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[helsinkibaby]

Is it just me or is LJ being a horse's ass tonight? And even if it is, do I care? No. And why? I'll tell you why!

In the immortal words of Clint Black, the words of a song that will wake me up tomorrow morning, Summer's Coming... even if the weather makes it feel more like winter.

Since I'm happy, we have the big old fic update. taraljc the Middleman fic? On it's 8th page, with only half done so far. Kyle's a chatty little bugger when you get him going, isn't he?

For writers_choice and their Neither here nor there challenge, we have one of those back-door responses of mine, which is Angel-fic, with You're Welcome spoilers.
The Good Fight
Of all the missions she’d ever completed, first as a reluctant Scooby, then as a fully-fledged member of the Fang Gang, this was the hardest.

The hardest because she knew what was at stake; not the world, not the fate of humanity, not even her own life.

Angel was at stake.

It was the most important mission she’d ever had; there was no way she was going to screw it up.

It was also the hardest because she knew why she was there, why she’d come back, what would happen once her mission was completed.

She knew what would happen, even if she wasn’t sure exactly how it would be, how it would feel. She just knew that it scared her to death.

Just like she knew that she had no choice.

So she took her little walk through Bizzaro World, clued in her guy on what he had to do, got him back on the right path. She’s proud of that, because it means that in her entire stupid, silly little life, she did one thing right.

She used her last breath to make sure that Angel would keep fighting.

She made a difference.

She made a difference, and that was enough to keep her going during that too-short time that she was back where she once belonged, even if she didn’t belong to that world any more. Being back with her family made her forget that she didn’t belonged neither here, in this world, nor there in the next, not yet. Not until she completed her mission.

Which she did, thank you very much, saved the big guy in distress, even got to kiss him, though that hadn’t been in the deal that she’d struck with the Powers That Be.

Then the phone rang, and she knew that her time was up.

“You’re welcome,” she told him, and she’s not sure if he heard her, will never be sure, because that’s when the world turned white all around her, and she felt herself being pulled up, up, up. A little like what happened to her when she was on her way to Point Dume, but a lot different somehow.

A lot brighter, a lot more powerful.

And a hell of a lot scarier.

Suddenly, everything stops, and it’s just her and the white and she’s even more scared, something she wouldn’t have thought was possible. Because she doesn’t know what happens next, where she goes, what she does.

Then there’s a voice behind her.

“Hello Princess.”

It’s a long time since she’s heard that brogue, and she turns in disbelief, but not surprise, because, really, who else would meet her here?

“Come on,” he says, slipping his hand into hers. “Let’s take you home.”

She goes with him, and she smiles, because she knows now that everything is going to be all right.
>*<*>*<

For the multifandom1000 A Bad Idea challenge, I'm back to CSI, Warrick/Sara and
Seeking a Miracle
When he answers his front door and sees her standing there, Sara can read the surprise in Warrick’s eyes loud and clear, doesn’t need the vocal to go along with it. He’s not to know that though, and his, “Sara! What are you doing here?” doesn’t exactly ring with tidings of glad welcome.

Not that she can blame him. After all, in the time she’s been living in Vegas, she can count on her fingers – possibly of one hand – the number of times she’s been to his house. Even then, it was always with the rest of the shift, occasionally for breakfast, once for a barbecue.

She’s never come here on her own before, never just dropped by because she was in the neighbourhood, which, as she considers Warrick one of her best friends, if not her best, she finds pretty damn depressing.

Of course, that’s pretty much her problem with life in general at the moment.

It’s also why she’s here.

Because she’s tired of walking around the lab like some animated corpse, tired of the weight of eyes on her shoulders. She’s tired of friction with Catherine and competition with Nick, and she’s so damn tired of all the drama with Grissom.

Most of all, she’s tired of being alone.

She’s not sure what broke her today, not sure why she left her apartment and came here, only that she was driven by the sure knowledge that Warrick would welcome her, that he wouldn’t turn her away.

But now, standing in front of him, a thousand questions lurking in those green eyes of his, she’s not so sure. And she, with the Harvard education, she who has never had a problem telling people what she thinks, is suddenly lost for words.

“I just…” She looks away from him, reaches up to brush back a lock of hair behind her ear, only for it to become immediately dislodged when she shakes her head. “I was… um…” He’s still looking at her, curiosity giving way to concern, and she shakes her head again, takes a step back. “You know what, never mind,” she says. “This was a bad idea… I’m just going to go…”

She’s stepping back as she talks, turns her back on him, and she’s surprised when a strong hand closes over her wrist, at the same time as he says her name. “Sara, wait…”

His grip is firm (he’s not going to let her go) but gentle (he’s not going to hurt her) and the combination, to her utter horror, sends a lump to her throat, tears to her eyes. She can’t turn to look at him, won’t turn to look at him, because she’s never cried in front of him before, doesn’t want to do it now, doesn’t want to show her weakness.

Maybe he knows what she’s thinking, because he doesn’t try to make her turn. Instead, he walks around her, rests his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me,” he says, a request, not an order, and his voice is so low with concern that Sara literally aches. “Look at me, Sara…”

Slowly, oh so slowly, she drags her gaze up to meet his, and, as she knew it would, the look on his face does her in completely. Tears flood her eyes, one making its way down her cheek, and she cannot speak.

“Sara…” Her name is a breath on his lips, and then he’s pulling her towards him. Part of her wants to resist, but the greater part goes willingly, slides her arms around his waist, rests her head on his shoulder. One of his hands cups the back of her head, the other slides up and down her back, and she’s barely aware of him talking to her. “It’s going to be all right Sara… it’s gonna be all right…”

Miracle of miracles, standing here like this, Sara finds herself believing him.
>*<*>*<

And for dynamic_gravity and her country music loving self, there is the Warrick/Sara ultra-schmoop, inspired by Keith Urban's Raining on Sunday, long overdue and written thanks to most unseasonal rainstorms this week.
Sunday Worship

All week long, Warrick’s been looking forward to today. Not that he puts much store in Sunday being a day of rest, that’s more Grams’s department, but his day off just happens to fall on a Sunday, and he had plans for the day.

Not exciting plans, true, more necessary evils. He’s pretty sure that his kitchen cupboards are bare, any foodstuffs that were there long having developed the ability to walk and talk, so shopping is in order, after cleaning said cupboards. He can’t remember the last time he saw his laundry basket, and the lawn is looking mighty long. Grams asked him over for dinner, even dropped hints about going to church that evening, and he’d been considering going; it’s been far too long since he showed his face there, far too long since Grams got the chance to show off her work-in-progress.

Those are his plans, but he’s well aware of how easily plans can change, and when he wakes up in the early hours of Sunday afternoon, following the shift from hell on Saturday night, he knows that his are going to.

Afternoon it may be, but through the gap in the curtains, he can see that the sky outside is a dull and dreary grey. He can hear the dash of rain against the windowpane, hear the wind that accompanies it, and, as a Vegas native, he knows that this isn’t one of those famed Vegas showers that comes from nowhere and vanishes just as quickly. No, this is one of those rare animals, a storm that’s going to linger for hours.

Which means that mowing the grass is out, so too is doing laundry, unless he can figure out how to work his tumble dryer. Even going shopping doesn’t appeal, because he really doesn’t want to be out driving in conditions like that.

Of course, there’s one other compelling reason to stay in bed, and as he’s staring out the window, wondering what he’s going to do with his day, it presses against him, slides an arm across his chest.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going out in that,” Sara mumbles sleepily, and when he looks down at her, grips her hand in his, he’s amused to discover that her eyes are still closed, blankets drawn around her tightly.

“I’ve got to feed you,” he says reasonably, shifting so that he can take her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, one of his hands playing with her hair. “Keep your strength up.” The last is accompanied by a kiss to the top of her head, drawing a laugh from her that he can only categorise as filthy.

“Take-out,” she says promptly, turning her head to place a kiss on his neck, even as one leg slides up and over his.

“What about Grams?” is his next objection. “You know she was looking forward to seeing us.”

“She won’t mind.” Sara sounds supremely confident, moving in one swift motion so that she’s straddling his legs, smiling down at him. The sleepy look has gone from her eyes, he notes, replaced by one that can only be described as feral, and he can’t say he minds it. “She’s always telling you that you should spend more time with me.”

She’s not lying, and he chuckles in acknowledgement, his hands sliding up her thighs, coming to a stop at the smooth skin of her hips. His fingers flex there gently, and she shifts against him, eyes fluttering shut briefly, and the thought crosses his mind that if staying here means he gets to see her look like that, he’ll never leave the damn room again.

He doesn’t tell her that though. “So,” he says instead. “What do you propose we do instead?”

Her eyes open, dancing wickedly, and she throws a glance to the window. “Pray for more rain,” she says, turning back to him, lowering her lips to his. “And see what else we can come up with.”

It’s not, Warrick decides, as his hands slide up her back and he loses himself in her kisses, exactly the kind of Sunday worship he was planning on.

But it is theirs, and he has no intention of leaving.
>*<*>*<

Edited to fix cut tags- with LJ being impossible, it took an age to do it, and if anyone got the full thing on their friends page, I apologise!