Writing on a Blank Slate
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.
Rating: M for content of other chapters.
A/N: Once again, thank you for all the reviews. They make me so happy!
Chapter 22: "Have you thought about this?"
The question came completely out of the blue. Some time had passed since the day of the breakdown as they meandered slowly through Canada. They had stopped at a national park, where they had watched in awed silence as two black bears crossed the trail in front of them. They had spent a night in their sleeping bags in the back of the car when they realized that they weren't going to reach a motel before dawn, and had woken, stiff-muscled and more than a little cold, in time to watch the sunrise. They had made out under the stars. They had talked about everything; their hopes, their dreams, their plans for the future.
Not everything had been perfect, of course. Nick had woken one morning to the sound of Sara closing the motel door softly behind her. He had tensed for a moment, but relaxed when he didn't hear the car start. Obviously she wasn't abandoning him, and he reflected that kind words, deep conversations and sex – even sex as great as they'd been having – probably weren't sufficient to exorcise all the ghosts of her past.
She had returned over an hour later, apologizing, saying that she had just needed some time to be alone. She had obviously expected him to be mad, but he had swallowed his annoyance and hugged her instead, asking her to tell him the next time so that he wouldn't worry.
Confronting his own ghosts hasn't been easy either. Talking about the baby-sitter who had molested him had re-opened a wound that had taken several days to close again. He was grateful that Sara, usually so easily hurt and so swift to feel rejected, had been able to understand the uncharacteristic reticence that had overtaken him for several days and hadn't pushed him, physically or emotionally, until his mood had cleared. He was glad too, once the initial pain of memory had subsided, to have the issue out in the open.
Then there had been his hand. Sara had woken one night to feel him burning with fever and drenched with sweat beside her. At that point she had insisted that he see a doctor, who had diagnosed an infection in his burned hand. He had been prescribed some heavy antibiotics and had felt like death for days, but the drugs had done the trick and his hand was finally healing.
On top of all of that, there were days when certain articles on the news or in the papers would evoke unwelcome memories of cases that they had worked in what they were already coming to think of as their past lives, and they had both spent more than one night comforting and being comforted when recollection denied them peace of mind.
But, overall, the bad times were fleeting; small clouds that only occasionally darkened the sunshine of their happiness.
That sun was shining brilliantly this morning, both literally and figuratively, turning the maple syrup in which Sara was drowning her pancakes into deep, gleaming gold. She finished pouring, setting the jug down and licking the sticky residue from her fingers with a blissful smile, and that was when he asked the question.
"Marry me."
She froze, one finger still in her mouth, then slowly withdrew it, her eyes, wide with shock, never leaving his.
"Uh, what did you say?"
"Marry me. Let's get married."
She shook her head slightly, a dazed frown on her face.
"Have you thought about this, Nick?" she asked incredulously.
"Sure," he lied because, although he had been considering the idea for days, his rational mind had been insisting that it was much too soon to say anything. Evidently his subconscious had decided to intervene and the words had just popped out. Which, he supposed, gave a whole new meaning to the phrase 'popping the question'.
"We've been dating for what, a month?" she asked.
"We've known each other for more than five years," he countered. "And, if you ask me, what we've been doing constitutes a little more than just 'dating'."
She was quiet for a moment.
"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" she asked in a different tone of voice.
"Yes," he replied, not joking now. "Yeah, Sara, I'm really serious. I want you to marry me. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together."
For emphasis, he picked up her still-sticky hand and kissed it.
"Okay," Sara nodded, as her gaze met his.
"Okay?" he repeated, and she smiled, then grinned, unable to help it, and repeated more decisively:
"Okay. Yes. Yes, I'll marry you."
The sun shone down brightly.