Disclaimer: I don't own Sara or Grissom. All other characters are a product of my feeble mind and a good reason to start taking some kind of psychiatric medication.

Archive: sure, anywhere. Ask me first.

Summary: Oh, what can go wrong during a short flight to a conference? Oh God of the slapstick! What could lead Sara and Grissom to squish themselves into a tiny airborne bathroom?

Author's Notes: Huge thanks to Kristin for the wonderful editing. Plus, you receive 20 geek-points for winning the beta challenge. 40 more geek-points and you can have your very own geek-toaster that says: "Geeks rule" every time your toasts are ready.

Well, people, hope you enjoy this.

* * * *

Chapter One: And hello to you too, Miss Sidle.



Grissom took a frightened peek at his watch as he stepped on the mechanical stairs of the airport and prepared to glide down into an unknown, but he suspected bleak future.

He shifted his tie and winced. He'd set the damn thing too tight, it was strangling him. He probably had ligature marks around his throat.

He looked to his left and nearly rolls down the stairs in shock.

An old lady was staring at him. She winked lasciviously at him and smiled -not exactly the way a grandma would smile at one of her grandchildren.

Grissom smiled weakly and looked away.

I'm late. I'm never late, yet. . .

He looked at his watch. I am today.

She's going to have my head on a plate. She's already angry . . . He glanced down at the stairs. Is this thing moving??

Yes, it is. But at a snail's pace, he answered himself.

As the moving steps carried him down, the roof started to lift like a solid Venetian blind, revealing a small bar and sitting on one of the bar's stools, the most beautiful creature Grissom had ever seen.

Ten to one she was a foreign exchange student from Heaven.

First he saw one ankle, he tilted his head down to see more -that was when his lips started to drift apart in a sort of religious awe.

Jesus.



Christ.



On a freaking pony.



Legs, Grissom thought groggily, one, two. Two gorgeous legs.

His weakness. Long, bare legs-

"Hey, sir? Could you please move out of the way?"

Who is speaking?

Grissom swivelled around. A man of about thirty was walking backwards, against the continuous flow of steps. Behind him two more not-happy-looking people were doing the same thing.

"Huh?" It was all Grissom managed to utter.

"You're blocking the way. You'd been standing there like a statue for like ten seconds," the man replied, a bit out of breath by the forced exercise but still astonishingly polite. "Hey, I know she's a babe but you're going to make me miss my flight."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Grissom took a step to the right and a line of three people muttered their way down, casting deadly glares at him. He smiled apologetically.

Grissom's eyes darted back to the bar.

There she is, he thought.

His angel was wearing a dark grey skirt cut an inch above her pretty knees and a matching dress jacket. Her head was facing the panoramic window and Grissom guessed she was staring at the taxiing aircrafts.

The glow of the sun reflected on the tile floors gave her a glow of her own -all Grissom thought she needed was a halo and a pair of wings.

Grissom closed his mouth and licked his dry lips. He left like he was admiring a piece of chocolate cake through a bakery window. He would sure like to eat this cupcake.

Grissom shook his head.

Stop acting like a horny teenager, he said to himself. You're waaaaaaay past that time.

Suddenly she un-crossed her legs and said something to the bartender as she slid her empty drink towards him. The bartender chuckled at whatever clever words left her without-a-doubt beautiful lips and nodded

She stood up. Grissom's mouth dropped open again.

Ahhhh, such long legs. Like the showgirls he'd seen on the Lacy Duval's case.

She stared walking towards him, her hips slightly swaying with each elegant stride she took. Grissom's eyes followed the gentle sway as if he were under a magical ancient spell. Left, right, left, right, left, right--

"Grissom?"

He blinked. What?

Grissom realized all he could see were white swirling dots dancing in front of his eyes. He recognized the voice, though.

"Yes?" he said, a bit confused. He blinked again.

I'm blind! I'm blind! He thought horrified. She blinded me!

"You're late," Sara said, folding her arms across her chest. She looked at him curiously and frowned. Grissom seemed dazzled, to say the least. "Are you ok? You seem. . .lost."

Grissom's eyesight was returning and his eyes focused on Sara's familiar face.

"Sure. I got blinded by the floor tiles," he answered.

And by something else, he added to himself as his brain told him he should be ashamed for drooling over one of his subordinates.

What was he going to do? Scoop his eyes out with a spoon?

"Right. You are very much late. My day hasn't been a picnic, you know? First Catherine bullies me into wearing this-this 'thing'. Then you take your own sweet time to come here."

She sucked air through her nose and glowered at Grissom.

"I've been here the last 40 horrible minutes fighting off the sloppy come- ons of a thirty eight year old man with painfully obvious hair implants. I had to tell him I was a lesbian addicted to crack to shoo him away."

No wonder he didn't recognize her before. Sara 'I hate skirts' Sidle was actually wearing one. And a very sexy one, he could vouch for that.

And now he was supposed to pay attention to some stupid conference? Can you say 'no way'?

"I'm sorry. I got stuck in-"

Sara's eyebrows where aligned in a straight invisible line across her face. Look up 'pissed' on a dictionary and you'll see a picture of Sara, doing the same face she was doing now.

Grissom knew from past experiences, not with him of course (he was always on time) that Sara hated to wait for other people. If she says 'Be somewhere at 2 o'clock tomorrow' you better synchronize you watches and honour your word or-

"Traffic?" she repeated with a shade of a smile that could deceive you into thinking she wasn't royally pissed off.

I pity the soul of the bastard that thought she wasn't really mad, Grissom thought.

"How do you think I came here? Huh? How? On a flying brontosaurus?"

He frowned, utterly puzzled by her chose of words. He mouthed the words 'flying brontosaurs'. Somebody has had one too many drinks at the bar.

Sara expanded. "A kid was watching 'The Flintstones' on a portable T.V. Keith was his name. An hour ago I was sitting next to him and just for you to know --he thinks you're a bad man."

"I'm sorry again." Grissom looked at his watch and added, "We should be boarding now."

***

Grissom was tempted to shield his eyes with his hands when he saw the look in Sara eyes, fearing the sheer power of them would melt his eyeballs and leave him blind, this time for real.

Sara's Wrath was directed straight at him like a deadly laser.

Atomic bombs. Poison gas. Dynamite. And among other deadly weapons: The Sidle Glare. Brrrrr.

She folded her arms across her chest and titled her head slightly.

"You didn't get consecutive seats?"

She was so pretty when she was angry, Grissom mused. A bit scary too. But pretty nonetheless.

"I couldn't get consecutive seats," Grissom corrected.

Believe me, I don't know if to be grateful or sorry for the fact that there's a seat between us, Grissom thought, loosening his tie a little bit.

"That is just wonderful! Now I have to seat next to a stranger," she muttered as she squinted up, looking for their seats.

Sara was making her way politely between the other wandering passengers, looking for their seats. Grissom followed her. She always got bossy when she was mad so he had practically expected her to snatch the tickets from his hand and take control of the ship, relegating him to a sailor at her service.

"Excuse me," she said to a guy in his late twenties. He was punching a bag into the bag compartment over his seat. He guy turned around, scanned the merchandise and switched to his pick-up mode before Grissom could say 'bananas'.

"By all means, darling." He stepped aside, bowed his head and waved a hand towards the aisle.

Pl-Ease, Grissom thought, rolling his eyes.

Sara slithered pass him and smiled charmingly before resuming her search.

A couple of steps behind, Grissom witnessed the episode. His eyes narrowed angrily.

Grissom pushed, nudged and 'excuse me'-ed his way through the same stretch of aisle his 'angel' had smiled her way through. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea; all she had to do was smile and the throngs of travellers would bow their heads or drool -or both- and let her pass.

I bet that if I wore the same skirt I wouldn't have the same results, Grissom thought with a little smile.

When they were reaching their seats, Grissom saw Sara leaning over a row next to the window and recoil fast, giving her back to the seats.

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked.

Sara rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger. "I should have stayed in bed today. The guy in the middle seat. The hair-implant guy."

Grissom pursed his lips in a soundless 'oh'. Trouble in the seat front.

********

A flight attendant informed them that they should take their seats. Reluctantly, Sara obeyed. She took a deep breath before confronting the man who thought she was a lesbian addicted to crack.

I guess he'll leave me alone, Sara hoped. The lust that once again shined in the guy's eyes dashed that hope.

"Well pinch me on the ass n' call me Martha! Isn't this coincidence sweetheart?" he exclaimed, making several passengers turn around or crane their necks over their seats to take a peek.

Kill me now, God. Make it fast and painless, Sara thought as the guy gave her a wink.

She took a deep breath.

"It is, isn't it?" Sara replied through clenched teeth.

Sara turned to Grissom. "Which one do you want?" she asked holding both in front of him. "Aisle or Window? The Australopithecus here has the middle."

Grissom shrugged. "Whatever you want is fine with me."

Sara chose the window seat. Anyway she was going to be next 'Lusty Leo' and away from Grissom. In any case, if Leo became even MORE unbearable she could smash the window with her tray table and plunge to her death.

Now that was some plan.

The plane started taxiing along the tarmac.

Not two seconds after Sara sat on her place, Leo put on first gear and started again. "You want me to order something for you? Champagne? Scotch?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Cyanide, if you insist. A glassful."

*******

A toddler came hurtling down the aisle screaming his lungs out and firing his toy guns at the air. The kid whooshed past Grissom yelling Yeeeeeee- haw! In tow came the hysterical mother: 'Keith! Keith! Get back here!'. Behind the mother came a concerned for safety flight attendant: 'Ma'am, ma'am you have to take your seat! Ma'am!?'

What a nice train of people.

The same kid hurtled pass him again. He paused near him to stick his tongue out at his mother or at the flight attendant. He resumed his run.

Grissom shook his head.

That kid should be wearing a very short leash. Someone should stuff his little mouth full with Ritalin.

The microphone cracked to life with the voice of the pilot: "Good afternoon this is the Capitan speaking. While the first part of our flight will be pleasant, there's a report of a storm building up to the north so. . ."

Grissom leaned back on his seat, closed his eyes and tried to tune out the already annoying voice of Leo. The man was obviously two sandwiches short of a picnic.

Since there was no sense in fantasizing with what (or who) one can't have, he also made an excruciating mental effort to replace the image of Sara's legs from his mind with a nice sexless rippling stream.

"So who's that old man you were talking to?"

Old? Grissom thought, I'll give you old you airhea--

"My pimp," Sara answered calmly. Grissom's eyes shot open.

HER WHAT???????

So much for the soothing rippling stream, Grissom thought.

"You never told me you were a hooker too," Leo said, appearing momentarily dubious.

Sara regarded the man with narrowed eyes. "Would that refrain you from speaking to me?"

"No. So, really, who is he?"

Grissom closed his eyes again and pictured the rippling stream.

This is going to be a long flight, he thought.

TBC. . .?