(no subject)

[helsinkibaby]

dynamic_gravity???? Sweetie??? The performance at the Grammys???? You said Led Zepplin??? I was not as enthused as you appeared to be. So when Tim and Keith and Gretchen Wilson (and thank you for sharing my opinion of her!) came out to perform with Lynryd Skynyrd, well, then, it all made so much more sense to me! Zepplin? 70s British stadium rock, Stairway to Heaven, Whole Lotta Love, etc etc... Skynyrd, classic southern rock, Sweet Home Alabama, Freebird (and who the hell let GW sing that? They agreed to that?) Though I must say, Keith Urban singing "I Fooled Around and Fell in Love"??? Sample banner for May 19th... fool around with me Keith! Those pics, by the way? Yum! Thank you!

Not seen anyone else's take on it, but I frickin' loved it! Alterna!Sam and Alterna!Daniel were just priceless... and Alterna!Jack asking them if they were a couple???? Oh please, give those two another month in the mountain and they'd so be an item!

And while I'm on that topic? The scene where they figure out where the second gate is, and they slide the satellite photos across to Major Davis who needs a shave badly??? "Worth it"???? *Someone* (Not Me!!!) needs to write the Smug!CelebratorySex scene that was bound to have occurred immediately after!

I'm sure I had other thoughts, but those will do for now!


Stargate Atlantis, Letters from Pegasus, not a spoiler - I love Paul McGillion. But you all knew that about me.

And fic. For the warricksara "You Look Good in my Shirt" challenge (for those of you unfamiliar with country music, it's a song by Keith Urban. See grammy squealage above)

Title: Seldom is Wonderful
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Warrick/Sara
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1,810
Rating: PG



When Warrick was growing up, his grandmother had an aphorism for every occasion, and now, as an adult, Warrick sometimes finds himself quoting them, which usually earns him a quizzical look from most people, a vaguely admiring one from Grissom, and an amused one from Sara. It’s something that he takes in his stride, because he can’t help it; he is, after all, a product of his upbringing, and if it makes Sara smile, then it’s not something that he worries about overmuch.

And he’s certainly not going to worry about it now, when he’s standing in front of his own front door, about to slide his key into the lock, and the only thought that’s going through his mind is one of Grams’s special favourites: “What’s seldom is wonderful.”

Seldom, because very rarely does he get the chance to come home to Sara; she’s usually pulling into the car park just as he’s ready to leave, and they’ve had to make do with five minutes of hurried conversation in some corner somewhere (and, on one occasion that still makes Sara’s cheeks burn when he reminds her of it, five minutes of something else entirely in a conveniently located and even more conveniently unlocked storage closet) to sustain them until eight the next morning, when she finally, theoretically, arrives home.

Wonderful, because he really does love coming home to her, something that he admits freely, something she teases him about constantly. An appeal to his caveman instincts, that’s what she calls it, adding on something about the little woman waiting at home for him, cooking his meals, and his response is always the same, a teasing “And what’s so wrong with that?” He knows he runs the risk of bodily injury when he says that to her, but he thinks it’s worth it, just to see that colour that comes to her cheeks, the fire in her eyes, the smile that comes to her lips.

Seldom because tonight is her night off, and most of the time, she works it, though, since they’ve been together, she’s gotten better about actually taking the time off, allowing them to enjoy some time together. Still though, it’s not always her choice; they’re CSIs in a busy town, and when their cell phone rings in the middle of the night – whatever night means for them – they have to answer it, know it could mean the difference between life and death. It’s the price they pay for the job they have, and most of the time, they pay it gladly… or almost gladly.

Wonderful, because he appreciates all the more the sight that greets him when he walks into the house, hangs up his jacket and going right to the living room. Sara is sitting up on the couch, rubbing her eyes, hair tousled, woken by the sound of his key in the lock, and he feels momentarily guilty about that. Then he frowns, because if she’s that tired, there are other places she should be. “You didn’t have to wait up,” he says, forgoing his usual greeting, and she narrows her eyes when she looks up at him.

“I was going to go to bed,” she protests, picking up a book from the couch beside her, throwing it on the coffee table. “I was just going to read another page…”

“Yeah, cause it looks like it really interested you,” he says, not unkindly, casting an eye over the paperback, another true crime book. He shakes his head, because he doesn’t know how she can sleep with that kind of bedroom reading, before reminding himself that they’ve both seen as bad and worse in their time, Sara in particular.

He glances at her then, sees the blush coating her cheeks, and he hears himself chuckling, lifting her legs from the couch, afghan and all, sitting himself down and putting her legs down across his knees. His fingers trace idle patterns over the soft wool of the afghan, a present from Grams when they moved in together, and Sara closes her eyes, a soft smile spreading across her lips.

“What time is it?” she asks after a moment, and he tilts his head, checks the clock on the mantel.

“Just gone midnight,” he tells her, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Early mark… How did Catherine feel about that?”

There’s a little bit of an edge to her voice, not that Warrick’s surprised at that. He’s spent the last year and more straddling loyalty to his supervisor and loyalty to Sara, and it doesn’t look as if thing were going to get any easier any time soon. “Didn’t give her any choice,” he says mildly, before adding on, “Besides… I knew I had a crime to investigate.”

He’s teasing her, and she opens one eye to look at him, an unmistakeable smirk lighting her face. She knows what’s coming next, and even has the good grace to blush. “A crime?” she says. “What crime?”

She’s all innocence, and he laughs, reaching out to tug at the collar of the shirt that she’s wearing. “Someone stole my shirt,” he says, and she laughs too, shifting so that she can sit up a little more, so that the afghan falls away, revealing to his gaze the blue and cream pinstriped shirt that he knows for a fact was hanging in his closet when he went to work.

“I didn’t steal it,” she protests. “I am merely… borrowing… it.”

He raises one eyebrow, blows a huff of air past smiling lips. “Picture that,” he mutters. “You know that’s one of my favourite shirts.”

Her smile broadens, becomes positively devilish. “Mine too,” she tells him, and he laughs again, reaching out to slip his arms around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. The afghan falls to the floor, and he sees, as he knew he would, that she is wearing his shirt and nothing else, knowledge that causes him to press her just a little tighter against him.

“You have a wardrobe of your own clothes,” he reminds her, nuzzling her neck for a moment before pulling back to look into her eyes. “Why’ve you got to be raiding mine?”

She loops her arms around his neck, shrugging her shoulders. “I like your shirts,” she tells him. “Besides… my own clothes don’t fit me anymore.”

At that, all Warrick can do is roll his eyes, even as one hand moves to her stomach, traces the very slight swell there. “You’re barely showing,” he points out, which is true, because at four months along, most people can’t even tell that Sara is pregnant. He can though, intimate knowledge of her body meaning that the most minute of changes register with him, and he lets his hand linger there, enjoying how her eyes flutter shut as his fingers move against the soft material of his shirt.

“Practice?” she tries, and he grins, pressing another kiss to her neck.

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” he murmurs, moving to bring his lips to hers, kissing her long and slow, the kind of kiss he’s been dreaming about all through his shift, the kind of kiss he’s wanted to give her since he walked into this room and saw that shirt collar peeking out against her skin. She kisses him back, insinuating herself against his body in a manner that makes him wonder exactly what she was dreaming about before he walked through the door. He deepens the kiss, expecting her to respond, and he’s surprised when she pulls back. He thinks for a moment that she’s going to continue teasing him, but when he sees her eyes, dark and uncertain, all thoughts of levity vanish from his head. “Sara?” he asks, and she gives him the tiniest of smiles, pulling her hands into her lap. He notices as she does so that she’s pulled the sleeves of his shirt right down over her hands, that her knuckles are white as they hold onto the cuffs, pulling them down as far as they can go, and when she speaks, that’s where she’s looking.

“I just… I like wearing your shirts when you’re not here…” she whispers. “They smell like you… and I sleep better.”

He looks down then, slides one arm around her back and up, to rest between her shoulder blades, the other moving to her belly, their child growing within. He feels momentarily guilty, because he’s still not used to this new, vulnerable side of Sara that he’s seen over the last few months, not the kickass CSI from work, not the teasing lover of months before. When this Sara makes an appearance, she is shy, unsure of herself, and she hates herself for it.

He knows all this, just like he knows the reasons why, knows that this baby, though unplanned, is the most wanted child in the world, by both of them. Still though, Sara’s scared, terrified that she’s not going to be a good mother, worried that the sins of her parents will be visited, through her, on their child. Growing up like she did, she’d asked him the day they’d found out for sure that she was pregnant, how would she cope with a child of her own, and he hadn’t hesitated in his answer. “We’ll get through it together,” he’d promised, taking her in his arms, just as she’s in his arms now, and he’s never wavered from that promise.

He never will.

Which is why, as far as he’s concerned, if she wants to wear his shirts, if they make her feel better, then who is he to stop her?

“I know that, baby,” he whispers, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “I just like making your face turn that funny colour…”

It turns a darker shade of that colour now, and she swats at his shoulder, fingers barely skimming the shirt he wears. He catches the hand easily, brings it to his lips before entwining his fingers with hers. “Besides,” he continues, “You know you look good in my shirt…” He kisses her again then, and she responds, and as his lips move from her mouth to her neck, his fingers move from her back to the buttons of the shirt she’s wearing. “And even better out of it…” he concludes between kisses, liking the way she chuckles, liking even more how she moves against him.

“That a fact?” she asks, and that’s all she gets to say before he scoops her up in his arms, carrying her to the bedroom.

Later, much later, they lie in bed, limbs entangled, Sara sleeping, Warrick just about to join her. Just then, his gaze falls on the two shirts, lying on the floor, similarly entangled, and he smiles to himself, knowing that things are exactly as they should be, and he wouldn’t change a thing.