Different Roads

by J9

There's no way to know what might have been..." - One day in San Francisco, Sara gets a phone call. (Warrick-Sara, AU)

Title: Different Roads

Pairing: Warrick/Sara

Rating: PG, AU

Word Count: 7,910

Notes: For the LiveJournal warricksara "What might have been" challenge.

Summary: There's no way of knowing what might have been

As a night shift CSI, Sara was used to her phone going off in the early hours of the morning, was resigned to the fact that it rarely, if ever, brought good news, and that even if it brought good news for her – a break in the case, a vital piece of evidence doing what she wanted it to do – there would still be a family somewhere grieving a lost loved one, there would still be someone, somewhere, who was getting over an attack, an injury.

Tonight though, she looked at the name that came up on her caller ID, and a smile spread across her lips. It was a name that she rarely saw there, a person that she talked to only on occasion, but a name that was no less welcome for all that. At least she knew that, with him, she was guaranteed an escape from her own case, would get to cast an eye over someone else's.

"Sidle," was her customary greeting, the one she used, and she thought she managed to keep the smile out of her voice, if not off her face. No sense in letting him know how much she looked forward to his infrequent phone calls.

"Sara? It's Grissom. Gil Grissom." If his slightly added, vaguely distracted, tone was an indication, she'd succeeded an awful lot better than she'd thought, and she lets her smile show through, lets it bleed into her voice.

"Grissom! How are you?"

"Good… good…" Except, he didn't really sound good, and she tilted her head, frowning, even though he couldn't see her.

"Grissom?" she prompted, and from the other end of the line, there came the sound of a throat being cleared.

"Sara, it's like this…" There was a long pause, and then, three words she'd never thought she'd hear from Gil Grissom. "I need you."

She didn't have to think twice. "I'm listening."

To say that the phone call had spun her head around would be something of an understatement, and it had left Sara with much to think about. Unfortunately, her job didn't exactly give her time to think, not with evidence to process, suspects to chase. She felt vaguely guilty about it really, knowing that she wasn't giving her job her full attention, but she could no more stop thinking about Grissom's offer than she could sprout wings and fly to the moon. For the first time in her life, it was a relief when shift was officially over, but even then, events conspired against her, one of the police detectives managing to unearth a suspect she'd been looking for just as she was about to clock out, and she'd turned right around, followed him to the suspect's house, spent an hour going over the place, another two processing it, and another interviewing the suspect. By the time she got home, she was so tired she could hardly see straight, and considering she was a woman who didn't need much sleep, she found herself wondering if it wasn't the decision she had to make that was draining her so.

Letting herself in, she pushed the door open, listening carefully as she slid the key back out, hearing only silence. A quick glance at her watch as she hung up her jacket made her groan; she hadn't realised just how late it was.

She knew there was no point calling out to anyone, not at this hour of the day, and she was surprised at how much that upset her, surprised at how much she needed to see him. Sighing, she pushed her hair back from her face, padded wearily into the kitchen, hoping against hope that there was something edible in the refrigerator. She needed food in her stomach, a long hot shower, and a couple of hours sleep, and she really wasn't fussy about which order they should come in.

Her hand was on the refrigerator door handle when she smiled, courtesy of the yellow post-it note stuck on at eye level. "Fresh squeezed orange juice in the container," it read. "Pancakes on the shelf underneath." She didn't have to ask to know that the pancakes would be home-made, the juice just how she liked it, nor did she have to check to know that there would be a fresh pot of coffee brewed, that all she had to do was turn around and flick a switch and she'd have the best coffee she'd ever tasted in no time.

The second the thought hit her, she could practically smell the rich aroma, feel the thick liquid sliding down her throat, and the need to feel those sensations was overwhelming. Dropping her hand, she pivoted neatly on her heel, laughing out loud when she saw another yellow post-it note stuck to the top of the machine. "Sleep first!" it ordered, both words underlined, and without conscious thought, she found herself turning back to the refrigerator, pouring herself a glass of orange juice, putting the stack of pancakes into the microwave and leaving them to heat.

The morning paper was on the counter, turned to the sports pages, and she suppressed a grin, turning to the front and leafing through it. There were a number of articles that were familiar to her, cases she'd worked, cases she'd heard other people talking about, nothing on the case she was working on at the moment, which she supposed was a good thing. Further into the paper were the entertainment notices, details of which bands were playing where and when, and she recognised a good many of those too, had frequented most of those places, heard lots of the bands. There was one particular ad, though, that made her smile flicker, made her take in a deep breath as she was reminded of the choice she had to make.

The bing of the microwave made her jump, and she chuckled, chiding herself for her silliness as she walked over, taking out the plate, pouring herself another glass of juice while she was there. Obediently – and wow, wouldn't he be thrilled if he could see her, and wouldn't he get a kick out of this, if she ever told him, that is – she left the coffee pot alone, taking plate and glass into the living room, finding a magazine on the coffee table, flipping through it idly as she ate.

Once food was checked off her mental to-do list, once the dishes were in the dishwater, she made her way to the bedroom, stopping there only long enough to cross to the dresser, pull out the top drawer. There, resting on top of the neatly pressed t-shirts that were miles too big for her, there was a third post-it note, one that once again made her laugh. "Get your own clothes!" it said, but there was a smiley face drawn beside the exclamation mark, and she felt safe enough blithely ignoring it, taking the first t-shirt that her hand fell on and padding into the bathroom.

A quick shower and wash of the hair later, she was ready to crawl into bed for a couple of hours, and for the first time that morning, she was thankful that he wasn't there, knowing that if he were, she'd get a lecture for climbing into bed with wet hair. He used to tell her that she'd catch her dead of cold doing that, and she'd roll her eyes, muttering something about old wives' tales, sometimes drying her hair, sometimes not, depending on her mood. Today, she pushed any such thoughts out of her mind pulling back the covers, smiling once more as she saw a fourth, and, she knew, final, post-it note, on his pillow.

"Sleep," it said. "You know where I am."

Smiling, she lay down on her side, facing his pillow, left the note where it was. One finger lazily traced the curve of his script, the way it usually traced the curve of his shoulder, and, closing her eyes, she was asleep in seconds.

Rolling over, she opened her eyes slowly, grimacing as the light offended her senses. It took a couple of minutes for her to adjust, to look at the clock on the bedside table, and she groaned, realising that she'd slept for four hours, that before too long she was going to have to go to work, and she still hadn't made any decisions about the new direction that fate had decided to introduce her to.

But then, that was the problem – it wasn't a decision just for her.

Rising, she padded to the bathroom, threw some cold water on her face and brushed her teeth, trying to tell herself that she could handle this, rehearsing phrases that she could use, arguments she could make, counter-arguments that he could. She was still doing that as she made her way back into the bedroom, continued doing that as she straightened the bedclothes, and as she dressed.

It was only when she was standing in front of the mirror, ready to go, that she realised what she was wearing.

There was nothing special about the blue jeans, they weren't a designer label, weren't especially expensive. They were, however, his favourite jeans on her, jeans that rested low on her hips, the material moulding itself to the curves of her body in ways that were pleasing to him, certainly if the look on his face, in his eyes, when she wore them was anything to go by.

Red short-sleeved blouse, that deep shade of red that he loved on her, and she remembered the first time she wore it, how his eyes had lingered over her body, and how, at the end of the day, he hadn't been able to get it off her fast enough. The neckline was a deep V, not too low as to be indecent, but low enough that it perfectly showcased the necklace she was wearing, the thin gold chain, tiny ruby and diamond pendant glistening at the end. He'd given her that necklace last Christmas, and when she'd protested, told him that it was too expensive, he'd silenced her in the way that only he could, starting with a kiss, ending with them tangled in the bed sheets and each other, her necklace the only thing either of them were wearing.

Black boots, sensible enough comfortable enough that she could walk for hours in them, work a shift in them. Perfectly serviceable boots, but still with a high enough heel that, when she wore them, she gained just enough height that she was practically on eye level with him, could look into his eyes easily, lose herself there.

All in all, it was a thoroughly ordinary outfit. Not out of place in the lab, not out of place anywhere. Nothing noteworthy about it; nobody would give her a second look.

Except him, and she didn't know if the fact that she'd subconsciously picked out an outfit like this meant anything at all, much less what that meaning might be.

But meaning or no meaning, it only took a look at her watch to tell her that it was time for her to be on her way.

The late afternoon breeze was light and steady, blowing Sara's curly hair around her face, making her wish that she'd spared a little time to get the straightening iron out, or, at the very least that she hadn't gone to sleep on wet hair. His old wives' tales aside, sleeping on wet hair always made it impossible to tame when she woke up. Of course, he never complained about that fact, loved her hair when it was curly and wild, said it made her look rumpled and passionate… and that made her laugh, the fact that he could take one of the things she hated most about herself and use it to make her laugh, make her feel loved.

It was a nice day, the sun high in the sky, San Francisco's famous pea-soup fog notably absent, and she parked a little further away than she really needed to on purpose, deciding to walk the rest of the way. The Fisherman's Wharf area was crowded, as it always was, and she took her time as she moved, taking in every sight, every sound, every smile, reminding herself once again how much she loved this city, why she'd come back here after her time at Harvard, how she'd never wanted to leave since.

And eventually, she came to the real reason why she'd been enjoying life in the city these past few months; Rick's Place.

It wasn't anything fancy, not from the outside. Another façade along the street, discreet sign over the door, opaque windows not giving any clues as to what the interior looked like. The name of the place conjured up, and always had, images of Casablanca, and when she first walked into the place, with a group of friends from work, Sara had been distinctly unimpressed. The interior was quite small, all decked out in dark wood that made it look even smaller, tables and chairs scattered throughout, large screen televisions on each wall, showing whatever sporting event happened to be going on at the time, everything from football and basketball to tractor pulling. The first time Sara walked in, the bar had been well-stocked, a throng of people in front of it, and she remembered looking at Danny, whose idea it had been to go there, and uttering the immortal words, "Who the hell runs a place like this?"

It had in no way, shape or form, she would remind her friends later that night, and often over subsequent months, that the owner of the bar happened to be standing right behind her as she spoke.

"An ex-ball player turned musician who wants to put down some roots?"

The words had paralysed her, sending Danny into paroxysms of laughter, and Sara had instantly realised what had happened. Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she turned, intending to bluff her way out of the situation; hell, she'd bluffed her way past many a hardened criminal in the interrogation room, some musician jock should be no problem, right?

Then she laid eyes on said musician jock, and every thought, coherent and otherwise, went straight out of her head.

It could have been his build - tall and muscled and didn't that blue shirt with the top three buttons open play to all his strengths?

It could have been his smile - white and even and genuinely amused, not a speck of irritation.

It could have been his eyes - blue or green or hazel, she couldn't tell, but they sparkled with laughter and teasing and, yep, genuine interest as they flickered over her form.

It could even have been a combination of all those things, but whatever it was, Sara fell for him right then and there, and later, every single one of her friends would attest that no, love at first sight wasn't too strong a cliché, that they were there and they saw it happen. That they never would have thought that the calm, composed and completely rational Sara Sidle could ever fall so fast, but that that's what had happened.

Of course, Sara would tell them that she'd known it was possible, that it had happened to her before, at an forensic entomology lecture at Berkeley, when she'd been entranced with a certain Doctor Gil Grissom, had struck up a conversation, and later, a friendship with him.

This time, however, was very very different.

Because when Tall-Dark-and-oh-so-very-very-Handsome extended a hand to her, said, "Name's Warrick Brown… and you are?" she'd known, from the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, the touch of her hand, that this time, her attraction was reciprocated.

"Sara Sidle," she'd said, and he'd tilted his head in unmistakeable challenge.

"So, Sara Sidle… you're not too impressed with the place?"

She'd shrugged, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, even though it was already behind her ear and in no danger of falling out. "I'm not much into sports," she'd explained, looking pointedly at the screens. "Though I guess you are?"

"Among other things," he'd said. "Let me show you the rest of the place." She'd looked at him curiously, hadn't even known that there was a rest of the place, and he'd taken her elbow with complete confidence, leading her in the direction of the bar. Once she got closer, she realised that the room went right the way around behind the bar, opening out to a far larger area, and, not only that, but there were steps going down, opening out into a basement dance floor, a bar in one corner, a bandstand in the other. A band were in full swing, jazz music winding its way through the swaying couples on the floor, and everyone looked like they were having a great time.

"Wow." Sara had breathed the word without being consciously aware of it, and Warrick had gestured to a table in the far corner of the room.

"Why don't you and your friends sit over there?" he suggested, in a way that someone does when it's not really a suggestion at all. "I'll get someone to come over and take your order."

With that, he'd vanished, and Sara's friends had led her to the table, making fun of her all the while, even if they admitted that it had gotten them one of the best seats in the house. They stopped making fun of her when not only did a waiter come over to take their order – on the house, he explained, compliments of the owner – but he'd brought a bottle of champagne over with him, also complimentary. "Damn girl," Danny had laughed, rolling his eyes. "If this is what happens when you insult him, I want to be there when you don't!"

She'd laughed, cheeks crimson, but she'd stopped when Warrick got up on stage, sat down at the piano and began playing, looking at her instead of the music for most of the time. She'd thought it was her imagination, but her friends soon left her in no doubt that it wasn't, and later, when he'd come down from the stage to talk to her, they'd made themselves scarce.

Sara never had been a person who opened up easily to others, but there was something about Warrick that made her downright chatty, and she told him all about the work she did, about how she'd grown up in Tomales Bay, not too far away from here. She'd told him about Harvard, about how she'd never felt settled on the East Coast, how the Bay Area felt like home, and he'd nodded sagely, told her he knew just what she meant. He was a native of Las Vegas, he'd told her, but had left there at nineteen, walking away after his freshman year at UNLV to play semi-pro ball. He'd had a good career, had come with an ace of making it to the majors, until he'd injured his knee. "Typical athlete's sob story," he'd opined, a smile on his face that told her he was over it. Unsure of what to do with his life, he'd fallen back on music, taking session work, playing with various bands before joining up with a jazz quartet that were moderately successful. He'd travelled the country with them, doing quite well for himself, and on his travels, he'd met a girl from San Francisco, and when the tour had finished, he'd moved to the city to be with her. The love affair with the girl hadn't lasted, but the love affair with city had, and one day he'd been walking by the bar, seen the "for sale" sign, and fallen in love.

The rest, he said with an easy smile, was history, and Sara had found herself smiling back.

By the time she'd danced with him, agreed to let him put her into a cab, she was halfway ready to ask him back to her place, and that was something she never did. He hadn't given her a chance though, had simply kissed her on the cheek, sliding the card with her number on it into his back pocket.

She hadn't expected to hear from him, but he'd called her the next day, asked her out, and they'd together ever since.

The bar hadn't changed in the nearly-a-year since that day, but the early-afternoon quiet meant that Joe behind the bar could wave at her, exchanging small talk before telling her that Warrick was downstairs. She knew that though, could hear the sultry piano that was his trademark wafting up from the downstairs area, closed off to patrons at this stage of the day, the melody familiar to her, as it should be, considering she'd listened to it in its various stages of inception over the last week.

She walked down the stairs slowly, knowing what she was going to see when she reached the bottom. She was right, but it still made her smile, the sight of him at the piano, back slightly hunched, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips pursed in concentration. His fingers danced across the keys, and she wrapped her arms around herself, thinking how many nights and days she'd watched him like that, how many nights and days those fingers had danced across her body, whether to make her tremble with pleasure or to stop her trembling in fear from yet another nightmare.

Funny, she thought, how you could get so used to something without even realising it.

As she watched, his fingers began to slow over the keys, the mask of concentration falling from his face. As if he could feel the intensity of her gaze, he looked up, looked dead into her eyes, and, as he did, that huge smile that had done a number on her heart from the very first day she saw him made an appearance. It was wide and warm like sunshine, and she felt herself smiling back, even as he stood up, saying, "There's my girl," walking over to her and wrapping her in his arms.

She returned the hug, her arms going around his neck, holding on tightly, more tightly, she knew, than she usually would. She could feel his surprise, read it in the slight loosening, then tightening, of his grip on her, in the little sound he made at the back of his throat. Most of all, she could see it in his eyes when she finally let him go, pulled her head back so that she could look up at him.

Eyes narrowed, his hands on her shoulders, he didn't beat around the bush. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she hastened to reassure him, knowing that, very shortly, it could be, and she still hadn't come to any decisions. "It's just… I mean… I need…" Closing her eyes, she bit her lip and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, he looked more worried than ever, and she was acutely aware of the musicians on the stage looking at them with interest. "Can we talk?" she finally asked, and he nodded.

"Guys, take a break," he said, not even looking at them, leading her over to the table where she'd sat the night that this had all begun. Pulling out a chair for her, he sat down beside her, so close that their knees were touching, their joined hands resting on the cool dark wood of the table. He didn't drop her hand, nor did he speak, not until they were sitting down. "What's wrong?" he said again.

She didn't bother denying that anything was wrong; he wouldn't believe her anyway. "I got a phone call today," she told him quietly, getting straight to the point. "From Gil Grissom."

Warrick nodded, recognising the name. "That's the bug guy that calls you up?" The nickname made Sara smile, and Warrick's lips twitched too, even if his eyes were still suspicious. "The one you have a crush on?"

Sara didn't bother to deny that either, because even if it was true, even if her crush on Grissom was nothing compared to what she shared with Warrick, it was far from the issue at hand. "He's one of the top forensic entomologists in the country… if not the world," she reminded him, and he waved his free hand as he rolled his eyes.

"Bug guy," he said flatly, and it was her turn to roll her eyes. "What did he want?"

"Me." Only when Warrick's jaw dropped did she realise how that sounded, and she added quickly, "He wanted to offer me a job."

"A job." Warrick spoke slowly, obviously rolling each word around in his mind, looking for the consequences, the ins and outs of what she was saying.

In contrast, when Sara spoke, her words were hurried, as she tried to get everything out. "He's the night shift supervisor at the Las Vegas Crime Lab… they're the number two crime lab in the country, Warrick. One of his CSIs, Holly Stokes, is going out on maternity leave next month… and her husband works on the same shift, so they're going to be two down for a little while… and there's a key position that's going to open up, so they'll be looking to fill a slot anyway… and he thought of me."

"Of course he did." Despite the implications – and she knew he knew what they were – Warrick's pride in her rang loud and clear. "He knows you're the best." Pleased and flattered, Sara dropped her head, curls dropping to hide her blush, a blush that only intensified when Warrick reached over, tucked the offending curls securely behind her ear. "You know that," he said, voice husky and low, sending shivers up her spine.

"It's the same job I have now, basically," she told him. "CSI Level 3, there's no pay bump or anything like that… but it's the number two lab in the country, and working with Grissom… Warrick, I've learned more in one seminar with him than I did in a year of working in San Francisco…"

"I understand." Warrick's eyes were about ten shades darker than they usually were, his face sombre. "It's a hell of a career opportunity for you."

"It is." And all things being equal, Sara knew, professionally speaking, that she'd be crazy to give it up.

Four years ago, a year ago even, she would have dropped everything, gone to Las Vegas at a moment's notice to help out Gil Grissom.

But for once, her job wasn't the be-all-and-end-all of her life, and she had something else, someone else, to consider.

So, taking a deep breath, she squeezed Warrick's hand and asked the question that had been bothering her since she'd heard Grissom's voice on the other end of the phone. "What do you think?"

He held her gaze, quiet and serious, for a long moment, then he smiled, chuckled as he rubbed a hand over his jaw, his other thumb making sweeping patterns over her knuckles. "Number two lab… your forensics hero… tough to turn down," was all he said, and Sara swallowed hard, suddenly afraid of the direction this conversation was going in.

"There are a lot of reasons to take it," she heard herself saying. "I know that. And if it was just me… it probably wouldn't be so hard. But it's not just me." A horrible fear knifed her heart as she said the words, and suddenly she could barely breathe. "Or is it?"

Warrick's eyes flared wide, and he shook his head rapidly. "No." One firm word was all it took to have Sara's heart-rate returning to normal, though her hands were very cold all of a sudden. "Sara, I want what's best for you… you know that… and I want you. You know that too."

Sara drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and, for the first time in her romantic life, laid all her cards on the table. "If I moved to Vegas," she asked him, "What would you do? Would you come with me?"

There was a long silence, one where she could see him weighing his decision, weighing his words carefully, and she didn't rush him, didn't do anything that might hurry him along. This decision was too important for that.

Finally, his hand closed over their joined ones on the table, and he let out a long sigh. "I don't know," he said, and everything she felt, every bit of confusion, of frustration, was mirrored on his face. "It'd be nice to see the place again… show you where I grew up… be nice to be closer to Grams, that's for sure…" Another pause, another sigh. "But Sara… there were reasons why I left there… people and places and things I did…" And she nodded, because she knew that he hadn't left college purely of his own choice, that some of the people he mixed with in his job as a runner weren't exactly the Vegas elite. But he'd never told her the details, and she'd never asked, and she honestly wasn't sure she wanted to know. "It was a long time ago, I know that… but I like San Francisco… and I have this place… I've made a life here Sara… I don't know that I want to leave it."

Which, if she was honest with herself, is exactly what she'd expected him to say, and it left her no nearer to a decision.

Closing her eyes, she nodded slowly, reached up to rub the bridge of her nose with her free hand. "OK." Another pause, a squeeze of her hand, and she opened her eyes, looked up at the ceiling of the club. "OK." Another nod, a hard swallow, and she was able to meet his eyes. "I'm going to need to think about this some more…"

"Sara…" Her name on his breath made her want to cry, remembering the more pleasurable occasions when it had sounded so, and she had to look down again, because if she looked into his eyes, she knew she'd begin to cry. Of course, that just meant that she was looking at their joined hands, and she'd always loved Warrick's hands, how big and soft and warm they were, how safe they made her feel. "Sara, if you want this job… you should take it," he said, and she knew he meant it. "This is 2004… we have email and cell phones and Vegas isn't that far away by plane…" He reached over, tilted her chin up so that he was looking into her eyes again. "You don't get rid of me that easily."

Against all odds, she smiled. "Good to know," she whispered. She was about to ask him something else when the pager on her hip began to vibrate, and she groaned softly, saw the irritation flit across his face, settle in the thin line of his lip. Giving him an apologetic look, she checked the device, because she knew they wouldn't page her this early for shift if it wasn't important. What she saw there had her closing her eyes, gritting her teeth, because it was the one thing she didn't need. "My suspect decided to talk… he gave up his accomplice; they want me to go search a house."

To his credit, Warrick didn't blink. "Go," he said simply.

She stood, but she didn't loosen her grip on his hand; nor, she noticed, did he on hers. "I'll see you at home?" she asked, and he nodded.

"I'll make breakfast," he promised, and she smiled, leaning down to brush her lips across his. She meant it to be a quick kiss, but his hand went to the back of her neck, holding her in place, and she was breathing hard when she pulled away, almost knocked over her chair as she stepped back, because if he kissed her like that any longer, she was going to forget that she had a job to go to.

"I'll see you later," she said, all but running out of the bar, and she could feel his eyes on her back the entire way.

If there was one thing that Sara had learned during her time as a CSI, it was that, sometimes, if you got very, very lucky, criminals actually made it easy on criminalists to catch them. The call that she responded to turned out to be one such time, and while she was grateful for such occurrences at any time, today, she was even more grateful, because all she could think about for the entire time she was working was Warrick, and the decision that she had to make.

Thankfully, the evidence she was looking for was literally right out in the open, and when the suspect was brought in to the police station, he spilled the beans with virtually no interrogation whatsoever. She didn't exactly have to work hard, but even so, her distraction must have been obvious, because Jack, the detective on the case, turned to her when they left the interrogation room and asked her if she was feeling all right. Considering that Jack was the type of man who wouldn't ask if she was feeling all right were she dying of the flu and sneezing everywhere – and she knew this from personal experience; she had been and he hadn't – that told her all she needed to know about her behaviour, and how people were observing it. And if it hadn't, the fact that three other CSIs and two lab techs also asked if everything was ok was another giveaway.

Finally, the better to stay away from any prying eyes, she found a secluded office, settled down to her paperwork, making sure that every last I was dotted and that every last T was crossed. It still took her longer than she otherwise might have, and when she found herself making mental lists in shorthand, the pros and cons of going and staying, she knew it was time to take a break. A quick check of her watch, however, told her that it was almost time to go home, so she stood, made her way quickly to the evidence vault to store her paperwork with the evidence, before heading to her locker. The one thing she didn't want today was to get caught up doing overtime.

Heading for the locker room, she was joined by Danny and Hilary, two of her night shift counterparts, and Danny greeted her with a huge grin and a clap on the shoulder. "Hey, Sidle, I hear you got your man… congratulations!"

Sara grinned, though she had a feeling that it wasn't half what it normally would be. "Was there ever a doubt?" she asked, the kind of rejoinder that Danny would be expecting, and he laughed.

"Never." He spoke still with that laugh of his, but his eyes were curious, his brow furrowed, and she knew what was coming even before he spoke. "Hey, are you ok?"

She shrugged, made like she didn't know what she was talking about. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Danny looked at Hilary, who took the hint. "You just look tired, that's all," she said, and Sara shook her head.

"One of those days," she replied, hoping that they'd leave it at that, relieved when they reached the locker room and she could begin going through her locker, didn't have to look the two of them in the eyes.

"You know what it sounds to me like you need?" Danny asked, and she closed her eyes, fighting back a grin. When Danny asked a question like that in a tone like that, it could mean only one thing. She could almost say the words with him, but decided not to spoil his fun. "You need a night out with your friends… how about it?"

Sara turned to look at him, his head swivelling back and forth between her and Hilary, arms outstretched in question. "Danny, it's eight in the morning," she objected.

She should have known that wouldn't stop him. "So? We'll go to Rick's, he'll let us in."

"Rick's is closed," Sara reminded him, and Danny made a "Pffft" sound, gesturing over her shoulder to the pictures stuck to her locker door.

"What good's having an in with the owner if you don't use it?" he asked, and Sara knew he had a point. More than once, Warrick had let them use the place for impromptu work gatherings, be it during opening hours or not. However, Sara was pretty sure that the last thing either one of them wanted to do right at this moment was host a party.

She was saved from having to make excuses by Hilary, who was standing in front of her locker, tying back her long blonde hair. "And one of these days," she said, "Someone is going to hear of us doing that and Warrick's going to lose his license."

Danny held up his hands. "OK then… drinks at my place… who's in?"

Sara shook her head. "Breakfast plans with Warrick," she said, and she knew that both Danny and Hilary saw something in her expression, because they looked very worried all of a sudden.

"Everything ok between you two?" Hilary asked, and Sara sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"I'm not sure," she said honestly, letting out a long breath, feeling slightly guilty when she saw Hilary and Danny exchanging a worried glance.

"If there's anything we can do…" Hilary said, and Sara nodded, a lump rising up in her throat, choking her.

"Yeah," Danny said. "We'd hate to lose the softball sponsorship…"

"Danny!" Hilary sounded appalled, but all Sara could do was laugh, looking over her shoulder at the pictures in her locker again. Two in particular stood out. One was the entire night shift, clad in shorts and t-shirts, the words "Rick's Place," emblazoned proudly upon them. Taken by Warrick five months ago, they were all smiling and laughing, in high spirits, because they'd just managed to soundly trounce the day shift's team, and next month was the eagerly awaited rematch. Such was the level of animosity between the day shift and night shift supervisors that Eric, the night shift supervisor, had unofficially promised that anyone who did well at the game could virtually have their pick of cases for a month. Anyone who fouled up… well, he hadn't bothered to complete the threat, leaving each CSI to fill in their own particular problem area. Suffice it to say, the night shift crew were training in their time off, and training hard, and Sara grinned as she remembered batting practice with Warrick.

The second picture was taken the same day, this time with Danny behind the camera. It was one of her and Warrick, sitting side by side on one of the benches, watching the game. Neither of them had known that the camera was on them, and they were looking at one another, beaming smiles on both their faces, two people enjoying a day out, enjoying spending time together. Not one person had seen that picture without commenting on how happy they looked, what a handsome couple they were, or rather, what a handsome boyfriend she had, and Sara hadn't been able to disagree on any point.

Those pictures were in her locker for a reason; because no matter how lousy her day was, no matter how bad she was feeling, when she thought of that day, all she wanted to do was smile.

They'd never failed her, and they didn't fail her now.

So she smiled, saw, as if it belonged to someone else, her own hand reaching out, taking the picture of Warrick and her down from the locker door, bringing it closer to her.

And her smile grew wider.

"Sara?"

She turned at the feel of Danny's hand on her shoulder, knowing instantly from the tone of his voice that it wasn't the first time he'd said her name. "Sara, are you ok?"

She nodded, sticking the picture back in its place, reaching for her jacket. "Yeah Danny… I am."

Sliding her key into the apartment door, she listened hard, as was her habit, checking to see if she could hear anything. Sure enough, soft jazz music floated from the living room, a piece she recognised as being from one of Warrick's favourite CDs, and if that hadn't told her that he was up and about, the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen would have done it. A sniff of the air confirmed her suspicions, Grams's famous omelette recipe, and she kicked the door shut, shrugging out of her jacket as she called out, "It's me."

"Hey!" Warrick came out of the kitchen to meet her, and hungry as she was, the sight of him made her forget all about food. Barefoot in a pair of faded blue jeans, white shirt barely buttoned up, showing off his dark skin, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he was quite the arresting figure, and she didn't even try to stem her baser impulses, crossing to him in a few quick strides, winding her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his.

He responded enthusiastically, pushing her against the wall, kissing her the way she never thought she'd find anyone to kiss her, making her feel things that she never thought she'd feel. He kissed her like the world was about to end, like he wanted to hold on to her forever and never let her go, and she held on to him exactly the same way.

She wasn't sure who broke the kiss first, but she did know that they were both breathing hard, that his hands were on her hips, her shirt untucked from her jeans – and she allowed herself a little smile, because hadn't she known that shirt would drive him wild? His green eyes were dark, almost black with lust, and the hand that brushed her hair back from her face was shaking.

"We need to talk."

They both said the same words at the same time, laughing hesitantly, and Warrick took a step back, gesturing with one hand. "Ladies first."

"No… you."

He was silent for a moment, then he took a deep breath, as if he was marshalling his courage for what he was about to say. When he spoke, it was all in a rush, just as she'd spoken in the bar earlier. "I think you should take the job."

No matter what she'd been expecting, that wasn't it, and her jaw dropped. "What?"

"Take the job Sara," he told her. "It's the number two lab in the country; it's your mentor… I'll get a manager for the bar, we can stay with Grams until we find a place of our own… of course, we stay with Grams and she's not gonna want us to leave, but we can deal with that…" She was staring at him, unable to believe what he was saying, and he reached out, cupping her cheeks in his hands. "I want you to be happy Sara… and if that means you moving to Las Vegas… then I'm coming too."

Sara grinned at him, unable to speak, stepping closer to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. She held him tightly, closing her eyes against sudden tears, tears that were harder to keep back at the warm weight of his palms splayed against her back. She held on to him until she was strong enough to stand on her own, then she leaned back, taking his hands in hers.

"I'm staying," she said simply.

It was his turn for jaw-dropping astonishment, and he blinked twice, three times, running the words over in his mind. "Sara-"

She shook her head, because she didn't want to hear his arguments for going, not when hers for staying were so strong. "Warrick, I've done a lot of thinking today… and you know what I found out? That I like my life. I have a job I love, good friends… I have you… what's Vegas going to give me that I don't have right here?"

"I know that Sara…" he said slowly, after a moment's thought. "But you could have all that in Vegas as well… your career, it's important to you… and I don't want you looking back and wondering what if… I don't ever want you regretting something because of me…"

"Warrick, don't you get it?" Her palm on his cheek silenced him. "Everything about my life… I'm happy… there's not a single thing I want to change."

He wanted to believe her, and she could see the struggle in his eyes, that he was torn between accepting what she was saying and trying to get her to change her mind. "Are you sure?" he whispered, and she nodded, didn't hesitate.

"I'm sure." She brushed her lips over his, sealing the words with a kiss, her fingers tracing a path from his cheek down his neck, ending up on his shoulder, and she knew she's got through to him when a smile, the same smile that she'd seen the first day she met him, lit up his face.

"I would have gone with you, you know," he told her, and she smiled, knowing that it was true.

"And I love you for it," she told him, wincing when she heard how it sounded, relieved when he laughed, even though she knew it was at her expense.

"Oh, is that why it is?" he teased, and she chuckled, letting her fingers find the buttons of his shirt, undoing the few that were done up, sliding her hands around his waist.

"One of many reasons," she said, remembering his hands, his music, the yellow post-it notes that could periodically be found dotted around an empty apartment, the smiles at a softball game, lazy mornings spent talking and laughing in their bedroom, afternoon walks around the city hand in hand, coming home to find him waiting for her with food and a smile and open arms. There were a hundred other reasons she could think of, and she knew that after that, there were a hundred more, and a hundred more again, infinite reasons why she was the luckiest woman in the world, why her life was perfect.

"Ah." The soft whisper brought her back to reality, as did his own fingers on the buttons of her shirt. "I love you too, by the way."

He spoke as he leaned in to begin kissing a path down her neck, the words seeming almost like an afterthought, but they were no less meant for all that, no less well received. She arched her neck to grant him better access, taking a deep breath, and as she did, something occurred to her. "Shouldn't we check the food?" she murmured, surprised when he pulled back with no sense of urgency, at the slow smile that spread across his face.

"Oven timer."

Her slow smile matched his. "Isn't technology wonderful?" she murmured, pulling him close and kissing him again, food forgotten as she lost herself in his kisses. At some point, they would make it in to the kitchen, might even eat once they were in there, but she wasn't worried about when.

After all, they had all the time in the world.