a/n: Okay, I know it's a little late! But who says the Christmas season ends on the 25th? Not me, certianly. Anyway, I was watching the 24 hour show of Ralphie's "A Christmas Story" (not all 24 hours of it, mind you!) and I decided to put a little bit of my own twist on it. Oh, and this is my first non-GSR centred fic, so be gentle! Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or Ralphie...but I live sort of near where they filmed it!

Gilbert Grissom's: A Christmas Story

It was 1964 and I was eight years old. It was almost Christmas in Marina Del Rey, and although there was no snow (of course, being in California) the people along Bowman Lane had decorated their houses with traditional twinkle lights, and some even had those cheap plastic light-up snowmen in their gardens. I always thought it was kind of pointless and superficial-looking.

Why on earth put a snowman on your lawn when there was no real snow anyway?

I left for school early on the 12th of December, looking up and down to see who of my neighbors had spent the most on decorations. As I passed 239, the Henry's place, I saw that they even had their palm tree decorated with ornaments. Looking across the street, I saw that the McCormack's had decorated their palm tree and set out little reindeer made of driftwood.

Talk about 'keeping up with the Joneses'.

My mother hadn't decorated at all. I thought that was a little odd, seeing as she was the curator of an art gallery. You would think she'd have at least a little bit of a creative spark…But we hadn't decorated since they'd gotten a divorce, her and my Old Man. They divorced when I was five.

And I wasn't yet big enough at the ripe old age of nine to put the lights up on the roof, so the exterior of our house went undecorated, without austere -- except for the small wreath on the door that I'd made in art class out of palm leaves and adorned with sand dollars and sea glass.

I was a little disappointed that my house was the only one on Bowman Lane that wasn't decorated. But then again, I was used to being set apart. It seemed nothing in my life was like the average American kid's. I was I was trying to remember what my house looked like decorated, when the Old Man had lived with us, when I heard a shout from behind me.

"If it isn't little Grisly Grissom!"

I cringed at the sound. I would know that garish voice anywhere; Richard Samuels. The meanest, ugliest, heartless fiend you would ever come across, I'm sure of it. He was twelve, which meant that he could pick on me, a lowly grade four.

I kept walking, increasing my pace. But the flap of the kid's loafer's followed me ominously, sounding much to my nine-year-old ears like a bear's padded feet would sound to a diminutive mouse.

"I'm talkin' to you, Barf-wad!" I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was yanked around to look into the yellow irises of my tormenter. Yes, they were yellow. Have you ever seen someone with yellow eyes? You better hope to God you never see a person with yellow eyes; they flash at you with an evil sneer, trapping you, paralyzing you until you go crazy.

"Barf-wad?" I asked, hugging my arithmetic book to my chest, "What kind of insult is that? If you're gonna call me something, at least call me something good."

Richard (known to most of the kids at St. Lucia's as 'Rick the Stick' because of his height) made a face at me, sticking out his tongue. What an ostentatious comeback. I mean, really.

I made the dreadful mistake of rolling my own blue eyes and immediately regretted it. A tip for handling bullies; say what you want to them, as long as you know they won't understand it. But never, ever, do something as simple as rolling your eyes in defiance. After all, a bully's master craft is violence, and if your mother has a disposition to ground you for getting beat up…Just be careful.

Anyway, he punched me on the shoulder. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough that I would be able see the imprints of his bony knuckles on my skin if I had checked. I gritted my teeth in insolence and turned to walk away.

"Hey, I'm not done with you, you little smart-ass."

My eyebrows shot up at the insult. Now that was a proper insult! Maybe he wasn't as dim-witted as I thought.

Indeed, though, I was the kinda kid people would pick on. I was quite little – my major growth spurt came around my eleventh birthday, when my now broad form would start to take shape. But before that, I was a runt. My California sun-kissed brown hair was almost blonde, and the only feature that set me apart from the other kids was my blue, blue eyes. I had my Old Man's eyes. My mother used to say that we had eyes like Zeus.

I remember the many nights I'd stayed up in bed, thinking about how marvelous it would be to rule from the heavens, using my lightening bolts whenever I felt. But outside of my childhood fantasies, I was just some runty kid that got picked on. My only defense was my words and my cunning.

"Hi, Mrs. Samuels!" I called, looking over his shoulder and waving excitedly. Richard whipped around, looking up and down the street to see where his mother was. I smiled. My clever diversion had worked!

By the time he realized that his mother wasn't actually there, I was likely halfway to school.

Believe it or not, I wasn't the greatest academic in my early grade school years. I understood everything, but getting it down on paper or out of my mouth was hard. I had terrible, terrible handwriting, and I was a quiet kid. Never really liked to talk that much. I was perfectly happy just to sit and absorb.

I loved science class. My father was a botanist. A scientist with a great mind, someone who was well known in his field. Ian Grissom was my idol. I wanted to be a great scientist, just like him. So in science class, I'd sit with my eyes glued to the teacher...either that or the textbook. Or even one of the many books I owned about biology and weather, and why things work.

I was sitting in class that day, listening to Mrs. Firkin drone on about red dwarf stars (what a snore) and browsing through the latest issue of National Geographic (cleverly taken from the next door neighbor's garbage. The previous owner of the house had a subscription and had subsequently forgotten to change the subscription address) when a leaflet fell out of the magazine and landed on my lap.

It was an advertisement for a Chemlab set. It was a new edition, not like the crumby old ones that Mrs. Firkin locked in the back of our class. Not that we were ever allowed to use them anyway. The Chemlab sets were for grade six and up. I shook my head, thinking that this was a stupid rule.

How come doofuses like Richard Samuels got to use them and perfectly capable and intelligent young scientists like myself did not?

Oh come on, where's the justice in that?!

I was pondering this when I noticed Suzy Lipsitz in the row across from me. She was swinging her nylon-clad legs happily, which caught my attention – who is that happy when listening to a monotone voice like Mrs. Firkin's? Then I saw the piece of paper that she was so intently writing away on.

"Dear Santa…"

I read, looking at the giant red letters at the top of her page.

That was it! I'd get my own! And with Christmas coming…well it was near perfect timing! As I looked at the Chemlab with wide eyes, a master plan began to form deep in my brain, like a seed waiting to burst forth. It was perfect -- brand new beakers, test tubes, tweezers, gloves, goggles, and even a scalpel! And the crowning glory of all scientific tools known to me;

A pair of safety goggles, complete with their own magnifying lens built right in! No need to hold a heavy one anymore while trying to investigate! All you needed to do was look in the little magnified circle by the corner!

Boy, would this be interesting to use on that seagull I found on the beach the other day…And how better to get one of my own then to ask my mother for it for Christmas!

"Genius!" I exclaimed happily to myself.

"Excuse me, Gilbert?" Mrs. Firkin said, turning from her star chart to look at me threateningly over the tops of her half-moon spectacles. I cringed; unsure of the reason…was it the use of my dreaded 'Sunday-name', or was it the large mole on her chin?

"Uhh…I mean..." I stammered.

"Was that the answer I heard?" She asked. Damn, I was trapped.

"No, ma'am," I said, looking down at my desk.

"Well Gil, I suppose you just won't get to see a red dwarf when we do our solar system field trip tomorrow night because you don't know what one is!" Mrs. Firkin exclaimed. I could hear the contentment in her voice and I knew that I couldn't let her have it over me. Once I did, she'd never let it go. Teachers are like that.

"Now that we're all playing atten--"

"Actually it's unlikely that any of us will see a red dwarf, Mrs. Firkin. They use the fusion of elements such as hydrogen and helium and have a low core temperature. So they don't give off much light. So I would be able to identify a red dwarf if there was a chance that I would be able to see one," I said, never moving my eyes from hers.

A few kids began to titter and laugh and I could tell she was embarrassed. Ah, the joys of being an elementary school kid; it's not every day you get the satisfaction of embarrassing a teacher.

"Detention after school, Mr. Grissom."

…and then there was that slight problem. They had power. I hate power.

I stalked down the stairs of St. Lucia Catholic Elementary at 3:30pm, still red faced at the indignation of having to stay after school for a whole fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes! How dare she. All I did was correct her…after all, she was the one at fault and she was the one who had misled the class.

I jumped at the sound of a car horn and I looked up to see a baby blue Mercedes sitting beside the curb. It was a classic model, complete with leather interior and a drop top. It had been waxed, shined, and polished to the maximum, obviously the object of someone's pride and joy.

"Dad!"

I ran up to the car, my giant backpack hitting the backs of my legs and threatening to throw me off balance. But I managed to get to the car without falling and open the door, clambering in next to my Old Man.

"Hey, son. Where ya been?" He asked in the deep, smooth baritone that I would grow to inherit.

"Uhh…had to do some stuff for the teacher," I lied, not wanting to tarnish my near-perfect record just before Christmas. Detentions were bad news back in those days. Yep, back when I was in school, you spelled 'detention' B-E-L-T. And no one wants to spend a few days walking around with a tanned hide, especially for the holidays.

My Old Man nodded and started to drive. I remember the car smelt of vanilla and pipe tobacco. My Old Man loved his pipe. A traditional kind of guy, you could say. A Cadillac, pipe-smoking, Frank Sinatra-loving, baseball fan, kind of fella.

"So what did you learn at school today, Gilly-boy?"

"Quantum physics."

We both burst out laughing, his deep, mellow tone almost harmonizing with my own higher, child-like one. It was a joke we often shared on the Thursdays he picked me up from school. I'd first said it in Grade 2. Oh boy, you shoulda seen him that day. He laughed so hard he had to pull over into Doris May's Restaurant parking-lot. Ever since then it kinda became out little father-son joke.

"So, son. What would you like for Christmas this year? Have you asked your mother for anything?" He asked me.

"Umm…well I was thinking about getting a Cubs shirt…you know, like Larry Jackson's?"

"Atta-boy!" My father laughed, clapping me on the shoulder with a large, rough hand. One day, my hands would be that big too. "Anything else you wanted?"

It blurted out before I could stop it.

"I want a Chemlab 2000 Edition with a scalpel and tweezers and the goggles that come with the magnifying lens right in them!" I said rapidly, and once I'd realized my mistake: "Oooh."

"A scalpel kit?" my father said. He Greek god eyes clouded and I could tell that his happy disposition was fading fast.

"But you can't use that Chemlab kit on plants, boy," he said as he slipped his pipe between his teeth, slurring his words. I knew that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a revered botanist. But I knew that my calling was anatomical biology. I liked to figure out how animals and people and bugs worked. Plants were just…boring. All they did was sit there.

"Oh."

I left it at that. My plan had barely started and I'd already screwed it up. But there were many tactics left, and I'd just have to be cleverer. It was time to outsmart the game.

a/n: Merry Belated Christmas! Don't forget to review!