Perfect
Fandom: CSI
Title: Perfect
Pairing: Warrick/Sara
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 4,012
Notes: For the warricksara “domestic” challenge. Sequel to chureezee’s Almost Perfect” which can be found here
“Almost home,” Sara muttered to herself as she turned the corner onto her street. “Nearly there.”
It wasn’t a long journey from her house to the lab, which had been one of the principal reasons she’d bought that particular house, but on this particular day, the route seemed to have expanded exponentially. For that matter, the distance from the street corner to her driveway seemed longer than ever; even the walk from the car to the front door seemed to go on forever. She felt as if she was moving in slow motion, had felt that way all day, and she pursed her lips as she raised her key to the keyhole, noting as she did so the shake in her hands. A deep breath, then another, trying to regain some control, but it didn’t work, and finally, she gave up, just slid the key in, only having to try three times before it finally connected.
She was almost surprised that her voice worked enough for her to call out her customary “I’m home!” but she wasn’t surprised by the reaction, the happy shriek that greeted her, the sound of rapid, none-too-steady footsteps. The shriek made time run normally again, and before her son barrelled into her arms – which was something that he liked doing, having just learned how to walk – her practiced eye took a mental snapshot of the scene that she’d just disturbed.
Brady, sitting on the floor, legs outstretched, toy drum in between them, making as much noise as he possibly could, showing as much rhythm as his mother – which was, Sara would be the first to admit, precisely none.
Across from him, smiling down at the toddler, a barefoot Warrick, one knee drawn up, the other leg outstretched, Brady’s other drumstick in one hand, a wooden block in the other.
Around them were various other percussion instruments, with no sign of either earplugs or Advil, and Sara mentally noted, not for the first time, that Warrick was far more patient than she was when it came to such matters. Of course, the damn instruments had been his idea in the first place, so it was only fair that to him went the headaches associated with them.
In the background, jazz music – one of Warrick’s CDs that had made its way into her collection – played softly, and it must have been to that that they’d been keeping time. Warrick’s jacket was draped over the couch, his shoes beside the staircase, and he was smiling up at her like he’d been waiting for her to walk through the door for hours.
Which, she realised, he had.
All this crossed her mind in the few seconds it took Brady to totter towards her, but all thought was obliterated when her son reached her, threw a pudgy pair of arms around her knees. Acting purely on instinct, she scooped him up, held him tightly to her, burying her face in his mop of dark hair. Hated tears sprang to her eyes and she closed them tightly, willing them away, and she didn’t even open them, not even when Brady’s hands found her face, her hair, none too gently.
When Brady began squirming in her arms, leaning down towards the floor, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath to get herself under control, only to nearly lose it completely when she met Warrick’s gaze, saw the worry in his eyes. She would have said something then, had Brady not been impatient and taken matters into his own hands, quite literally, grabbing a lock of her hair and tugging as hard as he could. She gasped with mingled pain and shock, choosing to ignore the flash of amusement that crossed Warrick’s face, setting Brady down on the ground, not taking her eyes off him as he crossed the floor again, settling himself down to his instruments, taking the wooden block that Warrick offered him and proceeding to beat it nowhere near in time to the music.
He looked so happy, so contented, so safe that Sara felt tears come into her eyes, and this time, she didn’t even try to keep them back. One hand came up to cover her mouth, because hopefully that would keep her from sobbing aloud; no need to scare the kid, after all.
And then Warrick was beside her, one strong arm sliding around her shoulders, and without conscious thought, she turned to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding onto him for dear life, just as she’d held on to Brady moments earlier.
She was dimly aware of the sounds around them, the jazz music and Brady’s drumming, the noises that the child made indicating that he was enjoying himself immensely. Far more immediate were the feel of Warrick’s arms around her, how one hand had moved up, was moving through her hair, sending shivers of contentment, safety, and something else besides, through her. Closing her eyes, she counted each rise and fall of his chest, matched her breathing to his, and it was a long time before she pulled back, looked up into his eyes.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it, stopping her with a hand to the chin, his thumb covering her lips, sweeping over them. “Don’t tell me you’re fine,” was all he said, and she actually smiled, because that was exactly what she’d been going to say, which only served to illustrate how well he knew her.
Shaking her head, she looked over at Brady again, seeing not her happy, healthy toddler, but the bruised and gaunt toddler who had been haunting her dreams ever since his body had been discovered abandoned in Summerlin three days ago. Little Joshua Turner had been the same age as Brady, born only eleven days earlier, and like Brady, he’d been unplanned, born to a single mother. There, however, the similarities started and ended, because while Sara had welcomed Brady, albeit with more than a little trepidation, Bridget Turner had neglected her son horribly. And while in Warrick, Sara had found someone who loved Brady as much as she did, Bridget Turner’s boyfriend had been the one who had shaken the baby to death when he wouldn’t stop crying. Which is what Sara had spent the last three days trying to prove, had just worked four hours of overtime in order to tie up the loose ends of the case, and she was so tired, she could barely stand.
“I don’t understand…” she whispered, more to herself than Warrick, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shake his head.
“Me either,” he whispered, pulling her closer, resting his head on top of hers. “Me either.”
A bitter smile lit her face. “Do you know, I haven’t puked at an autopsy since my first time?” she told him, felt him smile at her words. “But seeing Joshua like that…”
Her voice trailed off as a shudder ran through her, and Warrick sighed, taking a step back from her. She felt the loss of him immediately, but not as much as she felt the look he was giving her; with pursed lips, set jaw and flared nostrils, Warrick was very much in full disapproval mode. “Grissom should’ve taken you off this case,” he muttered, and not rolling her eyes was easier than it was three days ago, when he first uttered those very words in the CSI break room. For one thing, this time, she was grudgingly willing to admit that he had a point. For another, she was too damn tired to have this fight again.
“He tried, remember?” she said weakly, rubbing her forehead tiredly. “And if it’s any consolation… next time, I’ll let him.” Even the thought of going through this again was enough to make her heart ache, her head pound, and maybe Warrick saw that, because his hand landed on her back, rubbing gently, and when she looked up at him, disapproval was gone, replaced by concern, which didn’t make her feel nearly as bad, just a little guilty that he’d spent so much time worrying about her over the last seventy-two hours. “I swear… I don’t know how Cath’s done this for so long.”
Warrick chuckled, his arm sliding across her back to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll ask her tomorrow,” he said, and she looked up at him sharply, her eyes narrowing.
“Today,” she corrected, refusing to let the spark of hope kindle, because she was tired, she was emotional, and she didn’t have that kind of luck. “You’re on at four, remember?”
Except Warrick was shaking his head, and maybe she thought, not for the first time in recent memory, she was luckier than she knew, certainly luckier than she deserved. “Nope,” he said, looking and sounding immeasurably pleased with himself. “I’m all yours… Nick traded nights off with me.” He tilted his head, lips pursed in amusement. “And I’m pretty sure I’m washing his car ‘til next Christmas…”
She was smiling, but still not quite able to believe it. “How much did you have to grovel?” she asked, because she knew Nick had been run off his feet lately, hadn’t had a night off in quite a while, and she also knew that Catherine didn’t like them swapping shifts except in cases of dire emergency.
“Not at all,” Warrick said, and she must have looked as surprised as she felt, because he squeezed her shoulder. “I just told them that my girl needed me… that was that.”
Once upon a time, being referred to as anyone’s girl would have had Sara bristling with annoyance, revving up to deliver a lecture about how she was her own person, that she didn’t belong to anyone, thank you very much, and threatening bodily harm to anyone who referred to her that way.
But hearing it like that, the weight of Warrick’s arm at her back, his smile beaming down on her, jazz music surrounding them, punctuated by her son’s happy noises, it just made her smile, made her lean into Warrick’s chest, slide both arms around his waist as his free arm slid across her stomach.
“I love you,” she told him after a moment of silence. “Even if I am blaming you for that racket…”
He laughed at the latter statement, which made it easy to ignore his start of surprise at the former, made it easy to realise that that was the first time she’d ever said those words to him that way. She’d told him that she cared about him, that he was important to her, and she’d even told him that she loved him.
But she’d always said it back, had never said it first.
“I love you too,” he told her, kissing the top of her head, moving away with a smile. “Now, sit down and I’ll make you some food.”
Wrinkling her nose, she made her way to Brady, dropping down on the floor beside him. “I’m not hungry,” she told Warrick, stopping when he held up a hand.
“You’re eating,” he said, a proclamation rather than a statement, issued with that look, the one that said he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Nodding meekly in acquiescence, she watched him as he walked into her kitchen, only looking back at Brady when Warrick had vanished from sight.
“Can I play?” she asked her son, laughing as he thrust a pair of castanets into her hand, a puzzled frown on his face, as if to ask how he should make noise with these. She did her best to show him, totally focussed on him, and she looked up in surprise when a shadow fell across them, to see Warrick holding out a glass of orange juice for her. She accepted it, and when Brady let out an indignant squawk, Warrick looked down at him, eyes over-wide with surprise.
“You think I’d leave you out, little man?” he asked, handing Brady down his drinking cup, laughing when Brady snatched it out of his hands. “Impatient,” he murmured, with a sidelong look at Sara. “Wonder who he gets that from?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but she was grinning too. “Fighting words from someone who denies me coffee,” she observed, and he was giving her that look again.
“Nothing doing,” he said. “You need sleep, not caffeine.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that sleep was the last thing she wanted, because she was tired of dreaming about dead babies, that all she really wanted was to sit here and stare at him and Brady and bask in the normality of it all, but she knew he knew it anyway, because his eyes darkened and his hand dropped to her cheek, caressing it gently.
There should have been words, but she had none, so she settled for covering his wrist with her hand briefly, never taking her eyes off his, a silent thank you that had him squatting down, brushing his lips over hers.
Then he was gone again, leaving her to sip her orange juice, mop up Brady as he managed to dribble some down his chin when he tried to drink and drum at the same time. That seemed to turn him off the idea of juice, and when he concentrated on the sounds that could be produced by hitting the castanets against the drum, Sara’s eyes fell on one of the pictures on the mantelpiece, one of the many family shots that adorned various walls and surfaces of the house. This one was one of her favourites, taken in the back garden only a couple of months ago, Warrick holding Brady, the two cheek to cheek, smiling for the camera. Sara smiled as she remembered what it had taken to get Brady to actually look at the camera, the things she had said, the noises she had made to get his attention, how Warrick had laughed at her, but it had all been worth it when the picture had come out.
Besides, she’d laughed just as much at him moments later, when he was the one holding the camera, and she was the one holding Brady. She didn’t think the resulting picture was as nice as the one of Warrick and Brady, but Warrick had evidently disagreed – she knew that he had two copies of that print. One was framed in his living room. The other was in his wallet.
The memory of that day awoke memories of several more, and she was smiling when Warrick came back into the room. “That’s more like it,” he said, sitting down on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come on, food.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t hungry, but the aroma of scrambled eggs on toast hit her first, and all of a sudden, she was starving. The food vanished in record time, the rate of consumption faster when Brady smelled it too, when he arrived over at her knee, his small fingers reaching for the pile of scrambled eggs. Sara laughed, blowing on a small mouthful, feeding it to him, and beside her, Warrick shook his head. “I knew I should’ve fixed him a plate.” Because the one thing they knew about her son was that he loved his food.
“He’d still pick off mine,” Sara reminded him, and he indicated his agreement by inclining his head towards her. “These are really good. As usual. Compliments to the chef.”
She’d told him that who knew how many mornings, but it still made him grin. “My pleasure.”
When the food was finished, she put the plate on the coffee table, then leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes. Warrick, who hadn’t moved from her side, rested one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers playing with her hair, tangling in the long dark curls. It felt nice, cosy, and the whole scenario got cosier when Brady clambered up onto the couch beside her, burrowing into her side and laying his head on her chest. Taking the hint, she opened her eyes, shifting on the couch so that she could pick him up, take him in her arms. Warrick shifted positions as well, moving closer to her, sliding his arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t stop playing with the ends of her hair, not even, and especially not, when she laid her head on his shoulder.
Brady, generally a sound sleeper, was out like a light in seconds, his eyelashes dark against his flushed cheeks, his face angelic, and watching him breathe in and out, Sara felt the last vestiges of tension disappear from her body. “He’s tired,” she said, keeping her voice low, and under his breath, Warrick chuckled, reaching over to play with Brady’s bare foot.
“He’s not the only one,” he said, and she couldn’t deny it.
“I should put him down,” she said, even though she couldn’t quite fathom finding the energy to lift the child, carry him to his room and put him down, then go to her own bedroom. She was wondering if Warrick would carry them both, if she should suggest it, when he made a suggestion of his own.
“Take him in with you,” he said, and she opened her eyes at that, looked at him with her own form of disapproving glare.
“Warrick…” Because while she didn’t have many rules, that Brady slept in his own room was one that she stuck to, even if she was pretty sure that Warrick flouted it on occasion when she wasn’t around.
“It’s just once Sara,” he countered, his eyes dark and serious when they met hers. “Besides… you need it.”
She opened her mouth to contradict him, shutting it again when she found out that she couldn’t. Instead, she just nodded, looking down at her son, then back up at him. “Will you take him?” she asked, and he didn’t reply, didn’t have to. He simply reached across, lifting the sleeping boy easily, and when Brady stirred, he leaned in, whispered in his ear, “Just me, little man… let’s get you to bed…” Upon hearing the voice, Brady’s head lolled towards Warrick’s chest, a contented little noise coming from the back of his throat, and he dropped right back to sleep again.
Warrick led the way to the bedroom, but Sara was slow about following, turning back at the door of the living room, taking in everything that was there, just as she would catalogue evidence at a crime scene.
Brady’s instruments all over the floor.
Warrick’s music playing the stereo.
An empty plate and glass on the coffee table.
A favourite picture on the mantelpiece.
Turning on her heel then, she made her way into the bedroom, saw Brady already laid out in the middle of the bed, still fast asleep. The curtains were drawn, the only light in the room coming in through the open door, with Warrick standing at the foot of the bed, just looking at the sleeping child. As if drawn by some irresistible force, Sara found herself at the foot of the bed with no memory of how she got there, sliding her hand into his as she stood beside him. He looked at her quickly, then back to Brady, a fond smile playing about his lips. “He’s out for the count,” he whispered, and she nodded.
“So I see.” It was hard to talk past the sudden lump in her throat, and he must have heard that, because he was looking down at her, was lifting her chin up so that he could look into her eyes.
“Sara?” It was a thousand questions wrapped up in her name, and she had to look up at the ceiling for a moment, because if she looked into those eyes before she got a hold of herself, she was going to start crying.
“I haven’t treated you very well sometimes,” she told him, and he frowned, not understanding. “You’re so good to me,” she continued. “And with Brady… there are times when I look at you and I can’t believe how lucky I am… when I’m waiting for you to realise that you don’t want to be around us any more…”
Absent anything happening to Brady, that was her deepest fear, the one that had her not answering the question that he’d asked her on more than one occasion, the one she’d never told him about, and he shook his head now. “Sara, that’s never going to happen,” he told her. “You and Brady… you’re my family… you know that.”
“I know.” And she did know, knew it at last not just in her head, but where it really counted, in her heart, and she knew just what she wanted to do about it.
“Marry me.”
She didn’t have to think about the words, they just fell from her lips, which was good, because it gave her time to concentrate on Warrick’s face, commit every flicker to memory. First there was shock, slack-jawed and immediate, his eyes boring into hers, as if checking to see how serious she was. Then there was surprise, laughter right along with it, a crooked smile as he glanced over at Brady, then back to her, his eyes narrowing as he looked for the piece of the puzzle he was missing.
“For real?” he asked, with another glance at Brady. “You’re serious?”
Sara nodded. “I love you,” she told him. “And so does Brady… and when I try to think of our lives without you, I can’t… and that scares me to death, because I didn’t want to need anyone this much… but I need yo-”
She was babbling most uncharacteristically, and she knew it, but she was stopped by Warrick’s hands on her face, by his lips on hers, and she kissed him back passionately, pouring every ounce of need and gratitude and love into that kiss. And when he pulled back, she was breathless and he was beaming and the world had never been so right as he said the most beautiful words she’d ever heard.
“Yes,” he said. “I will marry you.” His arms were around her waist, hers around his neck, and she leaned forward, kissed him quickly again. “And by the way,” he added. “I can’t imagine my life without you guys either.” Another kiss, this time longer, and she was beginning to wish that they’d put Brady in his own room after all when he pulled away, looked down at her sternly. “Now, go lie down… you need sleep.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Are you sure?” she asked, and he rolled his eyes.
“No,” he said, his honesty surprising a hastily-stifled laugh out of her. “But you’re done in… and Brady’s here… so sleep it is.” A squeeze of her hand, lips twitching. “But I’m sure Grams’ll mind him for us later on…”
The words were music to her ears, and she tilted her head towards the bed. “Will you stay for a while? Until I go to sleep?”
Which sounded faintly ridiculous, even to her, but he grinned, brushed his lips across her forehead in reply. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand, kicking off her shoes, not even bothering to change out of her work clothes before she lay down on the bed, on top of the covers, pressing herself as close to Brady’s sleeping form as possible. Warrick lay down on the other side, facing her, reaching across the sleeping child to lay a hand on her hip, and she closed her eyes, a contented smile on her face.
She was almost asleep when Warrick’s voice, deep and low and teasing, whispered, “Just so you know… I’ll marry you… but don’t think that just because you did the asking, I’m wearing an engagement ring.”
She would have laughed, but she was too content to do anything more than murmur, “That’s ok…”
In fact, she thought as sleep claimed her, it was more than ok.
It was perfect.