never really thought existed anymore, with a jukebox in the corner and cracked red leather seats. There was a cosy air about the place, and the guy behind the counter knew Warrick by name. Sara had looked around her as they sat, a delighted smile on her face, her gaze finally coming to rest on Warrick. "This place is great," she'd told him. "It's just like a place we used to go to in college." There had been many nights in that particular place where she'd ended up participating in sing-alongs with the jukebox, but she hadn't told him that, not then.

Warrick had just grinned, handing her the menu. "And they've got the best scrambled eggs and toast in Vegas," he'd told her, and her jaw had dropped in surprise when she'd remembered the conversation from a few days before.

The whole scenario had surprised her if she was honest about it, because after all, Warrick was the CSI who she'd expected to have the most problem accepting her. She'd been brought in specifically to investigate him; distrust was only natural. Yet, here he was, inviting her out to breakfast, making the first moves towards friendship. She'd met him halfway, and they'd spent their time talking about the cases they were working at that time, swapping stories about the cases they'd worked, the good, the gruesome and the downright hilarious.

He'd been right about the food too.

When the bill had come, he'd refused to let her pay, telling her that it was his shout; that since she knew about this place now, she'd no doubt be giving them enough of her money. The feminist in her had fought him on it, but he'd stood strong, and she'd only given in when she'd exacted a promise from him that he'd let her return the favour some time.

The next week, she'd found him and made him make good on that promise.

Soon, though neither one of them ever knew just how it happened, breakfast together after the shift had become a weekly ritual for them. It was a time when they could get away from work, mostly, although the subject did come up fairly frequently. But over time, they talked about other things; family, friends, college. She told him about her parents, he told her about his Grams. She told him about four years at Harvard; he regaled her with tales of what it was like growing up in Vegas. He'd spoken, slowly at first, about the casinos, how they'd lured him in, how he still fought their call every day; she'd told him about the diner just like this one, and the jukebox sing-alongs in the wee small hours of the morning.

Over time, she learned that she could talk to him about anything.

Which in no way shape or form explained why she was so tongue-tied now.

"It's really nothing," she tried again, but he still wasn't buying it.

"Sara," he said flatly. "This is me."

She sighed deeply, resting her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands for a second, then pushing her hair back off her face and looking at him. His eyes were worried now, not amused, and a frown had appeared on his face. "It's silly," she told him now, and it was, she knew that. It had been one simple, off the cuff remark, and she didn't know why she was letting it get to her. But, all the same, it was.

"And it's been eating you for the last couple of days."

His words caught her unawares, because he was right, and she hadn't known that he'd noticed. "When we were in the garage," she began, diving right into the middle. "We were checking out Adam Walkey's car, and you found the lice on the driver's seat."

He narrowed his eyes, remembering. "Yeah? What of it?"

"Grissom came in, with Doctor Gilbert. And when I saw them coming, I made a comment like now we knew why Grissom was late. And you said-" Here she took a deep breath, seeing in memory the look that had been on his face when he spoke. "-'You just don't like other women in his life.' "

A quick grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "And you said-" He copied her inflection perfectly. "-'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.' "

"I know I did," she said now, remembering how she'd smiled at him when he'd said it, how he'd smiled back at her for that matter. And she had laughed it off initially, because what else would she do, but later on, it had come back to her, given her pause, made her think. "I just…I don't know what you meant by that, that's all."

He lifted one eyebrow. "You don't?"

"No, I don't." She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders in confusion. "I don't know why you would say something like that."

He shrugged, nonchalant as could be. "Because you've got a crush on Grissom," he said simply.

She stared at him agog, her jaw going slack. At her incredulous reaction, he just shrugged again, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip, screwing up his face when he tasted it. As if by magic, one of the waitresses appeared at his side, refilling the cup, and doing likewise to Sara's. Sara waited until they were alone again before she spoke, and when she did, her voice was laced with disbelief. "You really think that?"

"Yep." She couldn't get over how matter of fact he was about it. "And I'm not the only one either."

"I don't have a crush on Grissom."

"If you say so."

"I don't!" Her voice had gotten a little loud there, she knew, and she looked around hastily to make sure that no-one was listening. "And I don't know how you of all people can-"

He silenced her by laying his hand over hers, and the only sound for a moment was the tinny echo as her dropped fork fell against her plate. "The older man, the mentor, father figure, whatever you want to call it…you look up to him."

"We all-" she began, but he stopped her with one tap of a long finger against the back of her hand.

"It's different with you," was all he said. "Whether you know it or not, it's different with you."

She didn't say anything, because she knew that he was right. In her heart, she'd probably known it since the very first time that she met Grissom at that seminar all that time ago. His talk had captured her attention, but it was later, when she'd talked to him, questioned his ideas, discussed them with him, that she noticed how attractive she found him. They'd kept in contact since then, with nothing ever happening between them, but that hadn't stopped her heart from leaping that day that the phone had rung and he'd been on the other end, asking her if was free for a week, that he had a problem and he needed her help. Surprised, and not a little flattered, she'd agreed.

Then he'd asked her to stay on. She'd agreed to that too.

She'd thought that either one of two things would happen. Either that Grissom would notice her, would see her the way she saw him, or that working in such close proximity would diffuse any feelings she might have had for him, the way magic vanishes when you observe it close up.

Neither event had come to pass, but magic had happened anyway, where she least expected it, and she was sitting across from it now.

She couldn't take her eyes away from his, and she swallowed hard. "You're taking this remarkably well," she managed.

Warrick just chuckled. "You mean shouldn't I be jealous?"

She didn't know how to answer that so she just looked down at the table, at the scratched and broken formica and the chipboard beneath. Because truth to tell, she'd wondered if he'd spoken out of jealousy disguised as teasing, wondered if he was trying to tell her something. In all the time that they'd been having breakfast together, and in the few months since breakfast had turned into something more, in all the time that they'd been talking, and all the topics they'd covered, they'd never sat down and had that talk. The what are we doing and where do we go from here talk. At first, she'd figured it was because it was just a fling, nothing serious. Then, as time had gone on, and she'd stopped seeing it as such, she'd been afraid to ask him, in case he didn't feel the same.

When he'd said that, about not liking other women in Grissom's life, she honestly hadn't known what to make of the implication, nor had she known how to ask him about it. There had been nothing in his voice to indicate jealousy, or anger, or any other emotion save amusement, and she'd lain beside him that night, looking down at him as he slept, wondering what the hell he'd meant.

Now she'd talked to him about it, and she was still none the wiser. This man, with whom she'd shared her life, her bed, her body, was telling her that she had a thing for her boss, their boss, and he was acting as if he were talking about something as innocuous as the weather.

"I'm not jealous," he told her, and she knew that he was smiling, knew it without looking up. Some unidentifiable emotion surged up in her at the realisation that he didn't care enough about her to be jealous, and when the tinkle of broken glass sounded behind the counter, the waitress having carried more than she was capable of, Sara wasn't so sure that it wasn't her heart splintering into smithereens.

"There's nothing to be jealous of," she mumbled, and even she could hear the dejection in her voice, the slight tremor caused by the icy cold steel hand twisting in her stomach.

Across the table from her, he chuckled, and the sound almost made her wince. He chuckled again at that, lifting her hand in his, bringing it to his lips, holding it there for a moment. She lifted her head slowly, meeting his eyes, seeing something there that made her stomach do a slow somersault. "I know you have a crush on him," he told her, lowering their hands, wrapping hers in both of his, his eyes never leaving hers. "But you go home with me."

The words took a second to sink in, and when they did, she pulled them tight around her, allowing their warmth to melt the ice inside her. She smiled, the same smile she'd given him in the garage after that off the cuff remark, but this time, she knew that there would be no questioning, no worrying about what he'd meant by his words. In those two simple sentences, he'd just demonstrated a willingness to accept her just as she was with the first one; with the second, his trust in her, a sure and simple certainty that whatever was between them was more than just a fling. The fire in his green eyes melted any remaining chips of ice and she placed her free hand over his, an acknowledgement, an acceptance, of what he'd said. "Yes I do," she told him, and she smiled.

Hours later, she was silent once more, staring into space, but this time, she was smiling, not troubled, and her smile broadened when he spooned against her, placing a kiss in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. "Penny for your thoughts," he murmured, echoing their earlier conversation, but this time she didn't blush.

"Nope," she told him, running her hand down the length of his arm draped over her side, so that her hand settled over his. "They're worth at least a dollar."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" he murmured, and she shrieked as he pulled her tight against him, pressing his lips against her shoulder and continuing downwards. His hands weren't idle, tickling her skin, and she squirmed against him, laughing as she tried to get away. In all their moving, she somehow ended up facing him, wrapped in his arms again, and they both stopped laughing as their eyes met, and he reached up to brush a lock of hair back behind her ear. "So," he asked her then, when her breathing had returned to something approaching normal. "You gonna tell me these dollar thoughts of yours?"

"Nah," Sara replied, enjoying the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, a reaction so innate to him, yet so minute that it was easy to miss if you didn't know him well, or weren't looking for it. She loved that she knew these little things about him, loved that he let her know them. Knew that he knew the same kind of little things about her too, that he accepted everything about her. Knew, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling in his eyes, that Grissom or no Grissom, there was no place she'd rather be, no-one she'd rather be with. "But I will show you."

End