When she drank she would call him, laughing softly at the casual jokes he would make; knowing well that they could only be appreciated when drunk. But he never complained, would only hang up when she became sloppy, tongue stumbling over numb lips and familiar phrases. His name, although having passed her lips many times, would become alien when she’d finished her fifth screwdriver, and the dull tone from his end of the line would spur her to sleep.

"Catherine?"

"Yeah." She’d always start by telling him what she was wearing- often a baggy UNLV sweatshirt with or without workout pants. Hair down, and he could see it, in his mind’s eye, cascading over her shoulders in a curtain of honey-blond, glistening in the light from her violet stained-glass bedside lamp. He’d intervene, tell her about something new he’d learned in the latest forensics journal, and she’d chuckle at comments he’d make regarding the stale, stubborn dayshift supervisor, Conrad Ecklie.

"How are you doing?"

"Tonight? Or at life in general?" She paused, the clink of ice cubes audible over the line as she lifted the glass to her lips, and drank. "My ex is dead, my daughter is consoling me, although it should be the other way around..."

"It’s going to take time."

"And it’s time well spent." She giggled at her own attempt at humor, the sound dying as she realized, slowly, that he was not laughing with her. "Gil...come on over."

"Cath, you’re drunk. And you’re working tomorrow night."

"And you’re my friend...and would you rather I call Ecklie?" He could visualize, then, her blond hair tumbling over the page of employee numbers as she scanned it for Conrad Ecklie’s contact information, blue eyes snapping in anticipation as well-manicured nails kept her place and her free hand dialed the...

"Give me five minutes, Catherine."

"You’ve got them." She chuckled, and he could hear her break into song as he hung up the phone. "You’ve got five minutes...to tell me what I needed to hear...."

He rang her doorbell well after midnight, a tray laden with gourmet coffee and bags of fresh muffins balanced precariously in his arms. And she answered on the third ring, sweatshirt slipping from her right shoulder to reveal freckles, so much like the speckles of cinnamon Grissom could often recall seeing sprinkled on cookies as a child.

"Most men bring flowers. You’ve walked me to the morgue...made me omelettes...brought me coffee..."

"I’m not most men."

"No, you’re not." She leaned against the wall as he pushed his way in, her light footsteps plodding along behind as he made his way to the kitchen. "Most men would have told me I was beautiful on the first day they met me...you still haven’t said it."

"You know what you are, Catherine." He pushed past her, ears catching the sound of her agile footsteps as she trailed him into the kitchen. "Tell me, Grissom?" She slid onto a bar stool as he began to unload the cups of coffee, passing one across the formica-topped island, Catherine’s hands instantly wrapping around the warm vessel. He unwrapped a muffin and slipped it across as well, their hands making contact long enough for Catherine to abandon her cup and wrap slender fingers around his hand instead. He pulled back, and she regarded him with mournful, questing eyes. "What’s wrong?"

"I don’t like it when you’re like this." His admission brought a peculiar look into her eyes, and she leaned back, hands wrapped once again around her sweating glass.

"I’ve lost my husband, Gil. It’s only natural-"

"That you drown your sorrows in a glass of vodka?" He slid a cup of coffee and a muffin across the counter, staring her in the eye. "That doesn’t make it any better, Cath- and it doesn’t make you any less likely to suffer. Eddie still won’t be here when you’re finished."

"Well, neither will you." She swallowed the last droplets of liquid from her glass and readily sipped at the coffee, nose wrinkling at the taste of the bitter liquid. "There’s nothing here when I start, and nothing here when I finish. So the way I see it...there’s nothing for me to lose, Gil."

Grissom shook his head, never wanting to try to reason with her, knowing his words did little good as her brain slowly marinated in the burning of the vodka. It wasn’t Catherine anymore, when the alcohol began to take hold, and although he felt attracted to the wild, sexy woman behind the smile...he didn’t want the moment of attraction to take place on a night like this.

"Where are you going?" He’d thought she wouldn’t notice his attempt to slip out of the kitchen, but she did, slipping off her stool and hobbling behind him in pursuit. Her steps were, not surprisingly, unsteady, bare feet finding difficulty in gripping the cool linoleum. "Gil...Gil, stay and talk to me."

"This isn’t talking!" He snapped, spinning around as she collided into him, the two bodies tumbling onto the living room rug in a tangle of limbs. Her sweatshirt somehow worked it’s way over her head, shrouding it from view, and as he struggled to climb to his feet, her frightened call drew him down to his knees again.

"Gil...don’t leave me...I don’t want to be alone now."

"Catherine- I’m sorry..." His fingers worked to draw her sweatshirt the rest of the way over her light, bouncy curls, revealing the frightened woman, clad in her daughter’s too-large Rainbow Brite tank top, breasts heaving from the combination of exertion and fright. Her eyes were pleading, pools of azure blue begging him to keep her from drowning. "Catherine, sweetheart..."

"I’m sorry, too." There wasn’t anything he could have said to draw her from his arms, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Delicate fingers clung to his shirt, her head bowed into his chest as her muffled voice apologized profusely for being drunk, for being sad...for being everything she’d never wanted to be when Eddie was involved. She was sorry she’d been so good to him, sorry she hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye before he’d gone. "Gil...thank you."

"Of course, Cath...you’re welcome." And he held her until she fell asleep, her freckled neck revealed to him as she fell forward, limp with exhaustion, hair puddled across his lap. He arranged her more comfortably and leaned back, his back striking the side of the couch. They’d luckily landed in a convenient place, and he remained there for the next six hours, covering Catherine with the sweatshirt and holding on.

Until he fell asleep in her arms.