I own nothing... Especial thanks to Alanis Morissette and Pink, whose songs I make a slight mention of.
I apologize if it's OOC. Fifty lashes with a wet noodle.
"Brown hair. A little taller than me. Nice muscles, not a beefcake, though," she said slowly, rewarded with a chorus of giggles. "He has to be at least fairly intelligent. And a great smile." A thirteen-year-old Sara Sidle finished her confession with a grin, eliciting another round of squeals and giggles from the small but tight-knit group of friends. "Sounds handsome," chimed in Erin, a girl with stringy blonde hair. "Have someone in mind?" She asked, causing her friend to blush a deep crimson.
"No, no. Not yet, at least." A short but tough Asian girl named Suzie winked at Sara, "And I guess when you meet him it'll be love at first sight, and he'll sweep you off your feet and you'll spend fifty years together. Be sure to invite us to the wedding." Sara laughed heartily. "Yeah, I guess it does sound pretty stupid. Pass the cookie dough."
Well, if Sara hadn't had a name for her dream guy then, she certainly did now. She returned to the present quickly, the memory ending as suddenly as it invited itself into consciousness. Willing the wistful smile hat invaded her face to go away, she pulled her coat over her shoulders and walked out of the CSI locker room.
The morning desert air was biting, causing the thirty-something scientist to draw her wool coat closer around her person. "Hey girl," Warrick's deep voice interrupted her bitter thoughts aimed at the weather. "You actually punching out on time today?" His voice contained just a hint of friendly sarcasm. "Yeah, guess so," Sara replied, her retort missing the punch and vigor she usually had a store of. Warrick's easy smile faltered slightly, and he rubbed her shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Ok, then. Keep warm, ya hear?'
As she nodded and retreated to her SUV, he whipped out his cell phone. Punching in a number, he patiently waited for the other line to pick up as he watched Sara's SUV glide out of the parking lot. "Hey man. It's 'Rick. Hate to bother you on your day off, but you know that "perfect opportunity" you were waiting for? It's here."
Arriving at her small rust-colored house, Sara slowly stepped out of the Denali. Bumping the door shut with her hip, she wrinkled her nose, the usual distasteful thoughts about the environmental monstrosity surfacing again. Entering her house, she hit a button on her stereo, releasing strains of 'You Oughta Know' by Alanis Morissette, courtesy a mix Greg made for her. As the song transitioned to 'Like a Pill' by Pink, her doorbell rang. Turning the music down, she answered it, wondering in the back of her mind who could be visiting so late.
Swinging the oak barrier open, she was suddenly aware of her tank top and thin black sweatpants as cold air rushed in. Sara felt her face flush as the rest of her body reacted to the cold. "Nick," she croaked, her voice cracking as her throat constricted with surprise and cold. "Come in," acting on her first instinct, she was glad to discover her voice had normalized. Her Texan co-worker strode inside, glad to be out of the dawn air.
After getting him situated on her couch, Sara frowned. "Grissom didn't call you in, did he? It's your day off! If he did, I'll kill him. I know how to hide the evidence. You've been working hard; you deserve to-" Nick silenced her tirade by raising a hand in protest, softening his interruption with a grin, a dimple digging into his cheek. "Naw, I haven't talked to Gris all day. Warrick was the one who asked me to come over." Sara's brow knotted slightly, not exactly comprehending what he had said. "He told me you sounded a little… down," Nick admitted, hoping he had chosen the least offensive adjective. Her expression, changing from confused to insulted, quickly tipped him off that his efforts had been for naught. She stood abruptly and stormed down the hall to the kitchen. Nick followed her wordlessly, knowing that as she started her next rampage he'd have to wait it out.
"I know you all think I'm some pathetic, debilitated alcoholic who can't work a case worth jack squat, but I do not need you to come over here and tell me that. Furthermore, Mr. Stokes, I'll have you know that Warrick Brown is neither my shrink, my PEAP counselor, nor my mother. Therefore, he as absolutely no right to analyze me, let alone even suggest…" Her words trailed off, all brain cells suddenly distracted by the large hand just above her hip. Whirling around with a question in her eyes, Nick spoke softly.
"He called because he cares. We all do. You're a great CSI, Sara. That's why I love you." Whoops, Nick thought. That certainly constituted letting the cat out of the bag. He had actually intended to say, "That's why we love you," but evidently, his brain had treacherously replaced the collective with the singular. "W-what?" Sara squeaked in a thrown, shocked tone. If he hadn't been in danger of getting his heart smooshed by a 110-pound woman Nick might have found the sound funny.
"I love you," he repeated plainly, favoring the direct approach, as always. In his eyes, he had already spilt the beans. There was no back-pedaling, if he was going to make the worst mistake or best choice of his life, he was going to do his damndest to do it right. Bending his neck slightly to close the five inches of height he had on her, he looked into her eyes, and began a question. "Sara,"
(See bottom of page for long-winded explanation)
His tentative voice was cut off my as set of soft lips landing shyly but deliberately on his. He responded in kind, one of his hands slowly joining its twin on Sara's waist. The pair's first kiss steadily gained momentum, until they gasped for air, lungs battling brain for control. Sara ran a hand through her hair, the other grasping one of Nick's stocky forearms. Nick's body was pressed against hers, if they were any closer, they would be one being. Sliding his hands off her waist, he rested them on the countertop that he was pressing Sara onto. "Well, he grinned, a hint of mischief sneaking into his forever-young eyes. "That was one of the best first kisses I've ever hand."
"Only one of?" Sara asked, uncharacteristic coquettishness sneaking into her speech. She arched her eyebrows and cocked her head as she considered Nick's lips while he replied. "It's on my top ten list." His answer was swift; as was the brain-boggling kiss he stole afterwards. As he broke away, her playful tone matched his. "Which number is it?"
"One."
(Here, Nick's thoughts are closed to us, the audience. I got annoyed with the way most authors' jump right into all of their character's brains. In reality, we only now the way one person thinks the conversation if going. Us. Anyway, back to the point. I thought I'd leave what Nick's thinking at this moment up to you. Does he regret his admission, or is he glad he got it off his chest? How long has he loved Sara? Is he worried she'll turn him down because she's preoccupied with work or Grissom? What about the question? Is he going for "Do you want me to leave?" or, "Do I even have a chance?" or, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," or "Can't you see I'm twice the man Gil Grissom will ever be?" or "Just to make the readers of this fanfic happy, will you marry me?" Trust me, it wasn't that one. Because I know that each person has an opinion on what Nick should say in this situation, I just decided to shut up. Except I've been yapping constantly. Ok, now could you review the fic, maybe? Please??.)
Me again. For the record, this was a plot bunny that distracted me from the W/S fic I'm TRYING to write, but failing (as well as sleeping last night, but who needs sleep?) Props to all my friends who put up with my CSI obsession. Oh, and, I did stop writing 'For Las Vegas' because I COULD NOT get Grissom to stay IC in my head! Gah.
This is probably not a WIP, but who knows? I may write a second chapter if I get another bout of snickersitis. Thanks a bunch, reviews mean tons.
