Fic Post - Luck
Title: Luck
Fandom: CSI
Characters: Nick, Sara
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Post Butterflied. Nick’s always said Sara needs to get out more.
A/N: Apparently the best thing to do about a lack of inspiration is to complain about it. No sooner had I posted last night than the plotbunnies started reproducing like, well, bunnies.
She was about fifty pages into the biography of Lucrezia Borgia from which she’d been hoping to learn something about poison and political murder, when the buzzer sounded. “It’s me,” came Nick’s voice when Sara answered it. “Can I come up?”
Wondering what he could possibly want at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night - her night off, she might add - she buzzed him through the security door and waited for him to make it up to her floor. “Thought you were off tonight.”
“I am,” he said as Sara closed the door and, out of habit, slid the chain lock home. “Schedule says you are too.”
Things slid into place. Nick was just a little too well-groomed for a simple social call. The whole lab knew about Debbie Marlin. Probably the first thing Nick had heard when he’d come back from that convention.
Crap, she thought. She’d been hoping the whole thing had blown over by now. “Nick -“
“One night out, Sara.” He leaned back against her kitchen counter. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
She sighed. “I appreciate the thought, Nick. I do. I just -“ She needed an excuse. Now. An excuse other than the slightly boring book she’d just begun. “I have plans,” she finished lamely.
A blind man could have seen through that one. “Plans.”
She nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to call her on it.
“You have plans to sit here with a book, Sara. Alone with a book.”
“Yeah,” she said, irritated now. “Fine. I do. That’s what I do. It’s what I like.”
If she’d hoped Nick would give up and leave, she was disappointed. “No one likes being alone twenty-four-seven, Sara. You need - people.”
“No,” Sara snapped, wishing he’d just go. “I don’t. And my social life is none of your business.”
He took a deep breath and Sara could almost hear him count to ten. “You’re right,” he said, though he clearly didn’t believe it. “It’s none of my business and I apologize.”
She waited. Apology, then goodbye, and then she could go back to her night off. Alone.
“But I’ve had a long few days too, and I’m going down to Lucky Kelly’s. Probably be there til around midnight. Maybe one.”
“Have fun.” She intended it to sound a little more friendly than it did.
Nick’s shoulders slumped a little. He nodded and pulled back the chain lock to let himself out. “Enjoy your book, Sara.”
Sara closed the door behind him. Deadbolt. Chain lock. Damn it. She leaned back against the closed door, pinching the bridge of her nose.
She wasn’t going to let it get to her. He’d invited, she’d refused, she had a book to read, and he could just meet someone else at the pub. Lucky Kelly’s was good for that. All she had to do was stick to that resolution until one, and then there’d be no point in going anyway.
Ten-thirty came and went. The goddamn Pope had had a better love life than Sara.
Eleven. Lucrezia Borgia sounded supremely boring, although Sara was fairly sure that was more the biographer’s fault than Lucrezia’s. Some of it might actually have been kind of interesting, but it had been written by someone whose sense of humor was worse than -
Worse than mine, Sara thought before she could stop herself.
Eleven-fifteen. She’d had enough. Shower, she decided. A shower didn’t mean she was getting ready to go out. If she’d been getting ready to go out, she would have pulled out a dress rather than pyjamas.
Her bathroom fan worked well. Too well, sometimes; no matter how hot she ran the shower, or for how long, the mirror would be clear again by the time she’d toweled off, and Sara would be face-to-face with herself just when she least wanted to be: when she was naked, limbs long and gangly without clothes to soften them, head too large because of the towel wrapped around it, a few wet strings of hair still plastered to her neck, sending droplets of water trickling down over her breasts.
Drowned rat, she thought, turning off the light on her way out. She didn’t bother to dry her hair, because she wasn’t going anywhere except to bed, soon.
Lucrezia Borgia wasn’t any more interesting now than she had been before. Would it really be that bad to go for a drink with Nick? He’d be pleased if she did. And he was easier to chat with than Catherine was; it wouldn’t be as awkward as the last time she’d gone for drinks with a colleague.
No. Sara took a deep breath and stared hard at the page in front of her. She’d made her choice. Things were just a little weird right now because of Debbie Marlin - a physical resemblance to a murder victim could do that. In a few weeks, the whole thing would be forgotten, except by Sara, and probably Grissom, though he’d never mention it. There were a lot of things Grissom had made it clear he’d never mention.
Five past twelve.
Ten past.
Damn it.
+++
Nick checked his watch again. Twelve-thirty. He really should just go home, he told himself. He’d told Sara he might only stay until midnight, so if she showed up and he was gone, well, he’d given her over two hours to change her mind.
He’d just been hoping to talk to her for awhile, see what she’d been up to. They hadn’t had much of a chance recently; things had been busy, and then he’d been off at the AAFS convention, and when he’d come back, there’d been that case. The nurse. Debbie Something. Nick had gathered bits and pieces of it from Greg and, to a lesser extent, Warrick. Had to have thrown Sara for a loop, seeing herself on a slab like that.
And then there was the promotion. They both wanted it. Honestly, Nick was pretty sure Sara had a better shot; he hated to admit it, but she was a lot smarter than he was. Whatever Grissom decided, though, Nick would have liked to know, would have liked to get rid of the rivalry that put yet another bit of distance between himself and Sara.
A woman came up to the bar and stood next to Nick. She was clearly turned toward him, but Nick ignored her; he wasn’t interested tonight.
Quarter to one. One more, he told himself. He’d finish his drink, have one more, then he’d call a cab.
“You know what they say about people who drink alone.”
He looked up and was suddenly very interested. “No,” he said with a grin that probably showed just how much drinking alone he’d been doing. “What do they say?”
“Good question.” Sara shrugged and slid onto the stool beside Nick’s. “I hadn’t really thought that one through.”
“Well, whatever it is, if I buy you a drink, they can’t say it anymore.”
Sara laughed and pointed at Nick’s drink, signaling the bartender to bring another. “Do I want to know how many you’ve had?”
“Probably not.” Nick took a sip. He was better at sipping when he had company. “You look nice.”
Her cheeks reddened a little and she lifted her glass to hide it. “You are drunk.”
“No.” He shook his head quickly and wished he hadn’t. “Well, yeah, actually, but - no. You look nice.”
Sara’s flush deepened. “Thanks.” She looked down at the bar. Bit her lip. “For this, I mean. For waiting.”
Nick downed the rest of his drink. Maybe he wasn’t that great at sipping after all. “I’m glad you came.”
Continued here.
Fandom: CSI
Characters: Nick, Sara
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Post Butterflied. Nick’s always said Sara needs to get out more.
A/N: Apparently the best thing to do about a lack of inspiration is to complain about it. No sooner had I posted last night than the plotbunnies started reproducing like, well, bunnies.
She was about fifty pages into the biography of Lucrezia Borgia from which she’d been hoping to learn something about poison and political murder, when the buzzer sounded. “It’s me,” came Nick’s voice when Sara answered it. “Can I come up?”
Wondering what he could possibly want at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night - her night off, she might add - she buzzed him through the security door and waited for him to make it up to her floor. “Thought you were off tonight.”
“I am,” he said as Sara closed the door and, out of habit, slid the chain lock home. “Schedule says you are too.”
Things slid into place. Nick was just a little too well-groomed for a simple social call. The whole lab knew about Debbie Marlin. Probably the first thing Nick had heard when he’d come back from that convention.
Crap, she thought. She’d been hoping the whole thing had blown over by now. “Nick -“
“One night out, Sara.” He leaned back against her kitchen counter. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
She sighed. “I appreciate the thought, Nick. I do. I just -“ She needed an excuse. Now. An excuse other than the slightly boring book she’d just begun. “I have plans,” she finished lamely.
A blind man could have seen through that one. “Plans.”
She nodded, hoping he wasn’t going to call her on it.
“You have plans to sit here with a book, Sara. Alone with a book.”
“Yeah,” she said, irritated now. “Fine. I do. That’s what I do. It’s what I like.”
If she’d hoped Nick would give up and leave, she was disappointed. “No one likes being alone twenty-four-seven, Sara. You need - people.”
“No,” Sara snapped, wishing he’d just go. “I don’t. And my social life is none of your business.”
He took a deep breath and Sara could almost hear him count to ten. “You’re right,” he said, though he clearly didn’t believe it. “It’s none of my business and I apologize.”
She waited. Apology, then goodbye, and then she could go back to her night off. Alone.
“But I’ve had a long few days too, and I’m going down to Lucky Kelly’s. Probably be there til around midnight. Maybe one.”
“Have fun.” She intended it to sound a little more friendly than it did.
Nick’s shoulders slumped a little. He nodded and pulled back the chain lock to let himself out. “Enjoy your book, Sara.”
Sara closed the door behind him. Deadbolt. Chain lock. Damn it. She leaned back against the closed door, pinching the bridge of her nose.
She wasn’t going to let it get to her. He’d invited, she’d refused, she had a book to read, and he could just meet someone else at the pub. Lucky Kelly’s was good for that. All she had to do was stick to that resolution until one, and then there’d be no point in going anyway.
Ten-thirty came and went. The goddamn Pope had had a better love life than Sara.
Eleven. Lucrezia Borgia sounded supremely boring, although Sara was fairly sure that was more the biographer’s fault than Lucrezia’s. Some of it might actually have been kind of interesting, but it had been written by someone whose sense of humor was worse than -
Worse than mine, Sara thought before she could stop herself.
Eleven-fifteen. She’d had enough. Shower, she decided. A shower didn’t mean she was getting ready to go out. If she’d been getting ready to go out, she would have pulled out a dress rather than pyjamas.
Her bathroom fan worked well. Too well, sometimes; no matter how hot she ran the shower, or for how long, the mirror would be clear again by the time she’d toweled off, and Sara would be face-to-face with herself just when she least wanted to be: when she was naked, limbs long and gangly without clothes to soften them, head too large because of the towel wrapped around it, a few wet strings of hair still plastered to her neck, sending droplets of water trickling down over her breasts.
Drowned rat, she thought, turning off the light on her way out. She didn’t bother to dry her hair, because she wasn’t going anywhere except to bed, soon.
Lucrezia Borgia wasn’t any more interesting now than she had been before. Would it really be that bad to go for a drink with Nick? He’d be pleased if she did. And he was easier to chat with than Catherine was; it wouldn’t be as awkward as the last time she’d gone for drinks with a colleague.
No. Sara took a deep breath and stared hard at the page in front of her. She’d made her choice. Things were just a little weird right now because of Debbie Marlin - a physical resemblance to a murder victim could do that. In a few weeks, the whole thing would be forgotten, except by Sara, and probably Grissom, though he’d never mention it. There were a lot of things Grissom had made it clear he’d never mention.
Five past twelve.
Ten past.
Damn it.
+++
Nick checked his watch again. Twelve-thirty. He really should just go home, he told himself. He’d told Sara he might only stay until midnight, so if she showed up and he was gone, well, he’d given her over two hours to change her mind.
He’d just been hoping to talk to her for awhile, see what she’d been up to. They hadn’t had much of a chance recently; things had been busy, and then he’d been off at the AAFS convention, and when he’d come back, there’d been that case. The nurse. Debbie Something. Nick had gathered bits and pieces of it from Greg and, to a lesser extent, Warrick. Had to have thrown Sara for a loop, seeing herself on a slab like that.
And then there was the promotion. They both wanted it. Honestly, Nick was pretty sure Sara had a better shot; he hated to admit it, but she was a lot smarter than he was. Whatever Grissom decided, though, Nick would have liked to know, would have liked to get rid of the rivalry that put yet another bit of distance between himself and Sara.
A woman came up to the bar and stood next to Nick. She was clearly turned toward him, but Nick ignored her; he wasn’t interested tonight.
Quarter to one. One more, he told himself. He’d finish his drink, have one more, then he’d call a cab.
“You know what they say about people who drink alone.”
He looked up and was suddenly very interested. “No,” he said with a grin that probably showed just how much drinking alone he’d been doing. “What do they say?”
“Good question.” Sara shrugged and slid onto the stool beside Nick’s. “I hadn’t really thought that one through.”
“Well, whatever it is, if I buy you a drink, they can’t say it anymore.”
Sara laughed and pointed at Nick’s drink, signaling the bartender to bring another. “Do I want to know how many you’ve had?”
“Probably not.” Nick took a sip. He was better at sipping when he had company. “You look nice.”
Her cheeks reddened a little and she lifted her glass to hide it. “You are drunk.”
“No.” He shook his head quickly and wished he hadn’t. “Well, yeah, actually, but - no. You look nice.”
Sara’s flush deepened. “Thanks.” She looked down at the bar. Bit her lip. “For this, I mean. For waiting.”
Nick downed the rest of his drink. Maybe he wasn’t that great at sipping after all. “I’m glad you came.”
Continued here.