FIC: Isolated Elements, 1/?, PG-13 (for now), Grissom/Giles
Title: Isolated Elements
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: PG-13 for the time being
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Rupert Giles
Type: Crossover with Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Summary: The best laid plans of criminalists and watchers sometimes go awry.
Author’s Note/Warnings: At some point in the future, the two of them will be having hot monkey sex. I think. For now, though, snark reigns supreme. This story is set during the summer between S5 and S6 of Buffy and between S1 and S2 of CSI. One last note - the Grissom/Giles icons that will accompany each part were created for me by the delightful wickedfox.
Feedback: Love it, want it, can’t get enough of it.
Disclaimer: As I’m neither Anthony Zuiker nor Joss Whedon, it’s a pretty safe bet that I own neither of the pretty men. If I did, though, if I did...
~*~*~
“Rupert?” Though the connection wasn’t very good, Giles recognized the voice on the other end of the phone easily enough.
“Yes, Quentin.” He tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he continued sorting through the shop’s paperwork.
“It’s been some time since we last heard from you,” he said, his voice neutral.
“It was my understanding that reports are essentially pointless once the Slayer dies. Did things really change that much whilst I was off the payroll?” His head was pounding from staring at sales reports, quarterly tax statements and snide notes Anya had attached to various files. Dealing with the Council in the form of Quentin Travers was just too much.
Travers paused then said quietly, “You were her Watcher for five years, Rupert. I would have thought you might wish to talk with Sam Zabuto, if no one else.”
“The last time you were here, you spoke of her as a weapon.” Giles clenched his jaw hard against the memory, then continued, “So forgive me if I can’t help but think you’re calling for some reason other than to find out why I’m not crying on Mr. Zabuto’s shoulder.”
“At the moment, you’re making an excellent case for discouraging Watchers from thinking of Slayers as individuals,” came the dry response.
Giles reached up to grip the receiver, remembering with irrational regret that during his brief stint as a Fyarl demon, he’d been able to crush hard plastic with a careless squeeze. He took a deep breath before saying, “Thank you ever so much for caring enough to gloat. If there’s nothing else -”
“There is,” he interrupted. “And for the record, I didn’t call to gloat. Despite our difference of opinion regarding the role and function of the Slayer, I had the utmost respect for Miss Summers. She was a remarkable young woman, due in no small part to your efforts, I’m sure.”
His throat tightening at the sincere regret in Travers’ voice, Giles lost the fine rage that had been building up since answering the phone. “Thank you.”
“You need to leave Sunnydale, Rupert. It’s not healthy for you to remain there.”
“I know,” he said, hating the sound of defeat in his voice. “It’s just that the robot isn’t -”
“- a Slayer, I know. And I can think of any of a half dozen other reasons off the top of my head that make for an excellent argument for you to remain.”
“So you understand -” The bell on the door jingled, and Giles looked up to see Dawn walk in. He lowered his voice, “You understand, then, why I haven’t made an effort to return to England.”
“I understand that you’re in serious danger of losing yourself.” The sound of concern in Travers’ voice broke through and made him consider the other man’s viewpoint for a moment.
Still, Giles was nothing if not stubborn. “I’m needed here.”
“You’re needed here more. The Council would very much like your insights with regard to the training of potentials, and God knows, the program at Oxford could certainly benefit from your experience.” Before Giles could respond, Travers added, “But if England is a bit too far for you at the moment, your expertise would be useful in the next state over.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hunched over his desk, Giles removed his glasses and slipped one of the stems into his mouth.
“There’s been a request for help from the Las Vegas Police Department.”
Giles hunched down further. “Are demons involved?”
“Remarkably, no. The request matches one of your other areas of expertise - antiquities. They could use your input on a sword that came into their possession following the recovery of stolen goods. And while you’re there, you’ll be able to take advantage of the distractions the town has to offer,” Travers said, sounding rather pleased about the whole thing.
“You can’t seriously expect me to -”
“Rupert, you do recall that I can have you deported, don’t you?”
“You bastard -”
“Indeed. I’ve already informed the authorities in Las Vegas that you’ll be there tonight -”
“Tonight?”
“- so I suggest you go home and pack. Your flight leaves this afternoon at 4:30. A ticket is waiting for you -”
“Travers!”
“- at the Southwest Airlines counter. I suggest you pack for at least a week’s stay. Oh, and you’ll be met at McCarran by a Mr. Gilbert Grissom. He’s the night supervisor of - er - Criminalistics, they said, and he’ll have all the particulars of your lodgings. Have a good trip, Rupert. Do be sure to send me a post card, won’t you?”
When Travers hung up without permitting Giles to object further, he picked up the phone and threw it across the store. Dawn jumped, looking frightened, and Anya glared when she saw that he’d knocked several candles to the floor. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and trying to calm down.
“Anya, it seems that I shall be away for several days. Do try not to summon any trolls in my absence.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Dawn, please let Willow and Tara know that I won’t be able to sit with you tonight.” Giles didn’t look at her.
“You’ll be back, though, right?” Her voice quavered with the uncertainty of one who’d lost too much in too short a time.
With that, he did look at her, his gaze softening. “Without question.”
~*~*~
Giles was in his loft, packing, when the others arrived. Xander called up, “Yo, Giles! Dawn says you’re leavin’. On a jet plane, even.” After a pause during which Giles continued packing, he asked, “What’s up with that?”
His shaving kit was the last item to go in, and Giles zipped the suitcase before pulling it from the bed. At the top of the stairs, he looked down at Xander and the others, noting their concern. “The Watchers’ Council has need of my services elsewhere for the next few days.” Giles started down the steps. “I’m not sure yet where I’ll be staying, but as soon as I know the hotel, I’ll give you a call.”
Worried, Willow asked, “Where are they sending you?”
“Er, Las Vegas, actually,” he said, slightly embarrassed by the group’s sudden relief.
“Vegas? That’s great! You can catch a few shows,” Xander said.
“Excellent!”
Giles looked at Anya with concern, suspicion and not a small amount of fear - she was entirely too pleased at the news. He answered her cautiously with, “I suppose so.”
“They have legalized prostitution in Nevada. You’ll be able to drown your sorrow with lots of sex, the way Xander and I have been doing!”
The fact that none of them, not even Dawn or Tara, objected to Anya’s statement, told Giles far more than he wanted to know about how worried for him they were - and how little they actually knew him.
He sighed. “Right. My flight leaves in approximately an hour and a half. Are you all accompanying me to the airport?”
~*~*~
Six hours after Travers’ call, Giles was in McCarran’s baggage claim area, waiting for Mr. Grissom to make himself known. He’d been sitting there for an hour and forty-five minutes and was already working out how best to murder Travers. Though quite certain he wanted Travers dead, Giles was even more certain he wanted to torture the prat for as long as possible before Travers’ heart gave out. He thought a Xirxian blade would do nicely for a start, given that it wasn’t actually sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, it worked on the nerve endings of a victim, causing them to -
“Rupert Giles?”
He looked up to see a man roughly his own age wearing a hopeful expression. Giles briefly considered saying no, if only to see the man’s face fall, but he shook off the mildly cruel impulse. “Yes. Are you Mr. Grissom?”
“I am. And I’m also very late - sorry about that.” The man looked down. “Are these your bags?”
Giles took the handle of a large duffle as he stood. “Yes. Both of them.”
Grissom bent down to pick up the suitcase, talking all the while. “I would have been here sooner, but I got called on a case. How long have you been waiting?” He started walking toward the exit, not waiting to see if Giles was following.
Too wrung out by his rage toward Quentin, the universe and the overhead announcements in the baggage claim area, Giles could do nothing but tell him the truth. “Nearly two hours. I was given to understand I would be met upon landing.”
“Like I said, there was a case -”
“One that not only prevented you from coming to the airport, but also your minions?”
Grissom stopped just shy of the door and looked at Giles. “I like to call them CSIs.”
At that, Giles blinked, reviewing what he’d just said. He felt his face grow warm and hoped with all his heart that he wasn’t actually blushing. “Oh. Yes. I see.” After a beat, he added, “Actually, I don’t see. There truly was no one you could have sent in your place? Even a phone call to let me know where you’re putting me up would have been better than leaving me to rot - to wait here.”
Looking a bit confused, Grissom asked, “You don’t know where you’re staying?”
“No. I was given to understand that your office was handling all the arrangements.” Giles dipped his head slightly, looking at Grissom over the top of his glasses. “Your office did, in fact, handle all the arrangements, didn’t it?”
Grissom opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment, he said, “To be honest, I don’t remember if I asked anyone to get a hotel room for you.”
“Right.” Giles pulled his suitcase from Grissom’s hand and looked around. When he spotted the signs directing passengers to departing flights, he said, “I’m going back to Sunnydale. Do give me a ring when you’re actually prepared to have me in town.”
“Dr. Giles, wait!”
At the touch of Grissom’s hand on his elbow, Giles turned around quickly. “I prefer Mr. Giles -”
“Mr. Giles, then.” Grissom reached down and tugged the suitcase away from him. “I’m sorry. We’ve had a lot going on over the last few weeks, and to be honest, I’m pretty sure I forgot to ask anyone about getting you a room.” He cautiously placed his hand on Giles’ elbow and steered him back toward the doors. “It’s not a huge problem.”
“It is if I have any hope of going to bed tonight,” Giles answered under his breath.
“I have a guest room which you’re more than welcome to,” Grissom said, giving no indication that he’d heard Giles’ muttering. “It’s not the Savoy, I’ll grant you, but I have all the modern conveniences.”
They were outside by this time, with Grissom walking toward a no-parking zone. Giles followed, scrabbling at his neck to loosen his tie and undo the top button on his shirt. “Is it always this bloody hot at night?”
“Only in the middle of summer. Don’t worry. It should be down to one hundred or so by the time midnight rolls around.” Grissom pressed a button on his key fob, and the rear door of an SUV opened up. He put the suitcase in then reached for the duffle, nearly dropping it when Giles released it. “What do you have in here?”
“Just a few books I thought might be helpful.” Giles looked around, unable and unwilling to shake off five years of experience learned in Sunnydale. Though the pick-up area was well lit and well populated, even at this time of night, there were still dark areas where a vampire might be lying in wait.
Grissom grunted slightly as he heaved the duffle into the back. “You know, we have Internet access at the lab and full access to UNLV’s library.”
In a casual tone, Giles said, “Oh? The school has a copy of Eurypides’ Encyclopedia of Swords from the First Age?
“The playwright?”
“Different Eurypides.”
“Oh.” After a moment, he added, “I’m sure the school could get a copy if you needed it.”
“Remarkable. The last I heard, there were only three copies extant in North America,” Giles said, heading to the passenger door. “Two of which are owned by private collections on the East Coast.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Grissom pursed his lips before muttering, “Of course.”
Continued in Part 2.
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: PG-13 for the time being
Pairing: Gil Grissom/Rupert Giles
Type: Crossover with Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Summary: The best laid plans of criminalists and watchers sometimes go awry.
Author’s Note/Warnings: At some point in the future, the two of them will be having hot monkey sex. I think. For now, though, snark reigns supreme. This story is set during the summer between S5 and S6 of Buffy and between S1 and S2 of CSI. One last note - the Grissom/Giles icons that will accompany each part were created for me by the delightful wickedfox.
Feedback: Love it, want it, can’t get enough of it.
Disclaimer: As I’m neither Anthony Zuiker nor Joss Whedon, it’s a pretty safe bet that I own neither of the pretty men. If I did, though, if I did...
~*~*~
“Rupert?” Though the connection wasn’t very good, Giles recognized the voice on the other end of the phone easily enough.
“Yes, Quentin.” He tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he continued sorting through the shop’s paperwork.
“It’s been some time since we last heard from you,” he said, his voice neutral.
“It was my understanding that reports are essentially pointless once the Slayer dies. Did things really change that much whilst I was off the payroll?” His head was pounding from staring at sales reports, quarterly tax statements and snide notes Anya had attached to various files. Dealing with the Council in the form of Quentin Travers was just too much.
Travers paused then said quietly, “You were her Watcher for five years, Rupert. I would have thought you might wish to talk with Sam Zabuto, if no one else.”
“The last time you were here, you spoke of her as a weapon.” Giles clenched his jaw hard against the memory, then continued, “So forgive me if I can’t help but think you’re calling for some reason other than to find out why I’m not crying on Mr. Zabuto’s shoulder.”
“At the moment, you’re making an excellent case for discouraging Watchers from thinking of Slayers as individuals,” came the dry response.
Giles reached up to grip the receiver, remembering with irrational regret that during his brief stint as a Fyarl demon, he’d been able to crush hard plastic with a careless squeeze. He took a deep breath before saying, “Thank you ever so much for caring enough to gloat. If there’s nothing else -”
“There is,” he interrupted. “And for the record, I didn’t call to gloat. Despite our difference of opinion regarding the role and function of the Slayer, I had the utmost respect for Miss Summers. She was a remarkable young woman, due in no small part to your efforts, I’m sure.”
His throat tightening at the sincere regret in Travers’ voice, Giles lost the fine rage that had been building up since answering the phone. “Thank you.”
“You need to leave Sunnydale, Rupert. It’s not healthy for you to remain there.”
“I know,” he said, hating the sound of defeat in his voice. “It’s just that the robot isn’t -”
“- a Slayer, I know. And I can think of any of a half dozen other reasons off the top of my head that make for an excellent argument for you to remain.”
“So you understand -” The bell on the door jingled, and Giles looked up to see Dawn walk in. He lowered his voice, “You understand, then, why I haven’t made an effort to return to England.”
“I understand that you’re in serious danger of losing yourself.” The sound of concern in Travers’ voice broke through and made him consider the other man’s viewpoint for a moment.
Still, Giles was nothing if not stubborn. “I’m needed here.”
“You’re needed here more. The Council would very much like your insights with regard to the training of potentials, and God knows, the program at Oxford could certainly benefit from your experience.” Before Giles could respond, Travers added, “But if England is a bit too far for you at the moment, your expertise would be useful in the next state over.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hunched over his desk, Giles removed his glasses and slipped one of the stems into his mouth.
“There’s been a request for help from the Las Vegas Police Department.”
Giles hunched down further. “Are demons involved?”
“Remarkably, no. The request matches one of your other areas of expertise - antiquities. They could use your input on a sword that came into their possession following the recovery of stolen goods. And while you’re there, you’ll be able to take advantage of the distractions the town has to offer,” Travers said, sounding rather pleased about the whole thing.
“You can’t seriously expect me to -”
“Rupert, you do recall that I can have you deported, don’t you?”
“You bastard -”
“Indeed. I’ve already informed the authorities in Las Vegas that you’ll be there tonight -”
“Tonight?”
“- so I suggest you go home and pack. Your flight leaves this afternoon at 4:30. A ticket is waiting for you -”
“Travers!”
“- at the Southwest Airlines counter. I suggest you pack for at least a week’s stay. Oh, and you’ll be met at McCarran by a Mr. Gilbert Grissom. He’s the night supervisor of - er - Criminalistics, they said, and he’ll have all the particulars of your lodgings. Have a good trip, Rupert. Do be sure to send me a post card, won’t you?”
When Travers hung up without permitting Giles to object further, he picked up the phone and threw it across the store. Dawn jumped, looking frightened, and Anya glared when she saw that he’d knocked several candles to the floor. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and trying to calm down.
“Anya, it seems that I shall be away for several days. Do try not to summon any trolls in my absence.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Dawn, please let Willow and Tara know that I won’t be able to sit with you tonight.” Giles didn’t look at her.
“You’ll be back, though, right?” Her voice quavered with the uncertainty of one who’d lost too much in too short a time.
With that, he did look at her, his gaze softening. “Without question.”
~*~*~
Giles was in his loft, packing, when the others arrived. Xander called up, “Yo, Giles! Dawn says you’re leavin’. On a jet plane, even.” After a pause during which Giles continued packing, he asked, “What’s up with that?”
His shaving kit was the last item to go in, and Giles zipped the suitcase before pulling it from the bed. At the top of the stairs, he looked down at Xander and the others, noting their concern. “The Watchers’ Council has need of my services elsewhere for the next few days.” Giles started down the steps. “I’m not sure yet where I’ll be staying, but as soon as I know the hotel, I’ll give you a call.”
Worried, Willow asked, “Where are they sending you?”
“Er, Las Vegas, actually,” he said, slightly embarrassed by the group’s sudden relief.
“Vegas? That’s great! You can catch a few shows,” Xander said.
“Excellent!”
Giles looked at Anya with concern, suspicion and not a small amount of fear - she was entirely too pleased at the news. He answered her cautiously with, “I suppose so.”
“They have legalized prostitution in Nevada. You’ll be able to drown your sorrow with lots of sex, the way Xander and I have been doing!”
The fact that none of them, not even Dawn or Tara, objected to Anya’s statement, told Giles far more than he wanted to know about how worried for him they were - and how little they actually knew him.
He sighed. “Right. My flight leaves in approximately an hour and a half. Are you all accompanying me to the airport?”
~*~*~
Six hours after Travers’ call, Giles was in McCarran’s baggage claim area, waiting for Mr. Grissom to make himself known. He’d been sitting there for an hour and forty-five minutes and was already working out how best to murder Travers. Though quite certain he wanted Travers dead, Giles was even more certain he wanted to torture the prat for as long as possible before Travers’ heart gave out. He thought a Xirxian blade would do nicely for a start, given that it wasn’t actually sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, it worked on the nerve endings of a victim, causing them to -
“Rupert Giles?”
He looked up to see a man roughly his own age wearing a hopeful expression. Giles briefly considered saying no, if only to see the man’s face fall, but he shook off the mildly cruel impulse. “Yes. Are you Mr. Grissom?”
“I am. And I’m also very late - sorry about that.” The man looked down. “Are these your bags?”
Giles took the handle of a large duffle as he stood. “Yes. Both of them.”
Grissom bent down to pick up the suitcase, talking all the while. “I would have been here sooner, but I got called on a case. How long have you been waiting?” He started walking toward the exit, not waiting to see if Giles was following.
Too wrung out by his rage toward Quentin, the universe and the overhead announcements in the baggage claim area, Giles could do nothing but tell him the truth. “Nearly two hours. I was given to understand I would be met upon landing.”
“Like I said, there was a case -”
“One that not only prevented you from coming to the airport, but also your minions?”
Grissom stopped just shy of the door and looked at Giles. “I like to call them CSIs.”
At that, Giles blinked, reviewing what he’d just said. He felt his face grow warm and hoped with all his heart that he wasn’t actually blushing. “Oh. Yes. I see.” After a beat, he added, “Actually, I don’t see. There truly was no one you could have sent in your place? Even a phone call to let me know where you’re putting me up would have been better than leaving me to rot - to wait here.”
Looking a bit confused, Grissom asked, “You don’t know where you’re staying?”
“No. I was given to understand that your office was handling all the arrangements.” Giles dipped his head slightly, looking at Grissom over the top of his glasses. “Your office did, in fact, handle all the arrangements, didn’t it?”
Grissom opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment, he said, “To be honest, I don’t remember if I asked anyone to get a hotel room for you.”
“Right.” Giles pulled his suitcase from Grissom’s hand and looked around. When he spotted the signs directing passengers to departing flights, he said, “I’m going back to Sunnydale. Do give me a ring when you’re actually prepared to have me in town.”
“Dr. Giles, wait!”
At the touch of Grissom’s hand on his elbow, Giles turned around quickly. “I prefer Mr. Giles -”
“Mr. Giles, then.” Grissom reached down and tugged the suitcase away from him. “I’m sorry. We’ve had a lot going on over the last few weeks, and to be honest, I’m pretty sure I forgot to ask anyone about getting you a room.” He cautiously placed his hand on Giles’ elbow and steered him back toward the doors. “It’s not a huge problem.”
“It is if I have any hope of going to bed tonight,” Giles answered under his breath.
“I have a guest room which you’re more than welcome to,” Grissom said, giving no indication that he’d heard Giles’ muttering. “It’s not the Savoy, I’ll grant you, but I have all the modern conveniences.”
They were outside by this time, with Grissom walking toward a no-parking zone. Giles followed, scrabbling at his neck to loosen his tie and undo the top button on his shirt. “Is it always this bloody hot at night?”
“Only in the middle of summer. Don’t worry. It should be down to one hundred or so by the time midnight rolls around.” Grissom pressed a button on his key fob, and the rear door of an SUV opened up. He put the suitcase in then reached for the duffle, nearly dropping it when Giles released it. “What do you have in here?”
“Just a few books I thought might be helpful.” Giles looked around, unable and unwilling to shake off five years of experience learned in Sunnydale. Though the pick-up area was well lit and well populated, even at this time of night, there were still dark areas where a vampire might be lying in wait.
Grissom grunted slightly as he heaved the duffle into the back. “You know, we have Internet access at the lab and full access to UNLV’s library.”
In a casual tone, Giles said, “Oh? The school has a copy of Eurypides’ Encyclopedia of Swords from the First Age?
“The playwright?”
“Different Eurypides.”
“Oh.” After a moment, he added, “I’m sure the school could get a copy if you needed it.”
“Remarkable. The last I heard, there were only three copies extant in North America,” Giles said, heading to the passenger door. “Two of which are owned by private collections on the East Coast.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Grissom pursed his lips before muttering, “Of course.”
Continued in Part 2.