Title: The Sting of Lavender
Author: Jeanine (jeanineiol.ie)
Rating: PG
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Sara/Warrick
Feedback: Makes my day
Word Count: 499
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site Checkmate (http:helsinkibaby.ahkay.net) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: Lavender's meant to soothe…
Notes: For the LiveJournal CSReports scent challenge
Even with the window open, the room still smells of chemicals, making Sara's eyes water. Funny that they didn't do that while she and Warrick were actually painting the room, walls a warm shade of yellow, turning almost amber now against the setting sun. On top of the new paint smell, there is the sharper scent of varnish, lovingly applied to the floorboards, the chest of drawers, the cradle in the corner.
That's what draws her attention now, that and the small lavender bear lying in it. Holding it to her nose, there is the combined scent of washing detergent – because Mom had sent it from Tomales Bay, and it had been the worst for transport – and lavender – because Mom had sent sachets of lavender with it, all ready to be popped in the little pouch at the back.
One hand clutching the bear, the other falls to the bed sheets, and she thinks she can just about still smell the vague scent of packing plastic. It offends her somehow, because such a smell should have no place here, not in this cradle, and she sees, as if it belongs to someone else, her own hand reaching out to the sheets, all ready to strip them off.
Then she stops, because to disturb the crib seems more obscene.
She takes a deep breath, lavender filling her nostrils, and it's meant to soothe, but it aggravates her eyes more than the chemicals did, blurs her vision, sends tears rolling down her cheeks. She's not prepared for the sob that rips from her throat, because she hasn't cried, not yet, and she doesn't want to.
If she cries, that makes everything real.
She battles back the tears with all her might, but then she senses a presence behind her, feels a hand on her arm. She doesn't look up, because she knows who it is, but Warrick's not going to take no for an answer, pulls her into his arms. His familiar scent – soap and cologne and the same laundry detergent that's on the bear – surrounds her, and it breaks down the last of her barriers, pulls another wrenching sob from deep within her.
"I know, baby," he whispers, one hand moving through her hair. "I know."
From anyone else, it would be just words. But Warrick does know what she's going through, and the memory of waking up in the hospital, seeing the pain in his eyes, makes her knees buckle. He supports her, lowers her to the ground, but that's no good either, because here all she can smell are paint and varnish, and that's too close to the smell of the place where they picked out the tiniest white coffin she's ever seen.
Maybe he feels the same, because she feels herself being lifted, and then she's in their room, their bed, the place that has long been her sanctuary. Once there, she holds on to him tightly, the smell of lavender between them, and they cry together.