AN: Hi, fellow Csi:Miami readers! This is my first time writing a fanfic, & i decided that a somewhat light story would be a good start. Now, i know it's far from Valentine's Day, but i've had the urge to write this for the longest time & i just couldn't wait until next year.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, i don't own the Csi:Miami characters or the franchise. If i did, then i woulda had all the genius writers' stories that i've read here created into episodes already!

Good morning, Miami! Today is February 14th, and Cupid must be looking over us as the rain clouds expected today is nowhere to be found! So good-bye rain, hello love! Prepare to be bitten by the love bug, folks because –

"Love bug my foot," the man murmured as he grabbed his alarm clock from the nightstand and threw it on the floor. He rolled over to take his position in the middle of the bed again. "I'd squash you if I had the energy," he continued with a slur.

The digital alarm clock, equipped with a radio, had been the man's signal to wake up at his preferred time: 5:15. This gave him 15 minutes to dress out of his shirt and boxers and into proper running wear and 2 hours to jog outside or on the treadmill, depending on the weather. This left him at 7:30 AM, in which he would then take a 45-minute long shower; it never hurt to rinse and repeat…and repeat…and repeat. Gives a whole new meaning to squeaky clean, doesn't it?

From there, he had precisely 30 minutes to get ready for work and then leave with a paper bag filled with the same breakfast he'd had ever since he'd graduated from college. (He had discovered the wonders of 'ready-to-cook-but-add-water-first' ramen noodles from a friend in Stanford, who had conveniently left out that they would pack on the pounds faster than if he were to gulp down a cup full of grease. Once he found out he had sworn never to eat them again).

At this point he had exactly 45 minutes to drive to the crime lab while eating his breakfast-in-a-bag, realizing everyday how hypocritical he was. Here he was, an officer telling citizens to drive without distractions while talking to them with a mouthful of multi-grain bagel and orange juice. But it was a long drive, and the apple slices he had always sliced to perfection the night before just looked so scrumptious in the plastic baggie that he could never resist not eating in the car. Besides, he always had to eat his food in the same order: bagels, then juice, then apples, so that left eating the apples first out of the question. And he always had to chew them the same number of times: 25 chews before swallowing. After that he would –

'Tis the season to be jolly

Fa la la la la…la la la la

Sing with me! Ho ho –

As he rolled over to the other side he told himself that repeating your schedule to yourself is weird, and talking to yourself makes you a freak, then stopped thinking altogether. "Damn ho of a clock. I'll teach you to mess with me." With eyes still shut his right hand fumbled over the drawer at his bedside until he found the second alarm clock, and threw it over his shoulder, landing right next to the first victim. "Santa clock, meet radio clock."

The second alarm clock was a remarkable talking/dancing/singing Santa Claus that was capable of only performing one not-so-remarkable act; Deck the halls. Years before he had plugged in "Santa clock" for the sole purpose of waking him up when the radio clock could not. Hell, Christmas wasn't for another 10 months and 11 days (but who was counting?) But he knew that his brain wouldn't let his body go to back to a peaceful slumber because a) he wasn't even Catholic, and b) he wasn't supposed to hear Santa sing his song. Ever.

Why? Because his off-key baritone voice filling the room meant only one thing… okay, maybe two things. One was that it was 5:18. The other meant that the grouchy occupier of the bed was 3 minutes late into his morning schedule.

Wait. 3 minutes late? His eyes flew wide open as his brain registered the holiday song and its significance to his now messed up February morning. He sat up straight and swung his legs to the right side of the bed, then cried out in pain as his right foot came into contact with Santa's red bag of boxy presents that were apparently sharp enough to pierce through skin. He lifted his foot to see the damage, only to discover that Santa was still attached to him. Note to self: complain to Wal-Mart about their supposedly child-proof alarm clock aisle. He sighed out of impatience. Another note to self: stop talking to yourself!

Setting his legs back on the bed, he continued to mumble. "Probably shouldn't complain to Wal-Mart. I'd end up being the laughingstock of the whole franchise. Who the hell steps on Santa's presents and gets his foot stuck, anyway? Oh yeah, right. Me. It would happen to me."

But that was before he bent his knee for a reachable position, wrapped his fingers around the holiday figure, took a deep breath, and pulled it out as fast as he could. Quick and painless, right? Boy, was he wrong.

Ryan Wolfe, accident-prone and trouble magnet, has now experienced the literal meaning of 'waking up on the wrong side of the bed'. Once the pain subsided and his brain ran out of creating different combinations of the same profanities, he chuckled, "Accident-prone and trouble magnet. Good one, Wolfe; better remember to put that on my new business card."

I'm sure you smart cookies already knew who it was from the first couple paragraphs. I hope it was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write. Please leave comments & criticism, but not too mean!