Mistletoe was nice. Catherine Willows admired the delicacy of it, the sentimental significance; however, given time, and a lack of life- sustaining eco-culture, the delicate blooms ultimately withered. So too, unfortunately, the spirit of the holidays. Eventually, Christmas faded; its warmth, freedom of spirit and emotion, gradually gave way to the more stark realities of life.

Enter January 1st ­ the time of new beginnings ­ the time for looking back at a year gone by, with its successes, and disappointments.

Call it post holiday depression. Call it insecurities, indecisions. Paths traveled. Paths unexplored. Whatever the impetus, Catherine faced the start of 2004, the advent of a new year in a dejected frame of mind.

Damn Gil Grissom.

She pushed that irksome thought away, striding down an interior hallway of CSI. She pushed through the doorway of the audio/visual lab, taking a seat behind a wide screen monitor, right next to the chair currently occupied by Archie Johnson.

"What's the verdict?" she asked promptly, wanting to bury herself as deeply into work as possible.

Archie shrugged. "Snow covered and slippery."

Catherine looked at him and blinked, taken completely off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Snowy surveillance video from the Stop n' Go convenience store, which leads to a slippery perpetrator." That verdict delivered, Archie's gaze slid from the monitor to Catherine, and he grinned.

It was a devastating grin, and Catherine could not help but laugh. "Archie, you are too damned giddy these days. Where the hell did *that* come from?"

His only answer to that was a big smile and a devil-may-care shrug. It was then that an utterly distracting image seemed to take Archie away from the conversation at hand. Joy Fuller. Catherine grinned to herself, thinking, `I should have known.' The DNA wiz, who was a striking, incredible new addition to the CSI tech crew, passed the window line as she made her way from DNA to a nearby conference room. Joy glanced into the A/V lab.

Catherine had to give Joy credit. She didn't beam gushingly, she didn't wink or outwardly flirt. Instead, the beautiful, Asian featured woman simply looked within, her eyes aligning instantly to Archie's. All she had to do was lift a brow, quirk her lips upward just a bit, and the small gestures spoke volumes.

Archie was unable to return proper focus to their case until Joy had disappeared from his view. He was nearly drooling.

"Want to know a secret?" he finally asked, leaning in a bit.

His mood, best described as ebullient, delivered the attitude adjustment Catherine so desperately needed at the moment. So, she nodded enthusiastically, glad for his happy vibration of emotion. She leaned in as well, acting the role of conspirator. "You bet. Spill."

Hung on the back of his chair was Archie's ever-present black leather jacket. He turned and reached into the side pocket, extracting a `says it all' black velvet ring box.

Ever the romantic at heart, Catherine started exclaiming even before he snapped open the lid. Nestled within a bed of black velvet was a gorgeous diamond solitaire, princess cut, radiant with flawless, fiery beauty.

"I just got it today. I'm waiting a week or so to give it to her, but you know what, Catherine? She's the one. I know it without question. We haven't been together very long, but when you know, you *know.*" His eyes automatically returned to the area where Joy had last been seen. "I've never met anyone like her, and I never will again. What's the use in waiting? Waiting wastes time."

His words carried with them a tremendous impact. In fact, if she weren't so fond of Archie, Catherine could have easily let herself be overwhelmed by the envy she felt.

Damn Gil Grissom.

Catherine looked at her colleague. Tall, charismatic, with fathomless dark eyes, spiky jet hair and a personality that lent further impact to his striking good looks, Archie Johnson had just worked one over on Catherine Willows. Wasted time should never be an option. Life was too short, too precious and rare.

Feeling utterly convicted, openly staring at him, she nearly felt tears sprang to her eyes.

That's when it came to her. Her New Year's resolution. It was the most painful one she had ever made.

"This year," she vowed silently, "I resolve to let him go."

~~~~~~~~~~

Gil had never started a year by making resolutions. How silly, he felt, to indulge in a tradition rife for failure and self- recrimination. The Christmas season had ended on a euphoric high. Why ruin the flavor by launching into promises doomed to be broken, ideals that were impossible to reach?

But this year was different. It seemed his world had spun completely, turning his heart, his perceptions around on their axis. Everything, Gil determined, had begun at the CSI Christmas party some three weeks ago. A breakthrough ­ and thank God for it.

He was in his dimly lit office, fulfilling the daily routine of caring for his ever-evolving collection of bug life. The comfort of that process, along with his present thought pattern, left him pleasantly engrossed.

Images came to mind, gliding through his mind in a rapid changing, movie-style display. Trapped in a meat locker with Catherine, curled up in one another's arms. Mistletoe, crafted in silver, suspended around her neck. Mistletoe, in blooming life, suspended above their heads as they danced ­ and kissed.

Ahh, the kiss.

Gil's lips curved slowly upward. Heat filled him like the swell of a wave, causing a determinedly needy, male reaction. He lifted the lid on a top-lit glass tank containing a rare species of South American spider. Depositing food carefully within, he kept thinking, and planning. He felt just secure enough, just strong enough, to give resolutions a try. Times were changing, for the better. Life, it seemed, was giving him the opportunity to free his heart and explore an opportunity that had been many, many years in the making. Catherine Willows. He closed the lid, peered inside at his smallish- sized pet, and he smiled widely.

He was being slow about the courtship. Methodical. He refused to rush forward like a rapturous schoolboy. Such was not his way; besides, a reaction like that could be dooming. He refused to take rash chances with a person who was so unquestionably precious.

Instead, he opted to settle back ­ just for a short time ­ so he might carefully plan the next course of action as they continued to move forward, safely. He wanted it all. He wanted the romance, the intimacy and commitment; he wanted Catherine Willows with a love that had nothing to do with friendship or a working relationship, but everything to do with passion.

And so came his first, last and only vow.

"This year," he promised silently, "I resolve to make her mine."

~~~~~~~~~~

A good ten minutes into a team briefing session, Catherine joined the nightshift crew around a conference room table.

"Catherine," Gil called gruffly. "You're late."

Oh, the unconscionable jerk, she thought instantly. Who was he to attempt a dress down of his second in command - in front of the team no less? She spun toward him wearing an arched brow and a mile's worth of tightly wound attitude. "Unavoidable. I was with Archie reviewing surveillance tape from the Watkins case. I got here just as quickly as I could. Boss."

Feeling smug, but edgy as hell, she took her seat and began watching Gil as assignments were issued. She was tuned in to Gil Grissom well enough to realize he was keeping tabs on her. Oh, he dispensed of his duties as supervising CSI with typical smooth confidence and a no- nonsense demeanor.

But his eyes strayed to her. Repeatedly.

Catherine ignored the gesture. Hell, brief bouts of eye contact and work driven conversation were all that had come to pass between them since the CSI Christmas party. Quite frankly, it was getting under her skin. He was not being cold. He was not avoiding her. Instead, he was acting like nothing had changed, like no shift of emphasis had occurred at the core of their relationship.

But damn it all, change had happened. Big time. If he refused to acknowledge their new terrain, then he was not worthy of the heartache she currently experienced. And times, as she had resolved while in Archie's company, were going to change. She could deliver a cold shoulder and a cool sense of the aloof like nobody's business. After all, in a previous life, she had been a more than convincing stage presence. She knew how to play.

But the playing, this time, was heart breaking.

Her head came up, and with it, a resolute chin. `Willows, stop it,' she recriminated in silence. After all, if Gil deigned to ignore her, then he *never* should have opened the door of romantic feelings between them. He had pulled back since the party. He reacted to her presence, now, with such unhidden tension and remoteness that she honestly hated being around him. The rejection hurt too much.

"Catherine ­ are you with us?"

Gil's commanding voice finally cut the shroud holding her captive; mentally she rebounded to the conference room, to the dispatch of assignments and the work they all had to complete. His eyes asked what words did not. `Are you okay?'

She straightened, met the unspoken with steely eyed resolve, answering, "For better or worse, Grissom."

But she did not miss the way his eyes went narrow and calculating, the ever so subtle tilt of his head. He was evaluating, processing, analyzing.

Catherine snapped her pencil neatly in two and dropped it carelessly onto the top of her note pad. Her eyes radiated the heat of her anger, though she kept her face carefully neutral and impassive.

Damn Gil Grissom.

~~~~~

"Catherine, you're with me," Gil stated firmly, half expecting Catherine to burst into argument at the assignment of a shooting victim in a pricey residential neighborhood just outside the city limits. She was ready to combust. He could feel it as surely as he would be able to feel heat radiate off stone and rock in the midst of a desert heat wave.

In consideration of her obviously foul disposition, he would have ordinarily opted to grant her the favor of some solitude, or perhaps assigned her to Nick, or Warrick, but the trouble was, he needed her expertise with regard to spatter; and quite frankly, he wanted to look out for her.

They left CSI in a mutual silence brimming with unresolved tensions, questions and emotion.

The scene in question, to be perfectly blunt, was a no brainer ­ a cut and dried domestic homicide featuring a pissed off husband in possession of a gun. Oh, it went much easier, as Gil knew it would, with Catherine's hawkish perceptions and her detailed analysis of the blood spatter that now lent grotesque color to peach painted, stucco walls. They stood in the living room of an upscale home located just beyond the reach of the Strip. Despite a cut and dry arrest, and a clearly defined crime scene, they needed to gather enough evidence to support eyewitness claims of a volatile squabble. They needed to claim the murder weapon, a freshly fired 45-calibre gun, and process it for prints and trace analysis.

Catherine went to work, but Gil noticed the way she moved. Actions, indeed, spoke much louder than words. At first, she hid behind the lens of a camera. Rapid-fire snaps punctuated their heavy silence as she performed a meticulous grid process of the scene, recording each detail of the tastefully appointed living room.

Brusque, though efficient, strokes of her gloved hands resulted in swabbed samples of the victim's blood. She pointedly ignored Gil, going about her job without a trace of their usual warmth and repartee.

Two hours of this behavior and Gil had enough. Driving back to headquarters he held to a stony silence he refused to break until he drove the Tahoe to an abrupt stop at a spot in the CSI parking lot. Storming out of the vehicle, he slammed the door closed and rounded on her.

"What the *hell* is up with you today, Catherine? The tension is so thick you could cut it, and it's all directed at me. Why? What did I do? What on Earth could be going through your mind to leave you so bitter and angry?"

"What ever would give you *that* impression?" she bit back sarcastically. "After all, over the past several weeks you have barely said more than two words to me. How could you possibly know what I'm feeling when you can't even come close enough to identify my eye color, let alone my mood."

That was the final straw. Her eyes were on fire ­ blazing ­ and Gil knew he had to walk away. He needed to get away from her, fast, and think about what in hell was going on between them lately before he ended up saying something he would later regret.

But he concluded by replying tightly, "Your eyes are the most bewitching, ever changing shade of hazel I've ever come across, Catherine, a fact I've been keenly aware of for over a decade. So, take your attitude and douse it. This fresh baked hostility of yours is news to me, and I deserve better. I've been tied up in knots since the Christmas party, ever since I finally opened up to you, and I'm damned well determined *not* to screw things up by being rash and thoughtless. If that makes me an ass, then so be it. Good night, and go home! Consider your shift concluded!"

Conversation concluded, Gil stalked off, his general direction the area of the locker room.

Jaw set, her body trembling, Catherine gave him about a minute's head start. Then followed.

~~~~~

"Hi, Gil."

"Catherine!"

Shocked senseless, soaking wet, Gil nearly stumbled over himself, grabbing for the nearest towel. Served him right for indulging in a shower at work, for wanting so desperately to wash away the day's grime and emotion beneath a pulsing spray of hot water that he could not even wait to get home to indulge the impulse.

He spun awkwardly and attempted to wrap the cloth around his waist. Trembling fingers were clumsy, however, and he made a mess of the job, twisting the fabric, wrapping, unwrapping, coming up too short - or too long.

Catherine, meanwhile, simply stared, arms folded across her chest, her profile a tempting silhouette framed between the walls of the now open stall door. She ignored the startled dance Gil conducted and started toward him, ignoring steam, water residue, the finite spray that coated her skin, her clothes. Damned if she seemed to give a care about getting wet. A clogging dryness formed in his throat, despite the humidity; he watched her, enthralled.

"Just so you know," Catherine began, "I've temporarily banned the kids from the locker room. It's time for Mom and Dad to have it out."

Her arched brow, her steady, smooth approach, sent his heart into overdrive. She had stepped fully into the stall and was now drenched, still regarding him with steely-eyed anger and aggravated tension.

She snapped the shower door closed and dispensed with her clothing in the time it took Gil to swallow hard and blink. Shampoo suds were starting to track down his face, into his eyes, making them sting. He had no choice but to release his hold on the towel; it was a sodden mess anyhow. He dropped it to the floor so he could quickly slather the foam away from his face and eyes.

Catherine stepped up, now gloriously naked. In a gesture of sheer insolence, she kicked the towel out of her way and moved in tight.

"I've had it, Gil. You're right. This has been building for over a decade. *Way* over a decade. After all that wasted time and wasted happiness, I've had it. I'm finished. I'm finished riding the roller coaster, pal, and we're going to make it or break it. Right here. Right now."

Her skin glowed, alabaster tinged by a blooming flush of pink that left his breathing pattern ragged. Her breasts, a full, soft temptation, begged to be touched, but all Gill could do at the moment was gulp, and gawk. Catherine moved in. She slid upward against him, slick skin sliding against slick skin, hot air swirling and evaporating on puffs of translucent steam as their bodies pressed together. Gil was in shock, but the shock quickly wore off as arousal took its place, evidenced by the hard length of him that filled, rising between them, pressed warmly between their two bodies.

"What in bloody hell has gotten into you, Catherine?" he growled, his voice enriched by emotion, deepened and husky.

"You, Gil." The double entendre sunk in. "I'm past caring about the consequences, so hang on tight. If I can't have forever, I'm going to have a night. A night we'll never forget."

She backed him against tile that felt chilly, but heated promptly at contact. He was flat against the wall, his distended length still trapped firmly between them. In response to that, Catherine's lips quirked upward, and she kept her eyes focused solely on is as she began to simply glide her body against him over and over again. Rushing streams of water lubricated the motion, intensified its sensitivity and affect.

Gil groaned, responding automatically, rocking forward eagerly. He moved in time to her expert manipulations, his motions free of control.

"Easy, Gil," she murmured duskily. "You're not quite clean yet."

His glazed eyes focused, temporarily, on Catherine's actions. She reached for the bar of soap on a nearby caddy, but opted to forsake the washcloth. She lathered her hands thickly and went to work.

"The key to cleanliness is much like processing a scene," she explained, her voice sultry. She began at his shoulders, and upper arms. "You have to be methodical, and notice every ­ single ­ detail."

The lather spilled over her hands, down his body, leaving a frothy white trail that alternately covered and exposed the glossed textures of his skin. Catherine continued, working her way inexorably lower ­ down his chest, his waist. Tight, trembling stomach muscles twitched eagerly at her touch

She re-lathered before moving on.

Gil could not have moved away from the wall, and its support, if his life depended on it. She cupped the hard, straining length of him in her hands and caressed him clean. Water, pulsing hot and strong drummed erotically against his body, like an additional set of fingers, pouring down them both.

Catherine ventured boldly forth, kneeling to finish her slow, painstaking soap job by exploring his thighs and calves.

Before she stood, before Gil realized what happened, she took him within the soft, damp confines of her mouth, where a world of gently swirling feather strokes and gentle suckling left him crying out her name.

The ache, the throbbing of his lower body, escalated to a fever pitch ready to explode.

At last, Catherine stood, sliding against him deeply and solidly once more, wrapping her arms tight around his neck so she could lift up and wrap her legs around his waist.

She levered her hands against the wall, her eyes in direct alignment to his and open wide, searching. Slowly she lowered herself, his arms her support as she took him in, moving downward on him slowly, moistly, until Gil filled her completely. He closed his eyes and began to move in time to the pace Catherine set. He came alert quickly, however, not wanting to deny himself the pleasure of seeing her face, of watching each mood and emotion that passed through her bright, passion clouded eyes.

He ignored everything but Catherine, and sensation ­ the water especially. It created a magical cascade that formed wavy rivulets down her shoulders, down the valley of her breasts, her flat stomach.

Gil executed a smooth turn that settled Catherine against the wall. He tilted his head down just low enough to lap up moisture with his tongue and the trail-blazing stroke of his open lips. He beheld her breasts, scooped them into his hands and conformed them to his loving whim. Moving low, he fed off each breast, lovingly ministering to each peaked nipple. He smiled at her throaty exclamations, working his way to her shoulders, to the tiny hollow at each side, where water gathered, and called to his attention. Tongue strokes caused her to squirm and giggle.

Catherine clung to his slick, overly warm shoulders. She ran expert fingertips against sinewy, taut muscle. All the while Gil moved with her, into her, completely lost to this long awaited moment of physical unity.

The ride, and its completion, overwhelmed him before he could pull back from the edge, or prolong the pleasure. The power of his release caught Gil by surprise, causing him to tremble uncontrollably and call out her name. He shuddered in the wake of its impact.

Catherine's orgasm, timed perfectly to his own, brought a crashing, blissful cataclysm to the moment ­ their first moment ­ of being lovers. Propped weakly against the wall, they collapsed against one another, gasping for air as Gil held her tight and Catherine laid her head weakly against his shoulder.

And she started to laugh, which also took Gil by surprise.

"It seems blew it," she reported in a low, contented voice.

"What's that?" he asked, whispering the words into her ear as water continued to pour, continued to drench them with warmth and a wetness that was now soothing.

"I already blew my New Years resolution."

"Which was?"

She finally lifted her head, so she could look into his eyes. And she shook her head vigorously. "Nuh-uh. Nope."

Laughing, Gil pushed back the hair from her face and kissed her deeply. "Okay, Catherine. Fair enough. You don't have to say a word. It seems I'm keeping mine quite well, though," he reported somewhat smugly.

"Really?" she quipped with coy sarcasm. "Well aren't you the lucky one."

Gil looked her straight in the eyes. "Damn right I am."

He started to lift her up, and gently extricate himself from her body. With a soft whimper, Catherine beseeched, "No --- not yet, Gil."

He pulled back just far enough to see her face.

By way of explanation, she gave him a saucy smile and said, "Do you think you could do that again, just as good?"

Gil's eyes went narrow with challenge and confidence. "For as long as the hot water holds out, my dear."

Catherine beamed him an delighted smile. "Gil?"

"Yeah?"

"Go for it."

Finis~~~~~