Writing on a Blank Slate

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.

Rating: M for content of other chapters.

A/N: Just a reminder that I've never been to Canada, so my interpretation of the locals' reaction to Sara's French is based on my own experiences traveling in Europe. I apologise for any inaccuracies. As always, your reviews are appreciated and bring much happiness :)

Chapter 24: "I didn't say we had to ski."

As it turned out the language barrier was pretty easily surmounted, as Sara's halting French was usually greeted with friendly English. They soon realized, however, that the locals really appreciated their attempts to speak the language, so much so that even Nick was soon willing to try out a friendly 'salut'.

Looking out of their motel window one morning, Sara was surprised to notice that the leaves were beginning to turn. Even given how far north they were, she realized that they must have been on the road for the better part of two months.

"What're you thinking, darlin'?" Nick asked, from where he was sprawled comfortably on the bed behind her.

"It's fall," she answered, sounding slightly surprised, and he chuckled.

"Only up here. Back down in Vegas it's probably still hot enough to fry an egg. You dreamin' of a white Christmas, sweetheart?"

She grinned. "You read my mind. I was actually thinking that maybe we should head back across the border soon. It'll be easier to find work if we don't have to worry about immigration laws."

"Getting bored with the long vacation?" he teased. "I was wondering when that would happen."

"Are you calling me a workaholic?" she asked, although she had admitted to exactly that weeks ago.

"Miss Max-Out-My-Overtime-By-The-Middle-Of-The-Month Sidle a workaholic? Never!"

She grabbed the nearest thing to hand and threw it at him. This happened to be the book of Canadian road-maps.

"Aww, letting me choose the route back home? That's sweet of you, honey."

She threw up her hands in mock-despair. "I give up," she told him. "That's it: you're hopeless. I give up on you."

"Awww." He gave her puppy-dog eyes, then burst into song: "'Don't give up on me baby, we're still worth one more try'."

At that she could no longer contain her laughter. "You're impossible!"

He laughed too, then opened the book.

"So, what do you think?" he asked. "Turn south now, or keep traveling across, then head down through New England?"

"Well," she considered, coming to sit next to him, "we actually do need to find work at some point if we're going to continue our lavish lifestyle."

"McDonalds breakfasts, sleeping in the car," he interjected.

She looked for something else to throw at him, but the only other thing handy was the takeout cappuccino that she was drinking and she wasn't about to waste perfectly good coffee on her crazy fiancé. She ignored him and continued.

"When I was in college, a lot of students used to head up into the mountains for the winter. They'd work in the ski resorts there for a couple of months, then head back to Boston."

"I thought everyone at Harvard was rich?" he teased. She made a face.

"Are you forgetting my own illustrious past?" She smiled to let him know that she was teasing, too. "Yeah, some of them were rich, and they were the ones who kept the ski resorts in business, but, believe it or not, a lot of us really struggled to make ends meet. You might say that college was where I first developed my addiction to work." She gave a melodramatic sniff.

Nick swatted her with the map-book. "Well at least now you can admit that you have an addiction. I'm told that's the first step on the road to recovery." Then he sobered. "But as far as ski resorts go, I think you're forgetting a couple of things."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Such as?"

"Well, number one, the ski season is still months away and, number two, even if it wasn't, I can't ski, and, as far as I know, neither can you."

She rolled her eyes.

"I didn't say we had to ski, Nick There's all sorts of work at a ski resort. Hotels, restaurants, bars. A lot of them start to get busy in the fall with people coming up to see the colours."

"Aren't we a little old for all that?" he asked doubtfully.

"Aren't we a little old to be running away from home?" she countered, and he grinned.

"Touché. Okay, New England it is."