Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13, for one bad word.
Summary: Grissom has some trouble "below the belt" and Sara helps him out...
A/N: I spent the morning before writing this cleaning the bathroom, so any overt silliness can be blamed on residual Tilex fumes :-)
Grissom froze suddenly; the growl was soft, but dangerous, and coming from below his waist.
"Will you stop moving? This is difficult enough without you squirming around like a hyperactive teenager!"
"Sorry," he mumbled, resisting the urge to shift once again. Comfortable as the seats of the SUV were, his odd position was causing his legs to cramp.
There was a yank on his right pant leg, followed by an impressive stream of invective. It would have been informative–there were some combinations of words that Grissom had never heard before–if the tirade hadn't been directed at him.
Sara crawled from her contorted pose on the floor of the vehicle back to her seat; her face was flushed, she was sweating, and her hair was falling from its' pony tail.
"Seriously, Grissom, this isn't . . . normal!"
"I'm sure it happens to lots of people," he mumbled. Leaning back as far as he could, he surveyed the problem. Her ministrations hadn't improved the situation . . . in fact, it seemed to be worse.
Sara snorted, raking her sweaty hair back from her forehead. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure there's hundreds of reports of people getting their pant legs tangled in the gas pedal!" Reaching under her seat, she pulled out her purse and began digging in one of the pockets.
"What are you doing?" Grissom asked warily.
"What I should have done ten minutes ago," Sara muttered, taking out a small pair of scissors.
"You're going to cut my pants?"
She shot him an evil look. "The only other option I see is for you to slide your seat back as far as it will go, take your pants off, and then untangle the damn things yourself."
Grissom flushed. As embarrassing as this situation was, having Sara see him in his boxers would be unbelievably worse. He sighed. "Go ahead."
They slunk into the locker room, both praying that it would be empty, and stay empty. Grissom's streak of bad luck apparently hadn't run its' course, though, because thirty seconds later Catherine breezed in.
She gaped at the sight of the two of them: both were sweaty and flushed; Sara's hair was seriously mussed; their clothes were disheveled; and . . . was Grissoms' pant leg torn?
"So," she drawled, a speculative smirk forming on her lips, "how did this happen?"