Title: The Season For Romance
Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sara/Warrick
Spoilers: None
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: The season loves the reason for romance - It'll get you if you give it half a chance
Author's Notes: This is my "I should never look at Christmas lyrics a few days before Christmas because that's when the plot bunnies begin to bite" fic - hopefully it makes sense! Song is "The Season For Romance" by Lee Ann Womack.
***
It was, Sara decided as she looked around the room, quite an odd time for a Christmas party. She'd heard some other people around the lab from the night shift complaining about celebrating Christmas when the mercury was hitting the heights, and the sky was bright blue without a hint of cloud. As a California girl, that didn't bother Sara in the least. What she never could get used to was the fact that the Christmas party was held right after everyone came off shift; thus here she was, in a Las Vegas hotel, with Christmas songs being played over the loudspeakers, watching most of her colleagues dancing and singing at just past nine o'clock in the morning.
It wasn't something she was used to, but she had to admit that it did make for a great atmosphere at the party; everyone having worked hard for the duration of the shift, wanting to blow off some steam, combined with the relief of not having to work overtime - in fact, on Grissom's orders, not being allowed to work overtime, unless a dire emergency arose- lightening everyone's mood.
Well, almost everyone's.
The rest of the night shift were milling around various tables, chatting and laughing. Some were strutting their stuff on the dance floor, where Greg Sanders was at that very moment leading the entire floor in a very energetic version of The Time Warp. Still more people were propping up the bar, Grissom having wangled a drinks budget out of the Mayor, not that he'd stayed around to see how the party went.
Standing there, a glass of red wine in her hand, back flat against the wall, Sara almost wished that she'd followed his example.
It's not that she didn't like Christmas; far from it. She liked it as much as the next person, provided that the next person wasn't Lindsey Willows, or Greg for example. It was just that she wasn't exactly in the Christmas spirit this year, and watching everyone else indulging, having a good time, wasn't doing anything to get her into the mood.
A voice at her side jolted her out of her reverie. "You look like you're having a ball."
The words were uttered in such a droll fashion that she simply had to smile, albeit a small, slightly bitter one. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, turning her head to look at him, but not otherwise moving.
"Well, I am a CSI," he told her, shrugging one shoulder, keeping a straight face, although his eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter. "Trained to observe the nuances of human behaviour."
One eyebrow flicked upwards and she glanced down at the glass of beer in his hand. "I'm impressed that you could get that sentence out."
He looked surprised at that, following her gaze down to the glass in his hand. "I'm pacing myself," he replied. "I don't want to be the talk of the lab later on." His gaze flickered to the dance floor, where Greg was still leading the dancing, the unspoken comparison obvious.
Sara snickered; she couldn't help it. "Believe it or not, he's been pacing himself too."
"I don't doubt it." There was no malice in Warrick's tone, just wry amusement. "So, why aren't you out on the floor?"
"Why aren't you?" Her response was instinctive and lightning fast, and if Warrick noticed that she hadn't answered his question, he didn't call her on it, and she was grateful for that.
Instead, he just shrugged again, with another chuckle, raising his glass to his lips. "Picture that," he muttered. He looked to her as if he was going to say something else, but just then, a familiar figure came across the floor to them, a huge smile on her face.
"Well, this is certainly the party corner," Catherine quipped, her body language entirely at odds with Warrick and Sara's. "Who stole all the Christmas spirit?"
"Greg," Warrick replied instantly. "Then he drank it."
Sara managed a smile at that, while Catherine went one better, throwing her head back and laughing. "He is enjoying himself," Catherine allowed. "And so is Nick…he's over there in the other corner, putting the moves on Amy Young."
"Good for him," was Warrick's reaction, as he raised his glance in imaginary salute to his colleague.
"And what about the two of you?" Catherine's smile was devilish as her eyes travelled from one to the other. "Anything you want to tell me?"
Sara's eyes flew open wide and she looked from Catherine to Warrick and back, while Warrick just frowned. "What do you mean?" Sara asked, and in answer, Catherine simply pointed her index finger up. Slowly and in unison, Warrick and Sara looked up, only to see a sprig of mistletoe hanging in between them. "Oh," was all Sara could say.
"Well, you know what you're supposed to do, right?" Catherine continued, crossing her arms almost daringly, lifting one eyebrow, the sight making Sara's heart sink. She could see from Warrick's face that he was experiencing similar emotions, and she lifted one shoulder almost imperceptibly, throwing the ball squarely into his court.
His shrug was more noticeable, and he leaned towards her, uttering the words, "Well, it is tradition…" before pressing his lips to her cheek. It was perfectly innocent, the kind of kiss that he might have given his grandmother, yet Sara's cheeks still burned, and she only hoped that Catherine didn't notice.
Apparently she didn't, for her reaction was to fan herself with one hand, rolling her eyes and saying sarcastically, "Oh, the passion…knock me over why don't you?" Sara managed a weak smile, Warrick a quick grin, and if Catherine found their non-reactions odd, then she didn't say anything about it. "Well, I've got to go."
"So early? You're not even going to dance with me?" Warrick took her by the hand, spinning her towards him, pulling her close against him momentarily, before spinning her away from him again.
"Flattering as that is Warrick," Catherine responded, "I have a daughter that I'd like to see. Besides, I promised to take her ice-skating. Merry Christmas you two." She pulled them into a hug before she left, waving at them over her shoulder.
She left them standing there, the mistletoe between them, an awkward silence hanging over them. Sara drained the last of her drink, setting it down on the table beside her, then crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at the floor. "You want another drink?" she heard Warrick ask, and she considered it a moment before she shook her head.
"I'd better not," she replied. "Pacing myself, you know?"
"You sure?" She looked up at him then, into his eyes, and held his gaze a moment.
"What the heck, maybe one glass." He inclined his head to one side, a momentary flicker in his eyes giving her pause, drying any moisture in her mouth, and she licked her lips nervously as she watched him walk away, following his progress to the bar, sternly telling herself to pull herself together. There was no reason, she told herself, to be acting this way around him. It was just Warrick.
She told herself that all the time he was at the bar, and all the time that he was walking back. She'd told herself that for the last three months.
But she couldn't make herself believe it.
Especially not when she took the wineglass from him and felt the tingle of electricity that ran up and down her spine when her fingers brushed against his. When she saw the spark of acknowledgement in his eyes, telling her he'd felt it too. When she felt the blush spreading across her cheeks.
It was just Warrick, and that was the whole problem.
"You never did tell me what has you so glum," he pointed out after a few moments, and she took a sip of her wine while she tried to formulate some kind of response to that.
"Just not a Christmassy person," was the best she could come up with, and the look on his face screamed loud and clear that he didn't buy it for a second.
"So, how long you think it's going to be before he comes over?" Warrick asked then, and she looked up at him in confusion. "Greg," he elaborated. "He's either gonna drag you onto the dance floor, or try to get a little action going on underneath this mistletoe…"
He was joking, teasing her, but she knew that the words had more than a little ring of truth to them as well. She didn't want to deal with that now though; so she joked back, looking up at him through her lashes. "Hey, I've got you to protect me don't I?"
His lips turned up in what might have been something approximating a smile. "Like you need that." His tone was light, and she knew that he was supposed to be teasing her again. Somehow though, it didn't come across that way. It came across as a little wistful, a little bitter.
She fought back a sigh, and took a sip of her wine to help, looking away from him out on to the dancefloor. The Time Warp had finished by now, and Greg was currently leading The Macarena, having acquired a Santa hat from somewhere, the bobble of which was swinging crazily as he moved.
She realised instantly that it was a measure of how bad a time she was having that she couldn't even raise a smile at that.
"I'm beginning to think that Grissom had the right idea." She was hardly aware that she was talking out loud until she heard his voice.
"About what?"
She shrugged, another sip of wine giving her the impetus to reply, "Not showing up here."
Warrick was looking at her, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he pointed it out to her, a genuine smile crossing his face. "Not even to see Nick's John Travolta impression?"
She followed the direction of his point, only to see Nick at the fringes of the dance floor, Amy by his side. The lure of The Macarena had obviously proven too strong for the young lab tech, and she'd made her way to the dance floor, joining in easily. She must have dragged Nick along, either that or he was unwilling to let her out of his sight, but either way, he was right there beside her, following the rest of the crowd - or trying to. A nice guy Nick might be, with good looks to boot, but standing there looking at him, Sara realised that natural rhythm was one thing with which he had not been blessed, and he looked so comical out there that she couldn't help laughing.
Warrick was laughing too, but he sobered up first, and when she followed his lead, she found him looking hard at her, as if she was something from the lab. "What?" she asked, but she wasn't as harsh as she could have been when she spoke. It could have been the residual laughter from looking at Nick. It could have been something else.
"Nothing." He stayed looking at her though, and when she didn't look away either, he continued. "I just…." He shrugged. "I like the way you laugh is all." Another shrug, as she tried to fight down her blush, and failed utterly. "And I'm glad you came here."
There was heat aplenty in her cheeks, and it seemed like it flowed not only up to her hairline, but down, flooding her neck, her chest, and down, pooling somewhere lower, her stomach swimmingly none too unpleasantly. Suddenly, she was almost glad that she'd come too. She closed her eyes when she felt his hand on her arm, his palm warm even through the material of her blouse, and when she opened them again, she swallowed hard, remembering who they were, and where they were.
"Warrick…" she breathed, but his hand didn't budge, although the fingers did, catching the material as they rubbed gently.
"Don't say what you're gonna say." He kept his voice low, and she shook her head again.
"The two of us, here like this, under the mistletoe…it's how rumours start Warrick." She was keenly aware of Catherine's joking comments when she'd come over to them earlier on, acutely aware of just how near the truth she'd been.
"And that's a bad thing?" His voice was still low, and a hundred memories of things he'd said to her in just that tone came to mind, making her stomach swirl some more.
"We talked about this…we agreed…"
"You agreed," he interrupted, putting his glass down and taking a step closer to her, invading her personal space. It made it hard for her to think, to catch her breath, but she didn't step away. She couldn't.
"We said," she objected, placing the emphasis on the first word, just as he had, "That it would never work. That we couldn't work together and be together at the same time… that it was too hard…"
"You said all that Sara," he told her, and she had to close her eyes at the look in his. "I wanted to try."
"It's not that easy." But his close proximity was playing havoc with her defences, and she could smell his aftershave, the one that she loved on him, and almost against her will, she took a half-step closer to him.
"We did pretty good," he pointed out. "Over six months together and no-one the wiser. You were the one who called it off. I thought that it was what you wanted. I thought it would make you happy." He took a beat there, allowing his words to sink in. "But you're not happy Sara. Are you?"
Her shoulders went up and down as she sucked in a deep breath, and unable to speak, she just looked up at him. She didn't take her eyes off him as her head moved slowly from left to right, and the breath he exhaled as he pulled her close to him made strands of her hair dance across her face. Her head landed on his shoulder, her hands staying limp at her side, and when he pulled back so that he could see her, she missed him.
Without saying a word, he took the glass from her hand, setting it down on the table, then took both her hands in his, and still without a word, he lead them on to the dancefloor. She was dimly aware that the music had changed, into something slow, Bing Crosby dreaming about a white Christmas, and she wanted to tell him that they shouldn't be doing this, that people were surely going to talk about them. As he drew her into his arms though, her head once more going to his shoulder, her arms sliding around his waist, his hands moving in slow circles on her back, she decided that she really didn't care. Let people say what they would. All she knew is that this felt right.
She'd meant everything she'd said to him that night that he'd come to her place, she really had. She wasn't sure if they had a future together, didn't want things to continue the way they were if it meant screwing up both their lives. It had only been when he'd left, and later, when they'd been for real what they'd spent six months pretending to be, just friends, that she realised how much she missed how. Just how good what they had was, and just how much she missed him.
Bing had finished his dreaming, and Jon Bon Jovi had almost convinced his beloved to come home for Christmas by the time she lifted her head to look at him, and there was a curious lump in her throat when she tried to speak. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, and he headed her off at the pass, bringing a finger to her lips. "Just give us half a chance Sara," he whispered. "That's all it's gonna take."
Maybe it was the time of year; the music, the decorations, the season of hope and goodwill and all that.
Maybe it was him, or her, or them.
Whatever it was, Sara found herself nodding, still not able to speak, first from the lump still there in her throat, then from Warrick's lips descending on hers. She kissed him back wholeheartedly, not caring if anyone was looking, almost hoping that everyone was. After all, this was the season for romance, and she had a lot of catching up to do.