Title: Bells For Her
By: coldbeer
Pairing: Cath/Sara
Rating: G
Challenge; #14, Tori Amos song titles. Also. All nekosmuse’s fault. (A random post about how every fan fiction writer should write a marriage fic made me do this. I couldn’t not do it, sadly.
Author’s Notes: Watch as coldbeer completely destroys whatever credibility she had as a fan fiction writer by writing something completely out of character. And it’s fluff! It’s fluff! *runs awaaay* Thanks, A&A, for beta-ing.

***

Stare at your face in the mirror. Cold water on your wrists. Don’t take too long; they’ll come knocking, worried, cracking jokes about cold feet.


Sara had pulled up the sheet high over her shoulders, as if it was possible to feel cold this late October afternoon.

“That was like nothing I’ve ever... I think I want to marry you.”

A chuckle low in her throat, arrogant. “And it’s still early.”

Silence. Sara studied the ceiling, and you closed your eyes, briefly wondered if there was still something left there she hadn’t seen before.

“I’ve never actually realized this, but we are in Vegas.”

You didn’t know what she was talking about. You didn’t care. Sleep was taking over you.

“Vegas. Marriage central.”

You were drifting off. “Hmm? I thought it was Sin City.”

She slapped you, or tried to, a lazy arm landing heavily on your chest. You reluctantly opened an eye to find her still staring at the ceiling.


One fifteen. Is it a bad thing that you want this whole thing to be over with as soon as possible, now? After months of planning, and spending a small fortune on silly little things like side dishes and hand made cards? You wanted this, she would say. You were the one that insisted on bridesmaids and dresses and a centerpiece for every table.


“Catherine.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get married.”

You sighed, and turned towards her. One eyebrow up, the other frowning, you asked, “Have you ever wondered why you only bring this up right after we’ve had sex?”

(That wasn’t really true. They had been in a restaurant, actually, when she had brought it up again. She had almost done it properly, but Catherine hadn’t replied like the last time someone had seriously proposed to her. She’d asked her, ‘Why?’ and Sara had suggested they forget she had said anything at all.)


The paper towel sticks to your fingers. You could stay in here a little while longer, just to make them sweat a little. You can picture Sara, nervous, looking for a place to put her hands. (The pants of the suit she’s wearing don’t have pockets. You know; you helped pick it out.) Warrick and Nick will offer her Cuban cigars. Grissom, looking extremely uncomfortable in a tuxedo, will offer her little more than a sympathetic look or two.


“I don’t – I’ve had enough of thinking. I think we should just do it.”

“Why? And don’t give me that financial benefits story again, because I swear to God...”

“I love you.”

She had never succeeded in shutting you up so efficiently, before. She just stared up at the ceiling. Relaxed and thoughtful.


Take one deep breath. Dispose of the paper towel. Check your lipgloss. Someone else will be asking you a question, in about fifteen minutes or so. ‘Do you, Catherine Margaret Willows?’ Your stomach spins and twirls. This time, the answer will be simple.

***