Title: Shelter from the Storm
Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sara/Warrick
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site Checkmate () , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: Sara's always hated storms
Notes: For the LiveJournal CSReports "Natural and Unnatural Disasters" challenge
***
Sara's always hated storms, ever since she was a little girl, so when she wakes up to a high pitched whine of a malfunctioning burglar alarm, accompanied by the dash of rain against the window, her first impulse is to bury her head into her pillow, hoping against hope that it's a bad dream.
Hope vanishes when a draught of air makes its way under the covers, her companion going to the other side of the room, to the panel there, punching in a code that mercifully silences the whining. She expects him to come straight back to bed, and when he doesn't, she rolls over, barely able to see him peering out the window. A quick glance at the battery-operated clock tells her that it's the middle of the afternoon, but when the curtain moves, it looks black as night outside. "Storm's knocked out the power," he says. "Whole street's out."
A flash of lightning illuminates the room as he speaks, and she shudders involuntarily. "Great. I hate storms."
Warrick chuckles, and she lies back down, though she knows that sleep is going to be impossible now. He must think the same, because she hears him dressing, hears him leave the room. She doesn't know what he's doing, but the storm continues unabated, and she decides that she really doesn't want to be alone, so she rises too, dressing quickly in an old pair of blue jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that might once have been his.
When she gets to the living room, she stops dead, surprised at what she sees there.
For a start, she never would have guessed that he had so many candles in the house, that he'd be able to light them all in so short a space of time. He must hear her coming, because he turns to her, the candles bathing him in a golden glow, and he smiles. "Let there be light," he quips, motioning her to the couch.
She thinks he's going to join her, but he vanishes again, going to the kitchen, and when he returns, he's holding a large tub of ice cream, and two spoons. She lifts an eyebrow, and he shrugs. "Freezer's out," he reminds her. "Can't have it going to waste."
Which is how she comes to be sitting curled up against him on his couch, the cold ice cream a delicious counterpoint to the warmth of his body against hers. They talk in the candlelight, sharing stories and confidences, occasionally interrupting their conversations in favour of other pursuits, and she's surprised to realise she's enjoying herself.
They stay like that until all the ice cream is gone, and she's dozing on his shoulder, his fingers moving lazily through her hair. That's when she feels as well as hears his soft chuckle, hears him ask, "So… you still hate storms?"
She smiles, snuggling closer to him. "They're not so bad."