A/N: A huge thank you to sara-cupcaked for reading through a heavily annotated piece.
Disclaimer: No ownership of CSI is implied.
The tree stands proudly and robust, as the room's focal point is decorated in shades of deep red and muted gold. Soft, velvet bows are tied to the branches, strands of garland drape and encircle the tree, and strings of white lights cast a faint glow on the polished hardwood floor.
The gas fireplace is lit and flames dance merrily inside, sparking bright, providing warmth and coziness to the room, while the heady aromas of mistletoe and sparkling cinnamon mix and linger in the air, wafting from the lighted Yankee candles.
She sighs, content.
It's Christmas Eve, and the last week of work had been… difficult, for 'tis the season to be merry had become 'tis the season for homicide.
This, here is all she needs though. In his arms, everything else fades, and she savors the moment's beautiful simplicity.
"This is nice," he murmurs, kissing the top of her head, as he closes the book of Shakespearean sonnets he'd been reciting from and sets it to the side.
They're in the living room, cuddling on the sofa, his arms cocooning her into his easy embrace. Bruno lies at their feet, blissfully asleep—off in doggy dreamland, presumably dreaming of what the man in the big red suit will bring him.
"Mm-hmm," she agrees and links their fingers together, her left hand adorned with two rings covering his.
It is nice.
And perfect.
Or almost perfect.
She turns her head, tilting it slightly, her lips seeking his.
He whispers that he loves her, his free hand moving to—
—and his stomach grumbles, breaking the spell of the moment.
She giggles and he laughs self-consciously. "Sorry," he says with a grin. "My stomach's craving more of those sugar cookies you made, they're hard to resist."
Smiling, pleased he liked them—since baking Christmas cookies is a new tradition she wants to start—she shifts and moves so he can stand.
"Would you like another cup of hot cocoa?" he asks, pointing to her empty mug on the coffee table.
"No, thank you." She shakes her head, watching his retreating form before walking to the stereo system and turning it on low and then to the Christmas tree for the one thing that would make the evening turn from 'almost perfect' to 'perfect'.
When he returns, she's seated already and has the present in her lap.
A sugar cookie hangs precariously from his lips, half-eaten, and taking the cookie from his mouth, he swallows and sits down again. "What's this? Already getting into the presents?"
"I couldn't wait. I wanted to give this to you tomorrow—I had this big plan and all, but… tonight just feels right," she says, knowing she's babbling. "Will you open it? Please?"
He takes the gift from her with a smile and shakes it gently. "Hmm, doesn't sound breakable." He finishes the rest of his cookie as he inspects the small square box, wrapped in shiny, festive paper. Beginning to unwrap it, he goes on, "Honey… did you get me some new socks? You know I can always use—" He breaks off and stares at the unwrapped present, before lifting his eyes to meet hers. Looking down at the box once more, he finally pulls his gaze from it and back into her eyes.
She remains silent, biting her lip nervously, until she sees a smile spread across his face. Surprise and happiness fill his bright blue eyes. "When?"
"A couple of days ago," she says.
While the dog snores and Bing Crosby croons of a white Christmas, he pulls her gently down onto his lap, words becoming unnecessary as they sit nestled in their own perfect world.
And in the opened box, resting on a bed of cotton, sits an ornament with the inscription: Baby's First Christmas.