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Sep. 16th, 2004 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyFor the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
csi100 addiction challenge, we have Warrick/Sara.
Title:Addiction
Used to be Warrick couldn’t get enough of the casinos; the feel of the cards in his hand, C-Major chord ringing in his ears, the thrill of chasing a winning hand.
He’s not interested in that any more.
Because the thrill of chasing a winning hand is nothing compared to the thrill he gets when Sara kisses him, and now instead of jonesing for the bright lights of the casino, he craves the smooth warmth of Sara’s skin against his palm, her laughter, hard-won and precious, in his ears.
He’s traded one addiction for another, but he’s ok with that.
>*<*>*<
For thewriters_choice drenched challenge, we have Alias, Syd/Weiss.
Title: A Most Unusual Matchmaker
Fandom: Alias
Pairing: Sydney/Weiss
Rating: PG, fluff
Word Count: 997
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the LiveJournal Writer’s Choice “drenched” challenge.
>*<*>*<
Before you begin, you’re pretty sure there’s a reason why you don’t bath your dog in the apartment anymore; you just can’t remember what it is.
Less than five minutes later, you remember.
It’s because the big dumb mutt hates getting washed, and trying to wrestle him into submission with one arm, while trying to control the water spray with the other, has disaster written all over it in big red letters.
You’re trying not to notice how wet you are, how your bathroom floor has turned into a lake, when the worst possible thing that could happen, happens.
The doorbell rings.
You’re not expecting anyone so you jump. Which gives Alan the excuse he needs to haul ass out of the tub, spraying you with more water. That’s bad enough, but between the shock of the noise and the big dumb mutt knocking you over, you also drop the shower head, sending water spraying everywhere, mostly over you.
So you’re standing there, in the middle of your bathroom, completely drenched, pissed as hell, and the doorbell is still ringing.
You stride purposefully – okay, squelch purposefully – to the front door, wrenching it open, grinding out a “What?” for good measure, and that’s when this already hellish experience gets that much worse.
Because standing there, expression first neutral, then rapidly shifting to shock, to concern to humour, is Sydney.
“Are you ok?” she asks, and you nod quickly, running a hand through your hair, trying your best not to wince when the water literally sluices off it.
“I’m fine.” Which, aside from wanting to visit the nearest pound and wanting a large hole in the ground to appear right the hell now, is true.
“What happened?” she asks, and wouldn’t you know it, that’s when Alan decides to say hi, because he recognises her voice, and, like every other male in Sydney’s life, he’s hopelessly in love with her.
So the big dumb mutt bounds over, leaps up, lays his paws on her chest and licks her face She laughs as you try to rescue her, to get the dog to get down, which, miracle of miracles, he does, standing beside you both, looking up at you with those big brown eyes of his. And then, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear that you see a devilish glint in those eyes, and before you can shout a warning to the dog, to Sydney, Alan does what he’s been wanting to do since he escaped from the bathroom.
He shakes himself dry.
Thoroughly.
A wave of water washes over you both, and you hear her gasp of shock, even as you’re frantically trying to wake up from this nightmare. But then Alan, showing good sense, is once more hauling ass away from you, and you’re left alone with Sydney.
You turn to her, intending to apologise, but you’re stopped when you see the look on her face. Her lips are curled up in a smile, her eyes dancing with mirth, and she’s laughing. Real, genuine laughter, unaided by tequila, and you can’t remember the last time you saw that.
You’ve never realised how much you missed it, or how amazing she looks when she’s laughing.
But then, Sydney always looks amazing.
Even now, with her blouse and jeans soaking wet and sticking to her – okay, especially now.
She’s breath-taking, and you have to look away, because this is Sydney. Your friend, your colleague, your best friend’s girl, even if they are currently on yet another of those breaks they take before they embrace their destiny.
You can’t think of her like that, and damn your big dumb mutt for trying to match-make.
“I’m sorry about that,” you say, taking a step back. “Let me get you a towel… or a squeegee or something…”
She shakes her hands, sending water droplets flying. “Thanks… I must look a sight.”
“Please,” you mutter as you turn. “Like you could look anything other than amazing.”
Okay, that might have been a tad loud, and you freeze.
Time stops, and now you really are praying for that Weiss-swallowing hole, for Milo Rambaldi to appear before you, tell you that you should have got a cat, anything to not have to look at Sydney.
Then you hear her voice, soft, hesitant, curious. “Eric?”
You swallow hard. “You need a towel,” you say, and you’re ready to move, until, that is, she reaches out, catching your arm. Her palm is warm against yours, and that might be why your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
Hey, anything’s possible, right?
“How about you wait until later?” she asks, making it sound as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, even if you find yourself blinking, sure you’ve missed something.
“Later?” you echo dumbly, and she nods again, her smile broadening, and damn if there’s not that same glint in her eyes now that there was right before Alan did his thing.
“Seems to me you need some help with Alan,” she says, stepping in front of you, her hands on your chest as she looks up at you the way you’ve only ever dreamed of. “Then we can worry about us.”
“Us? There’s an us?”
She lifts one eyebrow, and that hole in the ground is looking damn good again, until she rises up so that your lips are level. “Oh, there’s definitely an us…” she murmurs, and then she’s not talking, and you’re not either, because Sydney Bristow is kissing you and it’s a little slice of heaven right here in your living room.
Predictably enough, it’s Alan who brings you back to earth, beating his tail against your leg, and when you look down at him, you’re sure he’s smiling.
“Beat it, mutt,” you say, not unkindly. “I think your bath can wait.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice, barking once and running off, and right before you kiss Sydney again, you realise that the mutt’s not as dumb as you thought.
>*<*>*<
csi100 addiction challenge, we have Warrick/Sara.Title:Addiction
Used to be Warrick couldn’t get enough of the casinos; the feel of the cards in his hand, C-Major chord ringing in his ears, the thrill of chasing a winning hand.
He’s not interested in that any more.
Because the thrill of chasing a winning hand is nothing compared to the thrill he gets when Sara kisses him, and now instead of jonesing for the bright lights of the casino, he craves the smooth warmth of Sara’s skin against his palm, her laughter, hard-won and precious, in his ears.
He’s traded one addiction for another, but he’s ok with that.
>*<*>*<
For the
writers_choice drenched challenge, we have Alias, Syd/Weiss. Title: A Most Unusual Matchmaker
Fandom: Alias
Pairing: Sydney/Weiss
Rating: PG, fluff
Word Count: 997
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the LiveJournal Writer’s Choice “drenched” challenge.
>*<*>*<
Before you begin, you’re pretty sure there’s a reason why you don’t bath your dog in the apartment anymore; you just can’t remember what it is.
Less than five minutes later, you remember.
It’s because the big dumb mutt hates getting washed, and trying to wrestle him into submission with one arm, while trying to control the water spray with the other, has disaster written all over it in big red letters.
You’re trying not to notice how wet you are, how your bathroom floor has turned into a lake, when the worst possible thing that could happen, happens.
The doorbell rings.
You’re not expecting anyone so you jump. Which gives Alan the excuse he needs to haul ass out of the tub, spraying you with more water. That’s bad enough, but between the shock of the noise and the big dumb mutt knocking you over, you also drop the shower head, sending water spraying everywhere, mostly over you.
So you’re standing there, in the middle of your bathroom, completely drenched, pissed as hell, and the doorbell is still ringing.
You stride purposefully – okay, squelch purposefully – to the front door, wrenching it open, grinding out a “What?” for good measure, and that’s when this already hellish experience gets that much worse.
Because standing there, expression first neutral, then rapidly shifting to shock, to concern to humour, is Sydney.
“Are you ok?” she asks, and you nod quickly, running a hand through your hair, trying your best not to wince when the water literally sluices off it.
“I’m fine.” Which, aside from wanting to visit the nearest pound and wanting a large hole in the ground to appear right the hell now, is true.
“What happened?” she asks, and wouldn’t you know it, that’s when Alan decides to say hi, because he recognises her voice, and, like every other male in Sydney’s life, he’s hopelessly in love with her.
So the big dumb mutt bounds over, leaps up, lays his paws on her chest and licks her face She laughs as you try to rescue her, to get the dog to get down, which, miracle of miracles, he does, standing beside you both, looking up at you with those big brown eyes of his. And then, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear that you see a devilish glint in those eyes, and before you can shout a warning to the dog, to Sydney, Alan does what he’s been wanting to do since he escaped from the bathroom.
He shakes himself dry.
Thoroughly.
A wave of water washes over you both, and you hear her gasp of shock, even as you’re frantically trying to wake up from this nightmare. But then Alan, showing good sense, is once more hauling ass away from you, and you’re left alone with Sydney.
You turn to her, intending to apologise, but you’re stopped when you see the look on her face. Her lips are curled up in a smile, her eyes dancing with mirth, and she’s laughing. Real, genuine laughter, unaided by tequila, and you can’t remember the last time you saw that.
You’ve never realised how much you missed it, or how amazing she looks when she’s laughing.
But then, Sydney always looks amazing.
Even now, with her blouse and jeans soaking wet and sticking to her – okay, especially now.
She’s breath-taking, and you have to look away, because this is Sydney. Your friend, your colleague, your best friend’s girl, even if they are currently on yet another of those breaks they take before they embrace their destiny.
You can’t think of her like that, and damn your big dumb mutt for trying to match-make.
“I’m sorry about that,” you say, taking a step back. “Let me get you a towel… or a squeegee or something…”
She shakes her hands, sending water droplets flying. “Thanks… I must look a sight.”
“Please,” you mutter as you turn. “Like you could look anything other than amazing.”
Okay, that might have been a tad loud, and you freeze.
Time stops, and now you really are praying for that Weiss-swallowing hole, for Milo Rambaldi to appear before you, tell you that you should have got a cat, anything to not have to look at Sydney.
Then you hear her voice, soft, hesitant, curious. “Eric?”
You swallow hard. “You need a towel,” you say, and you’re ready to move, until, that is, she reaches out, catching your arm. Her palm is warm against yours, and that might be why your skin breaks out in goosebumps.
Hey, anything’s possible, right?
“How about you wait until later?” she asks, making it sound as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, even if you find yourself blinking, sure you’ve missed something.
“Later?” you echo dumbly, and she nods again, her smile broadening, and damn if there’s not that same glint in her eyes now that there was right before Alan did his thing.
“Seems to me you need some help with Alan,” she says, stepping in front of you, her hands on your chest as she looks up at you the way you’ve only ever dreamed of. “Then we can worry about us.”
“Us? There’s an us?”
She lifts one eyebrow, and that hole in the ground is looking damn good again, until she rises up so that your lips are level. “Oh, there’s definitely an us…” she murmurs, and then she’s not talking, and you’re not either, because Sydney Bristow is kissing you and it’s a little slice of heaven right here in your living room.
Predictably enough, it’s Alan who brings you back to earth, beating his tail against your leg, and when you look down at him, you’re sure he’s smiling.
“Beat it, mutt,” you say, not unkindly. “I think your bath can wait.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice, barking once and running off, and right before you kiss Sydney again, you realise that the mutt’s not as dumb as you thought.
>*<*>*<
