FIC: Isolated Elements, 5/?, 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...
Part 1 can be found here.
~*~*~
Steadfastly repressing his insane reaction to Phillip’s comments, Grissom paused before entering the lab he’d given over to Rupert Giles. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and - “What’s this?”
Giles looked up at Grissom. “What’s what?”
Grissom pointed at the notepad under Giles hand as well as the various pencils scattered around. He picked up a discarded piece of paper that held a rough sketch of the sword. “This - what is it?”
Narrowing his eyes at the tone he heard, Giles answered slowly and cautiously, as if appeasing a madman. “That is a sketch.” He added helpfully, “Of the sword.”
“I know that,” Grissom answered impatiently. “What I don’t know is why there’s a sketch. What’s wrong with the camera?”
Blinking in confusion, Giles looked over to the item in question. “Nothing, as far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’d like to know why you aren’t using it,” Grissom said, as if the reason should be self-evident.
“Perhaps because I prefer to sketch the details myself.” Giles found himself unexpectedly amused by the other man’s reaction.
Grissom shook his head and put down the sketch. He went over to pick up the camera and brought it back to where Giles sat. He held it out toward him, saying, “Trust me, a camera will pick up a lot more detail.”
Sighing, Giles put down his pencil and took off his glasses for a quick polishing. “Not really.”
“You don’t understand - this is top of the line. You’ll be able to pick up nuances in the metal and enhance them on the computer,” Grissom said, sounding very much like an evangelist preaching to the masses.
“Mr. Grissom -”
“Gil.”
“Gil, there’s something that no camera can capture, no matter how good or advanced the technology,” Giles said as he returned his glasses to his face.
Grissom frowned. “The optics on this are incredible. What could it possibly miss?”
“My emotional reaction and state of mind as I examine the piece,” he said gently. Giles picked up his sketch book and motioned for Grissom to come around the table to his side. He flipped the book back to the first page, where he’d made thumbnail sketches of parts of the hilt.
Pointing to the sketch in the upper left corner, he explained, “When I first examined the leather of the grip, I noticed this stain. I doubt it’s blood. If the sword had seen action in battle, there would have been far more stains scattered around. As I sketched the shape, it suggested to me a smear of some sort.” Giles pulled the arm-mounted magnifying glass toward the hilt and adjusted it over the grip. “Look at the blot. See the fuzziness?”
“Yeah.” Grissom looked at the sketch again. “And I can see the suggestion of it in your drawing.”
“Precisely -”
“But a camera would capture the smear exactly.”
Giles snapped, “To what end?” before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to continue in a more reasonable tone of voice. “The sword is at least ten thousand years old. What possible reason could anyone have to know the exact shape of a smear of fruit juice?”
Grissom gave him a startled look. “Fruit juice?”
“Perhaps.” Giles wanted to kick himself for discussing information he couldn’t possibly know just yet. He didn’t imagine that Mr. Grissom would take kindly to his explanation that the sword itself had shared some of its history with him as he sketched.
“But -”
“But nothing,” Giles said firmly. “It’s clearly not blood, and it’s clearly not a weapon that has ever seen battle. The juice stain - or something similar - on the hilt tells me quite a bit about one of the sword’s owners. Knowing the exact shape of the boundary of the stain just complicates things unecessarily.”
Grissom gave Giles an uncertain look. “So you don’t want to use the camera because it will show too many details?”
“I don’t want to use the camera because I’m afraid I’ll miss things. For instance, I wouldn’t have thought nearly as much about this stain as I did by examining it with my own eyes.” Giles flipped through several more pages of sketches, speaking quietly all the while. “These are my impressions, not the camera’s. These are what I saw on the piece, not what the camera saw. These are what I’ll base my final report on, and frankly, how you can trust something else to look at your evidence for you is beyond me.”
“I don’t let - never mind.” Grissom shook his head and went to the door. “I’m going home. If you need anything else, get in touch with Marjorie.”
“I’ll need a key,” Giles said as he continued examining the hilt through the magnifier, taking extreme care not to touch the sword.
Grissom froze in the act of reaching for the handle. Without turning around, he said, “You know about the problem with the hotel room and having to stay with me?”
“Well, yes, Miss Crandall mentioned it earlier. But I was actually referring to a key for this office.”
Grissom turned to see Giles evidently engrossed in his study of the sword. “Right. The office. You don’t have a problem with staying at my place?”
“Not really.” Giles glanced over at him. “Should I?”
After a moment, he answered, “Not really,” as he left.
As soon as the door closed, Giles pushed his chair as far away from the sword as he could, pulling out his handkerchief to blot his face. Midway through his conversation with Grissom, the sword started murmuring at him again, and he’d had a devil of a time keeping himself from touching it. He checked the time and decided to give Travers another call. Perhaps by now there would be an answer on whether or not there was a way to handle the sword safely.
~*~*~
When Giles ended the phone call, he let loose with a short yelp of surprise. He took a deep breath and said, “I thought you were going home for the day.”
Grissom frowned slightly. “I did go home. About ten hours ago.”
Giles blinked. “Has it been that long?”
“It has.” Grissom shifted slightly and leaned against the table that held the sword. “Tell me something. Was it my imagination, or did I just overhear the end of a conversation that was held in Latin?”
“It wasn’t your imagination.” Giles tucked Anya’s cell phone into his pants pocket and took out his handkerchief. As he pulled off his glasses to polish them, he said, “That was one of my suppliers. She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak - er - Mandarin.”
“But you both speak Latin.” If anything, Grissom seemed to relax even more against the table. “So that would be a supplier for your store - Magic Box, right?”
Giles shot a quick, suspicious glance at Grissom, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s expression. “You’ve been checking up on me.”
“From what I saw on your Web site, you don’t sell to stage magicians, do you?” Although his tone remained even, it was clear to Giles that the other man had slipped into interrogation mode.
Deciding that his best option was telling the truth, Giles relaxed back into his chair, tilting it slightly as he put his glasses back on and looked up. “No. We cater to the magic-using community, from novices on up. Are you interested in setting up an account with us for your lab?”
At that, Grissom blinked. “You’re not serious.”
Giles shrugged one shoulder. “Why not? The City of Sunnydale has an account with me. There’s no reason I can’t extend the same courtesy to Las Vegas.”
Grissom maintained eye contact with Giles for a long moment before his lips quirked into a wry smile. “Fine. The joke’s on me.”
“If you say so,” Giles said, willing his heart rate to slow down following the bluff.
“I do.” Grissom paused for a moment, then said, “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”
Giles, who had started to lean forward again, froze, his eyes fixed on the far wall. “It would seem you took a closer look at my life than I thought.”
“Her case is still open,” he said gently. “But the police haven’t done anything with it since the night you reported finding her body. Why not?”
Giles took slow, shallow breaths. “I really don’t know. Perhaps you should ask them.”
“I did.”
“And?”
Grissom let out a disgusted sigh. “They gave me a song and dance about too little manpower and too many other things to worry about.”
“I see,” said Giles faintly. “There’s your answer, then.”
“I don’t think so.” Grissom gave him a long, considering look. “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”
“You’ve already read my statement, I don’t doubt. I have nothing to add to it.” Giles pulled himself toward the sword and positioned the magnifying glass over a portion of the blade. He opened his sketch pad to a fresh page and started drawing.
“I’ve read it and the rest of the report, but neither explains why the killer left her in your bed. Or why he staged it so carefully with roses and music and wine.” He jumped slightly when Giles snapped the pencil in half.
His jaw tight, Giles said, “You’ve worked with enough crime scenes, Mr. Grissom -”
“Gil.”
“- I’m sure you can come up with an explanation as to why.” Giles put down the pencil half he still held and picked up another to begin drawing again.
“He wanted to leave you a message. Love always dies.” Grissom reached down and pulled the pencil from Giles’ hand. “And the way he did it was designed to hurt you as much as humanly -” Giles snorted lightly at the word. “- Possible. How am I doing?”
“Perfect marks on all accounts.” Giles swallowed hard and forced his jaw to relax. “May I have my pencil back?”
“You know who killed her.”
For all that Grissom spoke softly, he might as well have shouted the accusation, given how badly Giles reacted. His face paled, then turned bright red, and as Giles glared at him, Grissom thought he might do something incredibly stupid - like attack him. Instead, after a few minutes, the man got himself under control.
“In fact, I do know who killed her,” he said, surprising both of them with his admission.
“Then why aren’t you screaming to the rafters for the Sunnydale police to do something?” Grissom’s composure cracked a little bit further, and he added, “If they won’t do anything, I’ll contact the California State Police on your behalf.”
If his intent was to prod Giles into action, Grissom failed miserably. Giles looked up with a calmer, if unhappy, expression. “Arresting her killer won’t bring her back.”
“But -”
“Nor would a trial and conviction serve the course of justice,” he added. Seeming to have aged ten years in the last minute or two, Giles sighed. “The killer is contained, and I know for a fact he suffered greatly for his sins. Truly, Mr. Grissom - Gil - arresting him won’t do anyone any good, and it could well do a certain amount of harm.”
“I don’t understand you,” Grissom said, looking down at him in disbelief.
“You aren’t the first to make that complaint, and I doubt you’ll be the last.” Giles hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bending his head down to rub the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he sat up again but refused to look at Grissom. “If nothing else, the lack of physical evidence identifying the perpetrator should convince you that a trial would be pointless.”
“But you know who did it.” Gil shifted so he could lean down. “You could testify.”
His answering chuckle was brief and bitter. “Testify to what? I wasn’t there when he snapped her neck. I saw nothing.”
“There must be something -”
“There isn’t!” Giles winced, and he repeated more softly, “There isn’t. There’s no evidence, nothing to tie her killer to the crime. You have to trust me when I say there’s nothing to be done about this.”
“How can you live with that?”
“One day at a time,” he said, thinking now that he’d been functioning the same way since Buffy’s death. “And by keeping myself busy and useful.”
“Avoidance,” Grissom said with finality.
“It’s my preferred defense mechanism.” Giles sounded stronger than he had a few minutes earlier when he pointed at the sword and said, “That’s a puzzle, and puzzles keep my mind occupied.”
“You might be able to let it go, but I won’t.”
Without acknowledging Grissom’s comment, Giles continued, “For instance, how did it end up here? Who owned it last? Why did they want it? Were they - What are you doing?”
Gil reached for the hilt of the sword and picked it up. “You’ve -”
Alarmed, Giles put his right hand on Grissom’s arm, the left grabbing unthinkingly to snatch at the hilt. As soon as he touched the blade with side of his bare hand, a flash of bright light bloomed around the two men. When it died down again, they found themselves in what appeared to be a high-end hotel suite.
At the sound of someone applauding from behind, Giles finished snatching the sword from Grissom and brought it around with quick and deadly accuracy. He stopped the blade just a hair’s breadth from the woman’s throat and said, “Who are you, and why have you brought us here?”
She gave him an ingratiating smile with undertones of mockery. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Dr. Giles.” She held out her hand. “Lilah Morgan, head of special projects for Wolfram and Hart.”
Part 6
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...
Part 1 can be found here.
~*~*~
Steadfastly repressing his insane reaction to Phillip’s comments, Grissom paused before entering the lab he’d given over to Rupert Giles. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and - “What’s this?”
Giles looked up at Grissom. “What’s what?”
Grissom pointed at the notepad under Giles hand as well as the various pencils scattered around. He picked up a discarded piece of paper that held a rough sketch of the sword. “This - what is it?”
Narrowing his eyes at the tone he heard, Giles answered slowly and cautiously, as if appeasing a madman. “That is a sketch.” He added helpfully, “Of the sword.”
“I know that,” Grissom answered impatiently. “What I don’t know is why there’s a sketch. What’s wrong with the camera?”
Blinking in confusion, Giles looked over to the item in question. “Nothing, as far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’d like to know why you aren’t using it,” Grissom said, as if the reason should be self-evident.
“Perhaps because I prefer to sketch the details myself.” Giles found himself unexpectedly amused by the other man’s reaction.
Grissom shook his head and put down the sketch. He went over to pick up the camera and brought it back to where Giles sat. He held it out toward him, saying, “Trust me, a camera will pick up a lot more detail.”
Sighing, Giles put down his pencil and took off his glasses for a quick polishing. “Not really.”
“You don’t understand - this is top of the line. You’ll be able to pick up nuances in the metal and enhance them on the computer,” Grissom said, sounding very much like an evangelist preaching to the masses.
“Mr. Grissom -”
“Gil.”
“Gil, there’s something that no camera can capture, no matter how good or advanced the technology,” Giles said as he returned his glasses to his face.
Grissom frowned. “The optics on this are incredible. What could it possibly miss?”
“My emotional reaction and state of mind as I examine the piece,” he said gently. Giles picked up his sketch book and motioned for Grissom to come around the table to his side. He flipped the book back to the first page, where he’d made thumbnail sketches of parts of the hilt.
Pointing to the sketch in the upper left corner, he explained, “When I first examined the leather of the grip, I noticed this stain. I doubt it’s blood. If the sword had seen action in battle, there would have been far more stains scattered around. As I sketched the shape, it suggested to me a smear of some sort.” Giles pulled the arm-mounted magnifying glass toward the hilt and adjusted it over the grip. “Look at the blot. See the fuzziness?”
“Yeah.” Grissom looked at the sketch again. “And I can see the suggestion of it in your drawing.”
“Precisely -”
“But a camera would capture the smear exactly.”
Giles snapped, “To what end?” before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to continue in a more reasonable tone of voice. “The sword is at least ten thousand years old. What possible reason could anyone have to know the exact shape of a smear of fruit juice?”
Grissom gave him a startled look. “Fruit juice?”
“Perhaps.” Giles wanted to kick himself for discussing information he couldn’t possibly know just yet. He didn’t imagine that Mr. Grissom would take kindly to his explanation that the sword itself had shared some of its history with him as he sketched.
“But -”
“But nothing,” Giles said firmly. “It’s clearly not blood, and it’s clearly not a weapon that has ever seen battle. The juice stain - or something similar - on the hilt tells me quite a bit about one of the sword’s owners. Knowing the exact shape of the boundary of the stain just complicates things unecessarily.”
Grissom gave Giles an uncertain look. “So you don’t want to use the camera because it will show too many details?”
“I don’t want to use the camera because I’m afraid I’ll miss things. For instance, I wouldn’t have thought nearly as much about this stain as I did by examining it with my own eyes.” Giles flipped through several more pages of sketches, speaking quietly all the while. “These are my impressions, not the camera’s. These are what I saw on the piece, not what the camera saw. These are what I’ll base my final report on, and frankly, how you can trust something else to look at your evidence for you is beyond me.”
“I don’t let - never mind.” Grissom shook his head and went to the door. “I’m going home. If you need anything else, get in touch with Marjorie.”
“I’ll need a key,” Giles said as he continued examining the hilt through the magnifier, taking extreme care not to touch the sword.
Grissom froze in the act of reaching for the handle. Without turning around, he said, “You know about the problem with the hotel room and having to stay with me?”
“Well, yes, Miss Crandall mentioned it earlier. But I was actually referring to a key for this office.”
Grissom turned to see Giles evidently engrossed in his study of the sword. “Right. The office. You don’t have a problem with staying at my place?”
“Not really.” Giles glanced over at him. “Should I?”
After a moment, he answered, “Not really,” as he left.
As soon as the door closed, Giles pushed his chair as far away from the sword as he could, pulling out his handkerchief to blot his face. Midway through his conversation with Grissom, the sword started murmuring at him again, and he’d had a devil of a time keeping himself from touching it. He checked the time and decided to give Travers another call. Perhaps by now there would be an answer on whether or not there was a way to handle the sword safely.
~*~*~
When Giles ended the phone call, he let loose with a short yelp of surprise. He took a deep breath and said, “I thought you were going home for the day.”
Grissom frowned slightly. “I did go home. About ten hours ago.”
Giles blinked. “Has it been that long?”
“It has.” Grissom shifted slightly and leaned against the table that held the sword. “Tell me something. Was it my imagination, or did I just overhear the end of a conversation that was held in Latin?”
“It wasn’t your imagination.” Giles tucked Anya’s cell phone into his pants pocket and took out his handkerchief. As he pulled off his glasses to polish them, he said, “That was one of my suppliers. She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak - er - Mandarin.”
“But you both speak Latin.” If anything, Grissom seemed to relax even more against the table. “So that would be a supplier for your store - Magic Box, right?”
Giles shot a quick, suspicious glance at Grissom, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s expression. “You’ve been checking up on me.”
“From what I saw on your Web site, you don’t sell to stage magicians, do you?” Although his tone remained even, it was clear to Giles that the other man had slipped into interrogation mode.
Deciding that his best option was telling the truth, Giles relaxed back into his chair, tilting it slightly as he put his glasses back on and looked up. “No. We cater to the magic-using community, from novices on up. Are you interested in setting up an account with us for your lab?”
At that, Grissom blinked. “You’re not serious.”
Giles shrugged one shoulder. “Why not? The City of Sunnydale has an account with me. There’s no reason I can’t extend the same courtesy to Las Vegas.”
Grissom maintained eye contact with Giles for a long moment before his lips quirked into a wry smile. “Fine. The joke’s on me.”
“If you say so,” Giles said, willing his heart rate to slow down following the bluff.
“I do.” Grissom paused for a moment, then said, “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”
Giles, who had started to lean forward again, froze, his eyes fixed on the far wall. “It would seem you took a closer look at my life than I thought.”
“Her case is still open,” he said gently. “But the police haven’t done anything with it since the night you reported finding her body. Why not?”
Giles took slow, shallow breaths. “I really don’t know. Perhaps you should ask them.”
“I did.”
“And?”
Grissom let out a disgusted sigh. “They gave me a song and dance about too little manpower and too many other things to worry about.”
“I see,” said Giles faintly. “There’s your answer, then.”
“I don’t think so.” Grissom gave him a long, considering look. “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”
“You’ve already read my statement, I don’t doubt. I have nothing to add to it.” Giles pulled himself toward the sword and positioned the magnifying glass over a portion of the blade. He opened his sketch pad to a fresh page and started drawing.
“I’ve read it and the rest of the report, but neither explains why the killer left her in your bed. Or why he staged it so carefully with roses and music and wine.” He jumped slightly when Giles snapped the pencil in half.
His jaw tight, Giles said, “You’ve worked with enough crime scenes, Mr. Grissom -”
“Gil.”
“- I’m sure you can come up with an explanation as to why.” Giles put down the pencil half he still held and picked up another to begin drawing again.
“He wanted to leave you a message. Love always dies.” Grissom reached down and pulled the pencil from Giles’ hand. “And the way he did it was designed to hurt you as much as humanly -” Giles snorted lightly at the word. “- Possible. How am I doing?”
“Perfect marks on all accounts.” Giles swallowed hard and forced his jaw to relax. “May I have my pencil back?”
“You know who killed her.”
For all that Grissom spoke softly, he might as well have shouted the accusation, given how badly Giles reacted. His face paled, then turned bright red, and as Giles glared at him, Grissom thought he might do something incredibly stupid - like attack him. Instead, after a few minutes, the man got himself under control.
“In fact, I do know who killed her,” he said, surprising both of them with his admission.
“Then why aren’t you screaming to the rafters for the Sunnydale police to do something?” Grissom’s composure cracked a little bit further, and he added, “If they won’t do anything, I’ll contact the California State Police on your behalf.”
If his intent was to prod Giles into action, Grissom failed miserably. Giles looked up with a calmer, if unhappy, expression. “Arresting her killer won’t bring her back.”
“But -”
“Nor would a trial and conviction serve the course of justice,” he added. Seeming to have aged ten years in the last minute or two, Giles sighed. “The killer is contained, and I know for a fact he suffered greatly for his sins. Truly, Mr. Grissom - Gil - arresting him won’t do anyone any good, and it could well do a certain amount of harm.”
“I don’t understand you,” Grissom said, looking down at him in disbelief.
“You aren’t the first to make that complaint, and I doubt you’ll be the last.” Giles hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bending his head down to rub the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he sat up again but refused to look at Grissom. “If nothing else, the lack of physical evidence identifying the perpetrator should convince you that a trial would be pointless.”
“But you know who did it.” Gil shifted so he could lean down. “You could testify.”
His answering chuckle was brief and bitter. “Testify to what? I wasn’t there when he snapped her neck. I saw nothing.”
“There must be something -”
“There isn’t!” Giles winced, and he repeated more softly, “There isn’t. There’s no evidence, nothing to tie her killer to the crime. You have to trust me when I say there’s nothing to be done about this.”
“How can you live with that?”
“One day at a time,” he said, thinking now that he’d been functioning the same way since Buffy’s death. “And by keeping myself busy and useful.”
“Avoidance,” Grissom said with finality.
“It’s my preferred defense mechanism.” Giles sounded stronger than he had a few minutes earlier when he pointed at the sword and said, “That’s a puzzle, and puzzles keep my mind occupied.”
“You might be able to let it go, but I won’t.”
Without acknowledging Grissom’s comment, Giles continued, “For instance, how did it end up here? Who owned it last? Why did they want it? Were they - What are you doing?”
Gil reached for the hilt of the sword and picked it up. “You’ve -”
Alarmed, Giles put his right hand on Grissom’s arm, the left grabbing unthinkingly to snatch at the hilt. As soon as he touched the blade with side of his bare hand, a flash of bright light bloomed around the two men. When it died down again, they found themselves in what appeared to be a high-end hotel suite.
At the sound of someone applauding from behind, Giles finished snatching the sword from Grissom and brought it around with quick and deadly accuracy. He stopped the blade just a hair’s breadth from the woman’s throat and said, “Who are you, and why have you brought us here?”
She gave him an ingratiating smile with undertones of mockery. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Dr. Giles.” She held out her hand. “Lilah Morgan, head of special projects for Wolfram and Hart.”
Part 6