Ashes in the Wind
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Warrick/Sara
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Companion piece to “Got ‘Til It’s Gone”
The sun rises, in spite of everything.
As Warrick stands at the window, watching the sun rise, he can almost hear his grandmother saying those very words. It was one of her favourite sayings, the one she employed whenever he came home from school beaten and bruised, his glasses broken and lopsided, the one she came out with when he was worried about the next exam, about getting into college, about paying for college. It was what she said when Pops died when he was a teenager, and he’s sure, though it could be his memory playing tricks on him, that when she held his seven-year-old self in her arms and told him that his mother was never coming home again, she used those words then too.
The sun rises, in spite of everything.
She was right; he has to give her that. Because the sun’s risen every day since the world fell apart around them, and every day it’s reminded him that he’s still alive, still here, still fighting.
But where the words once brought comfort, now they bring anything but, because each sunrise makes him wonder what the hell he’s fighting for. Night in this new, terrible world is bad enough, danger around every corner, shadows lurking behind the flames of every fire. Night is the time when he and Sara lock the door, curl up on the battered mattress they share and hope that they can make it through a night without anyone banging on their door. So far, they’ve been safe, been lucky, he knows, but in the night, that doesn’t matter. In the night, he can close his eyes and, aside from having Sara lying beside him, he can almost forget.
Then the sun comes up, and he sees ashes blowing in the wind, the desolate buildings, people hurrying furtively on their way, looking for food, for shelter, for their loved ones, for anything that will get them through the day.
Behind him, Sara sleeps soundly, and he lets her. After yesterday, where he’d been gone for longer than he’d realised, came back here to find her rocking back and forth, humming to herself, he thinks the rest will do her good. She scared the hell out of him, and he doesn’t mind admitting it, because he’s known for a long time that she’s about the only thing keeping him sane at the moment, keeping him going. It might have been a fluke that they ended up together when the sky fell down, but it was the luckiest fluke he can remember, and for a man who thought he’d used up all his luck in the casinos, he’s damn grateful. Let her sleep, he thinks; let her wake up and be surprised that she’s slept right through yet another night. She never used to need much sleep, that was no secret, but she’s confided to him recently about the nightmares that used to keep her awake. They haven’t come lately, and she’s surprised at that, but he’s not. After all, they survived the end of the world; what nightmares in her past could be worse than that?
So he lets her sleep as he watches the sun rise, and he watches the ashes float by on the wind. And, not for the first time, he can’t help but think about where those ashes came from.
A casino?
A business?
A house?
A person?
His thoughts turn, as they always do at this time of the morning, to his grandmother, and he wonders once again about her fate. Is she still alive? If she is, where is she? Does she have someone looking after her, or is she fending for herself, easy pickings for any punk who might happen across her? Was she scared when it happened, did she try to get in touch with him? Wherever she is now, is she worried about him? And, if she’s dead, was it quick, or did she suffer? Did she call out his name, his grandfather’s maybe? Did she wonder why he wasn’t there to take care of her, make sure she wasn’t alone?
The thoughts make his eyes gritty, as if he’s outdoors with the ashes blowing into them, and he screws them shut, counts to ten, then twenty, breathing deeply, fighting for control.
Then he jumps as a pair of arms slide around his waist from behind, a pair of hands coming around to rest on his stomach. He doesn’t say anything, just sighs and looks down, traces the livid red mark on the back of her right hand with one finger. A sharp intake of breath has him moving his finger quickly, lightly resting his palm on top of her hand, and her arms tighten around his waist, her unspoken way of telling him that she’s all right, that there’s no need to apologise.
He closes his eyes again then, thinks that this is almost nice, almost normal. Which is odd, to say the least, because the way they’re standing, each knowing what the other is thinking, is way more intimate than he’s ever considered his relationship with Sara would ever be. It’s odd, but then again, they left normal a long way back, and it’s odd, but it’s nice, and it’s something they both need.
He keeps his eyes closed until she loosens her grip, only opens them when he feels her come around to stand in front of him, insinuating herself between him and the window. He looks down at her then, and, to his surprise, he sees her eyes are dry, but red-rimmed, as if she’s been holding back tears of her own.
“Warrick?” she whispers, a thousand questions in his name, and he hears them all.
“I’m ok,” he replies, answering the most important of them, even if he’s not sure if his answer is entirely true. His definition of “ok” has undergone serious reconstruction lately, distilled to the simplest of requirements. Today, he’s breathing, he has shelter, there is food for breakfast, maybe even enough to stretch for dinner, and she is here with him, so he’s ok.
She opens her mouth, as if to question him further, then she closes it again, accepting his answer. Turning, she glances out the window, then back at him. “We should eat breakfast,” she says, her tone more confident than it’s been at any time since he left her early yesterday afternoon.
He nods, because she knows that he’s right, but there’s something in him that doesn’t want to move just yet. So he slides an arm around her shoulders, pulls her against his chest, juts his chin towards the window. “In a minute,” he says. “The sun’s coming up.”
He expects her to pull away, but she doesn’t, instead puts her arms around his waist, and they stand there like that until the sun is high in the sky.
The sun rises, in spite of everything.
That was one of his grandmother’s favourite sayings, and Warrick really wishes that he could talk to her just one more time.
Because he really wants to tell her that she was right.