She slammed the door, the contents of the refrigerator rattling by the impact of her hand. The kitchen had become warmer than the ambient outdoor temperature ever could, and with a sigh she wrenched open the window above the sink, shaking her curly blond hair over her lean shoulders before brushing flour from her palms. An arrangement of artificial holly and pine had been cautiously placed over the curtain rod, and she smiled at the popsicle stick Santa her daughter had artfully placed among the branches, his too-large google eyes regarding her solemnly.

"Mommy...did you get the chocolate chips?" Seven year old Lindsey Willows stood on a stool at the counter, an island within the sea of azure tile in Catherine Willows’ small, yet functioning kitchen. Blond hair pinned roughly onto the back of her head, she resembled her mother in the rounded cheeks and blue eyes, dancing with mirth. Catherine shook her head in thoughtful reverie, a smile crossing her own features as she realized just how lucky she’d been for having a child who barely looked a thing like Eddie. Sometimes, when she woke up at night, and wandered into Lindsey's room...She ran her fingers over the delicate face and wondered. There just could have been a hint of Grissom in her features...the blue eyes, piercing and curious...

But the reality was, Lindsey was a Willows, and Catherine, despite her history with Eddie, found that she was proud to be the mother of such an adoring child. Even an adoring child who insisted on wearing jingle bells in her ponytail when she was baking cookies.

"Not yet, sweetheart." She spun and headed back toward the fridge, just two steps away across the tiles...and the soft chime of the doorbell reverberated through the bungalow, resounding above their heads like angels heard on high. "Linds...watch the oven. You remember what I told you...don’t let the oven get too hot."

She brushed her palms against her waist and moved into the living room to open the front door, tugging at the hem of her violet shirt with fervor, in all attempts to make some chaos into order. The living room spread out into a sunny array of white and eggshell blue, pillows strewn over the Oriental rug in vivid shades of crimson and ivory, proving that, indeed, her actions were a futile. And the Christmas tree, in the midst of the melee, standing tall and erect as it threw dashes of color about the room. Sunlight cast through the front window struck crimson bulbs and stained glass Christmas stars, dancing on the carpet as Catherine herself had once danced so long ago.

Throwing a plump cushion onto a chair, she bypassed the glass-topped coffee table and flung open the front door, hair falling promptly into her eyes.

"Grissom?"

"Catherine." The wizened sapphire eyes of Gil Grissom met hers, dancing with a hint of silent humor. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you." A glance in the mirror beside the door revealed smudges of pale white and globs of sunny yellow egg yolk across the bridge of her nose, and Catherine shook her head wearily. "Come on in...Lindsey and I are in the kitchen."

"Hi, Grissom." The petite form poked her head over the countertop as Grissom was led into the warming kitchen, sunlight bathing the blond head in a golden glow. "We’re making cookies. Do you like chocolate chip, and butterscotch?"

"Lindsey...turn down the oven. The knob on the left!" Catherine snatched a worn towel from the countertop, quickly swiping it over her face before reaching behind her back to fiddle with knotted strings. "Thank you for coming, Gil."

"It’s all right, Catherine. I had plenty." Grissom stepped up to help her, large fingers enveloping her own for a brief moment before deftly untying the harshly knotted strings. Her apron fell from her waist and into his hands, the slight jarring impact sending clouds of flour into the air. She laughed, lightly, a sound Grissom found he craved more than the desert needed rain. With a shake of her curls, she reached for the paper bag he grasped tightly in his arms, and slipped the contents onto the counter.

"Eggs...butter-flavored Crisco...brown sugar...Vodka." She stopped at the final item in the bag, glancing about to be sure Lindsey wasn’t paying attention, and slipped the lean, transparent bottle into the dishwasher. "Grissom...what cookie recipe calls for an economy sized bottle of Smirnoff Vodka?"

"None that I’m aware of. Then again- I rarely cook without you in the kitchen." He headed for the refrigerator, eggs balanced in his right hand, Catherine’s apron slung over his arm. "I had to assume you had plenty of orange juice...and it looks to me like your baking assistant has vanished."

"So it seems." And indeed, the younger Willows had disappeared in a flash, her own apron- a miniature version of her mother’s- abandoned carelessly upon a stool beside the counter. "And I’d say I need a new recruit... are you up for the job? If you can beat off old women in the grocery store just to get me my baking supplies...then I’d imagine you can hold up to this, can’t you?"

"In the kitchen with Catherine Willows..." Grissom chuckled, removing Lindsey’s own flour-spotted apron from the stool and hanging it upon a wall-peg near the pantry. "If you’ll have me, Catherine."

"Then hand me those eggs." Catherine’s manner was all business now, CSI-turned close friend-turned Mom in one easy switch. It amused Grissom to see her this way, out of the lab, more loose and carefree than she could ever be in the professional atmosphere. It gave them the chance to be themselves, with each other, and he was grateful for that. "And hurry it up, Mr.Grissom, or I may have to turn in a recipe for Screwdrivers and Calamari to the PTA."

"Aye, aye." The eggs were still on the counter, and he reached for them, but she beat him to it, playful and laughing as her hand clutched two of the fragile shells and cracked them on the edge of the bowl. "PTA bake-sale?"

"Christmas fundraiser. If it wasn’t for Lindsey, I wouldn’t have managed. But you know how hard it is to say no to a pretty face." Catherine’s own face was strewn with flour and streaks of Crisco as she turned it in his direction, smiling through the floury haze. He did know how hard it was to say no to a pretty face, and sincerely hoped that the policy went both ways.

"It is difficult," He admitted, reaching for the long, slim neck of the vodka bottle, and heading for the refridgerator. "I hope you aren’t out of orange juice."

"There jucie, or there’s egg nog. Take your pick." She brushed a curl away from her nose and headed for the oven, a tray rife with cookie shapes balanced in her capable hands. "Lindsey forgot the second batch of cookies... Santa Claus and elves."

"Would that make you Mrs.Claus?"

"Only if you want to be Santa. And," She reached out with a free hand, index finger playfully poking him in the stomach. "Although you have a beard, I know you aren’t a ‘right jolly old elf’, Gil."

"I wouldn’t bet on that." He turned from the doorway to the refridgerator, proferring a tall glass in his right hand, the liquid within a soft, creamy orange. "Screwdriver?"

"Perfect." She accepted and drank, lips caressing the rim of the vessel, eyes falling forward as she quickly neared the bottom of the glass. "Gil- when does a screwdriver require a hint of diamond?"

"Don’t swallow it." He warned, her fingers already delving into the depths of her remaining orange juice. "It’s a Cubic Zurconia...securely fastened on a silver band."

"So we can easily rule out my being pinned for the murder of my fiancés exotic dancer?" She held the trinket into the hazy light of the kitchen, cookies forgotten in the revelation of Grissom’s apparent Christmas wish. "So, Santa- you had your heart set on finding a Mrs.Claus after all, hm?"

"Ho Ho Ho." He kissed her, beard scratchy and warm against her face as the glass shattered at their feet. Neither cared, nor paid attention to the small figure who darted into the kitchen to shut the oven off, and giggle softly as she darted back out again. "Marry me, Mrs. Claus? And together, we’ll make enough Santa cookies to send the PTA fundraising group to the North Pole."

"They did need someone to dress up as Santa this year." Catherine mused, playfully snatching a handful of flour from the countertop and dusting Grissom’s beard with it. "And you do fit the part, Saint Gil."

"We’ll just see about that. Come sit on my knee- and tell me what you want for Christmas." Catherine brought her lips to his ear, breath warm on his cheek as her lips formed the words he’d always wanted to hear.

"Why Santa- all I want for Christmas...is you."

~End