Title: Mrs. Picket's Wonderful Vegetable Garden.
Disclaimer: As said by countless others before me, I have no rights or claims whatsoever to CSI or anything related to it.
Summary: Brass, Grissom and Sara and one tall furry tomato. Written for the Unbound Challenge .
A/N: This story is not only written to a response to this week's Unbound Challenge (by which the first and last line of the story were provided), but also to LK's 'nagging'. All kidding aside, I challenged her to write (and post) a smut fic. Well, she posted it two days ago. Therefore, I am keeping my end of the bargain. Aren't you proud of me?
A/N2: A huge thanks to my betas LK and Mossley, and to the whole bunch of authors that have shoved me in the right direction. Mandy, Niff, Karin, ShipperGirl, Triplepirouette, Laredo Grissom, and everyone else who has ever told me that I ought to write something.
Grissom approached the tomato warily.
"Grissom, man, I wouldn't step too close if I were you. Never trust a blushing tomato. Especially not when it's furry and walking..." Brass watched his colleague throw him an exasperated look and smirked.
The blushing tomato in question was a six-foot-two well rounded, furry costume, inhabited by an equally blushing spectacled teenager.
"Tom Flouran? May we ask you a few questions? It's about a wrecked zucchini costume from one of your competitors."
Although muttering and not looking too pleased at all, Flouran walked off to the side of the stage where the acting of 'Mrs. Picket's Wonderful Vegetable Garden' was in full swing. Soil was placed neatly on the planks, with a little white picket fence surrounding it, and an oversized, furry cat was happily snoozing in the artificial sunlight projected from one of the countless lamps hanging on the ceiling.
"We had a complaint from one of your fellow...actors. Michael Shipp. He tells us that you've been stalking him for a while, e-mailing him with digitally altered photos of mutilated zucchinis and cucumbers and super-power vegetables, especially giant sized tomatoes. Added to that, he has also specifically stated that, not once, but twice you ruined his 'meticulous and hard-to-stitch' zucchini suit. Now, usually, my colleagues here, Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle, nor I investigate such trivial things, but apparently you've pissed off the wrong person, son."
Grissom, who had until that point carefully scrutinized each detail of the stage, including the rough potato with its pits and bumps, the carrot which seemed remarkably crooked for its four-foot-two length, and the asparagus that lay straight as a candle on the soft soil, regained his focus on the teenager before him.
"You are obviously the tallest person here on the set. Are you also the supervisor?"
"Well, no. Mrs. Wood is the 'supervisor'. She's the teacher of that lot. Don't ask me why, though. Her choice of kids for the roles is dismal. The carrot is smaller than the potato, the tomato is only barely rounder than the cucumber. But hey, I'm just here to see that no one hurts themselves or falls of the stage."
"As interesting as this sounds, this doesn't explain Mr. Shipp's complaint about you. I notice that he's absent now as well, correct, for he would be one of the other three caretakers, you included?"
While Tom was peeking over and beyond the shoulder-blocking bodies of Grissom and Sara, he decidedly looked irritated each time Shipp's name was mentioned. He sighed, his eyebrow twitched, he tightened his fist; all indicators that there was no love lost between the two young men.
"Fine, Michael is absent. Don't know where he is. Perhaps his costume was wrecked. It's happened before. Bad luck, I guess. It's got nothing to do with me, though. I don't like the guy, don't mind admitting that. But I'm not the type to 'virtually stalk' someone. What kind of example would I be setting for those kids?"
"All right, so you don't send mass e-mails to the guy. Doesn't mean you didn't ruin his suit twice." Brass was starting to get fed up. There were several cases waiting for him back at the station, and he had to waste his time working on a trivial complaint issued by the son of a casino empire mogul.
Sara, who had been quietly standing between her two male colleagues and observing Flouran's body language, decided that now was the chance for her to ask a question. "You sure you didn't e-mail Michael with some, say disturbing, pictures? We found your address through the e-mails, and it turns out that it is indeed your parent's house. Care to explain that?"
Raising his chin, looking her straight in the eye, he muttered a cool and collected "I can't. Perhaps someone hacked into my account."
The argument was quickly refuted by Sara, and onwards went the questioning. None of the questions put forward by the criminalists or the detective were satisfactorily answered, and Tom Flouran was asked to accompany the party back to the police station.
Grissom and Sara sauntered behind them, when she saw a soft smile appearing on Grissom's face. Before she could even think about possible reasons, he spoke.
"From stoic and cocky, to pathetic and quiet. You sure know how to break a man."
She looked surprised and unsure of how to take the words. When she saw his soft smile morph into a grin, accompied by the sexiest wink she had seen in a long time, a full blown smile appeared on her face. "It's a gift."
Looking around, searching for the exit in the now nearly dark theatre, Sara noticed the countless baskets of paper frills and foam, all cleverly cut in designs resembling the different vegetables that were featured in the play.
Tom caught Sara's puzzled look and explained. "At the end of the play, instead of the usual 'cut the lights and music', the actors will throw confetti at the public. They're probably nearing the end of it, actually."
Before either Grissom or Sara could formulate a coherent response, all hell broke loose. Dancing and singing vegetables stormed around the scene, while the cut-out designs blurred the image as to represent something of a Matisse painting: Surreal, hectic and colorful.
Walking back to the car, Sara shook her hair, multi-colored confetti dancing in the breeze.
"Shakespeare and Wilde are no match for any theatrical production that has such a dramatic ending."
She chuckled as he picked debris from his beard.
Reviews and feedback are sincerely welcomed, since this is my very first fic .Be gentle please.