Title: The Christmas Fic. I’m a Nazi, I hate Christmas with a passion, so there’s only going to be this one. Ever.
Author: gij. In case you didn’t get that the last forty million times.
Feedback: Yes, please, yes, please, yes please please please. Have I made my point?
Spoilers: Like hell.
Disclaimer: Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows are mine, I own them, please send money. Did I mention I’m in denial? I don’t own. Don’t sue. Feel the holiday spirit.
Rating/summary: PG-13-ish… Eddie doesn’t feel the Christmas spirit as much as some of us. C/S, because apparently I can’t write anything else… this one is for Mel. Merry Christmas. This isWith a last adjustment to my black skirt, I picked up the bottle of wine and Lindsay’s gift
from the backseat and shut the back door, then started to make my way up the garden path.

Christmas. Again. And CSI’s yearly Christmas party, held as per usual at Catherine’s house.
Wonderful.

Nearly tripping over my heels, I caught my balance with a hand on the railing for the front
porch. Hitting the doorbell, I took a step back and looked back at the street.
There were fewer cars than I expected, only Catherine and Warrick’s Tahoes sitting in the
street. I was a little early, but not that early.

When no one answered the door, I frowned and pressed the button again.
What were they doing in there?

The door swung open abruptly, and Warrick peered out at me. He was wearing a suit,
which reassured some of my fears.

"There you are." He said in his balanced tones, ushering me inside. "Let me take that."
He added, gently removing the wine from my hand.

"Where’s everyone else?" I asked uncertainly.

"Ah. Well, there’s been a little problem." He told me, understating the case as per usual.
"Eddie dropped by earlier."

"That’s not too cool. Where’s Catherine?"

"Since you ask, getting trashed in the kitchen." He shrugged elegant shoulders.
"The bastard upset Lindsay, he was drunk, Cath threw him out as I arrived. Lindsay was
crying, I put her to bed, and Cath started drinking."

"Party’s off?" I guessed sarcastically.

Warrick smiled in a way that made me slightly nervous. "No, the party has been relocated.
Everyone has been informed to go to my house instead."

"I wasn’t told." I reminded him.

He smiled again. "I know. You’re staying with Cath."

"I’m what? Why me?" I was annoyed.

Warrick shrugged. "Grissom would only annoy her, her sister’s on a date, Nicky is not the
type, and I volunteered my house for the party. Besides, she trust you."

"She does?" I asked incredulously. This, I had not expected.

"She does." He confirmed. "I have a party to open. I suggest you take the vodka away
from her." He turned away to pick up his jacket and car keys, heading for the front door.

"Warrick?"

"Yes?" he turned back.

"When you say, getting trashed, do you mean she’s drinking, or that she’s drinking everything
in sight with the plan of losing consciousness as soon as possible?"

He considered momentarily. "The latter. You should really go get rid of the vodka."
He added, walking out the front door.

I scowled momentarily at the door as it closed behind him. Then I went to find Catherine.







I found her in the lounge room. Contrary to what Warrick had said, she wasn’t drinking
vodka, she was drinking straight glasses of Jack Daniels.

When she looked up at me with mildly glazed eyes, I re-evaluated. She wasn’t drinking
vodka any more. I looked around nervously for an empty bottle.

"Sara?" she sounded both confused and lost. "Where’d Warrick go?"

Her voice was a little slurred, but still clear. I considered her past as a dancer and decided
it would probably take a lot to get her really drunk…. Either that or some time for it to take
effect.

"Hey, Cath." I said, sliding onto the couch beside her. My skirt folded into the couch, and I
smoothed it absentmindedly. This was why I never wore the damn things, they were too
annoying to move in. "Warrick had to go meet the others."

"Don’t call me that." She muttered, voice low and her face dropping forward. "He
called me that. Hate that now."

"Sorry, Catherine." I apologised. "Wanna tell me about it?"

Her hair hung in her face. "Not really."

"Okay."

"He upset Lindsay again." She said after a moment. She rolled her head back onto the back
of the couch, her hair falling over her face. I smoothed it back absently. "I don’t mind it when
he makes me mad, but he made her cry… at Christmas. What kind of person does that to
their kid?" she demanded, suddenly angry.

I had to choke back anger at Eddie, the slack bastard. "Not you, Cat." I reassured her.
"You make Lindsay happy, you like to see her happy, right?"

She nodded, mouth slack. Tear marks stained her face. "Yeah."

"It’s just Eddie, okay? And Lindsay is fine now. She’s in bed, asleep. She’s fine."

"’kay." She sounded like a little kid, like she was Lindsay’s age. Her hair was tousled, and
she looked unbearably sad.

"It’s okay." I promised her again. "You’re gonna be fine, everything’s going to be fine."
I took the half full glass out of her hand and set it on the low table in front of us.
"I think you’ve had enough for tonight, okay?"

"No, I…" she started to complain. I shushed her with a finger against her lips, making a note
of how soft they were.

"You drink any more, you’re going to wake up with a horrible hangover. You probably will
anyway, but if you have much more, you might upset Lindsay, okay? You’ll definitely upset
me."

She frowned like a kid, looking genuinely unhappy. I’d never seen Catherine like this, never
drunk, never sad, never child like and lost.

"Okay." She said suddenly, leaning forward to grab the bottle, then trying to get up as if to
put it away. I pulled her back down by the shoulders, gently reseating her on the couch.

"Let me get that, okay?" I took the bottle away from her and into the kitchen, putting it away into what I hoped was the right cabinet.

When I turned around, I jumped instinctively. She’d followed me into the kitchen and was
standing behind the near bench, hands propped on it to keep herself steady. I realised for the
first time that she was dressed up for the party, was still wearing an ankle length evening gown.
It was wrinkled where she’d flopped ungracefully onto the couch, but the material still clung
softly to her curves, crinkled when she moved. It was distracting, to say the least.

"Nice dress." I commented.

"I only get to torment them once a year." She answered, and I wasn’t sure if she was joking
or not. Instead, I started rooting through her fridge.

"Where do you keep the coffee?"

"In the door. I don’t want coffee."

"Yes, you do." I told her firmly. Contrary to whatever advice my doctor gave. I had always
found coffee was the best restorative after a drinking spree.

"Don’t." She insisted.

I sighed. "Catherine. Please? For me?"

She eyed me suspiciously, then wandered into the kitchen and took two cups out of the
cupboard for me. I took that as agreement and started the machine up.

While it made the coffee for me, I eyed her carefully. She’d obviously drunk a lot, judging
by her speech and cautious movements, the tears that had stained her face. Making a split
second decision, I gathered her by the arm and lead her gently from the kitchen, down the
hall towards what I guessed was her bedroom.

"Where are we going?"

"We’re not going anywhere. You, on the other hand, are going to drink some coffee and then
go to sleep."

"No." her defiance seemed automatic now, no true aggression in it. I ignored her protests
and tugged her gently into her room.

She stood there blankly as I tugged down the blankets on her bed and searched in vain for
her pyjamas. I eventually opened enough drawers to find an oversized t-shirt, and I
approached her, holding it out.

"Wanna put on something more comfortable?" I encouraged her. She took the shirt from me
limply, dropped it on the floor and started to fiddle with the neck of her dress.

It eventually became evident that she couldn’t manage the clasp in her inebriated state.
"Help me?" she pleaded. It hurt to hear her like this.

"Of course." I lifted her hair out of the way to flick the clasp open with a thumb, helping her
slide the dress off. She picked the t-shirt back up off the floor and I helped her put it on,
tugging the ends of it down to the tops of her thighs.

She lurched into me suddenly, and I put arms out to steady her, holding her upper arms gently.
"You okay?" I asked, and she nodded, downcast, her hair in her face once more.
I brushed it back, then helped her towards the bed.

In the oversized double bed, she looked tiny. The t-shirt only served to emphasise the fragility
of her tiny self, the loose material all but swamping her. I shook my head at the image and
went to get the coffee.

When I returned, she’d burrowed down into the masses of pillows at the head of the bed,
curled up on one side with her eyes shut. She opened them again as I came closer to the bed,
propping herself up and taking the coffee from me without further prompting.

Considering how wobbly she had been earlier, I put my own coffee down and sat down on
the edge of the bed, watching her hold her coffee carefully, ready to risk burns if she looked
likely to drop it.

She edged over on the bed, and I took the space gratefully, pressing my larger body along her
side. She leaned into me, her head naturally tucking beneath my chin, and I wrapped an arm
loosely over her.

"You okay now?"

"Mmmhmmm." She handed me her near empty coffee mug to put on the dresser, then curled
more into me. I enjoyed the close contact, no matter how drunk she was; a tactile Catherine
was a wonderful Catherine.

"Sara?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"Thank you."

"That’s okay."

"Sara?"

"Yeah?" I looked down at her. She leaned up, and kissed me.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Catherine, no matter how much I may
have daydreamed about her, had always been labelled off-limits. And now I was lying on her
bed with her tongue in my mouth.

She started to pull back, and I realised how my non-response must have seemed to her.
As emotional as she was right now, it would have seemed a major betrayal. I caught her
cheek in one hand and stroked it with my thumb, then leaned in to kiss her this time.

Her lips were sweet, her mouth tinged with the alcohol she had consumed, and her kiss was
unbelievable… and all too short. After a few seconds, she pulled away, sliding further down
in the bed.

"Thank you." I didn’t know if they were her words or mine, but I understood the sentiment
as she settled down, back against me, to fall quickly asleep. I wrapped myself around her,
wondering what she would remember in the morning… what I wanted her to remember. 
still your fault.