Trashed

Disclaimer – I don't own the CSI crew. One day I will, but not yet.

Um, okay, this thought just got stuck in my head, damm my dirty mind. Everyone is kinda out of character. The team is still together, well, coz, otherwise the story really doesn't make much sense. This is just the first chapter, no real pairings as of yet, but I'll hopefully get to that. This is the first story I've posted so please review, let me know, if its rotten, the writing style is awful, whatever – please please please?

Who are you?

"Purple rooster attack"! Sara looked up from the table to watch bemused, as Greg, with a bottle of tequila in each hand and a sparkly halo on his head, bolted past her through the kitchen, squawking madly, only to trip on the edge of the carpet, stumble, fly through the air and flip headfirst over the couch, landing with an undignified clunk as head met ground. She winced, and languorously swayed over to the couch, kneeling on it and hanging her head over the back to check on the now madly clucking Greg Sanders. Satisfied he wasn't damaged (well, any more so than usual), she deftly reached down and plucked the miraculously undamaged bottle of tequila from his outstretched hand. She took a long swig, ignoring his rambling protests, feeling the drink burn a path down her throat. Sara climbed to her feet (rather hard to do while slightly trashed on Catherine's aubergine plush sofa), and stepped onto the coffee table, shimmying to the music that was pumping through the house. God, how she loved Catherine's annual 'get trashed' party. The whole team looked forward to the yearly release of tensions that inevitably arose after dealing with death all day. One night, no rules and no repercussions – whatever happens at the party stays at the party, never to be alluded to again. Last years party was a hoot, she remembered, fuzzily recalling Brass doing a nudie run into the neighbours yard, Warrick getting into a punch up with the lawn statues (final score- Statues 1, Warrick 0), Catherine and Greg steaming it up in the pool, and Nick….. well, it was true what they say, everything IS bigger in Texas. She emphasised this point in her internal dialogue by grinning and doing a little twirl, sending tequila spraying everywhere, and sliding right off the coffee table and onto Nick, who had just entered the room.

"Who are you? Whoo, hoo, whoo, hoo. Who are you? Hoo, hoo hoo…, THUMP!" Nicks singing was interrupted by an angel falling from the sky. At least he thought it was an angel. He lifted his head to focus on the woman on top of him as from behind the couch, Greg took over, warbling "I really wanna know, c'mon tell me who are you? you you aaah you". Nick smiled at his angel, dressed in a lacy red corset and black leather pants. Damm. "Hey Sar" he drawled, privately hoping for a repeat of last years party action. "Nicky" she giggled drunkenly, "You look pretty. I do too, but I spilt tequila on me, this is Catherine's… corsle…. corste…corstlet…. Catherine's top, she's gonna be mad". Nick nodded seriously, "You don't want to get Catherine mad. It'd be terrible, there might even be spanking involved". They both contemplated this speculatively for a moment, ignoring Greg in the background, who, having finished Nick's song, was now serenading the lamp with Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing', complete with hip thrusts. Nick thought about Sara's predicament, his handsome brow furrowing, until suddenly, his face cleared and he shouted jubilantly "I know what to do!" Nick leant forward and sucked at the damp tequila stain on the front of Sara's shirt, his hands wrapping around her slender waist, worshipping her body with his gaze. She responded with a muted "one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR!" before sliding off Nicks lap to land gracelessly on the fluffy carpet, hiccupping madly. Nick blinked, shrugged good-naturedly, snagged the tequila bottle and stood up, and leaving Greg crooning to the lamp in the corner and Sara chewing on the shagpile carpeting, and headed out into the backyard, where he was met with a truly horrifying sight.