Title: The Bond: Reconstruction --- Part I: Malled
Author: beadattitude
Date: May 2004
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Summary: A year after “Chosen,” Giles has been grimly tending to the business of rebuilding the council, and Buffy has had enough. She challenges him to make some changes in his life, and the results are rather surprising for both Watcher and Slayer. First few chapters are PG. NC-17 chapters will be clearly indicated
Disclaimer: Joss and the "Queer Eye" folks own it: I'm just borrowing.
Spoilers: Through season seven.
Distribution: Just ask!
Feedback: Oh dear lord, please. This is my first fic, and I need all the help I can get.
A/N: This fic was begun in response to a GilesRulesBaby list challenge: #19 Giles Goes Shopping. It turned out to go beyond the original parameters, somewhat.
I’m not the first to use the Fab Five to get Giles to spruce up. Oh well. It was the quickest way for Buffy to drop a big hint, and see if Giles could figure it out.
I hate to supply my story with a glossary, but these are things that Giles would know about. If necessary, subsequent chapters will have their own glossary.
Burlington Arcade, London: a sort of alley of very expensive shops that carry traditional fashions and expensive knick-knacks. I still think wistfully of the cashmere sweater I left behind there. It cost $600.
Saville Row and bespoke suits: Saville Row is a district in London containing many bespoke tailor shops. A bespoke suit is a suit made to the wearer’s instructions – he speaks his suit – hence, bespoke. The suits are sewn entirely by hand, and the shops are very exclusive establishments: you pretty much have to know someone to get accepted. Suits typically start around $5,000.
Thanks to the GRB list for inspiration and positive feedback! And many, many thanks to PhenDog, for the beta she did out of the goodness of her heart.
* * * * * * *
He stood not so much in terror as in dread. Gazing off into the distance, Giles automatically looked for defensive positions, possible methods of escape, areas from which an enemy might launch a sneak attack. Glancing over to a gathering of innocent citizens, he grimly noted how vulnerable they were, and couldn’t help but remember the day, years ago, they fought the Judge in a place very much like this; a shopping mall.
The very word sent a shudder through him; mall. It struck him that precisely how he felt after shopping in one: mauled. The acres of parking spaces. The thrust and clatter of the crowds. Salespeople either overeager or invisible. The insipid elevator music. Clots of giggling teenagers, careening about the place, trailing french fries and too much cologne. Dreadful. Simply dreadful.
He was reduced to this. Scrabbling through the crowds of people for what? A woman.
His slayer. His, well, he wasn't really sure quite what they were at the moment. After the destruction of Sunnydale, they had approximately three days off before they began to search for the newly activated slayers, and rebuild the council. It had been a grueling few months. They’d done a great deal to repair their relationship, he thought, and had gone from a fragile truce to a comfortable peace.
Well, comfortable enough. He was certain she had no idea of both the depths of his feelings for her, and the depth of hurt he felt when she shut him out once again back in Sunnydale. He had made some terrible mistakes; mistakes that had nearly cost him the most important relationship in his life. Still, things with Buffy were as close to what passed for normal in their lives as they could be.
Or so he thought.
It began when Giles walked into the common lounge of their hotel suite to meet Buffy for breakfast. They had the day off, and were planning on decimating the contents of a pancake house. She stood in the kitchenette, holding a cup of coffee as if it were a chalice of ambrosia. She took one look at him and rolled her eyes.
“I’m tired of the shlumpy look, Giles. If I see one more gray baggy sweater, I swear I’ll call Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
“There’s a service for glaring at heterosexuals? Whatever for?”
“No, Mr. PBS Poster Boy,” she groused, “It’s a reality show where five gay men makeover someone who wears shlumpy gray sweaters and jeans everyday! They get him new clothes, fix up his house, and well, you know – o-other stuff.” He was startled to see her blush and turn away at the last. “It’s of the good,” she said shyly to her coffee cup and then pinned him with such a fierce look, he nearly took a step back.
“And don’t think I won’t, Giles. The folks over at “Queer Eye” owe a slayer a favor. Seems one of the recent straight guys had some Shacklamar demon eggs about to hatch in his laundry basket. When Rona heard the shrieking, she ran in the building and helped them out. They bought her some Jimmy Choo boots and told her if she ever needed a favor....”
“Buffy, I fail to see, he began, and she exploded.
“That’s just it! You’ve turned into the Watcher Who Can’t See! It’s been a year - a year since we beat the First, and we’ve been running around doing our blah blah chosen duty, and you are still in panic war mode - You’re Mr. All Stuffy Business almost all of the time now. Still! Every time I see that sweater all I can think of is how horrible things got between us, and how you lurked about in that thing like it was your Grim Watcher of Doom uniform. We won, and things are better, can’t you see that things are better and that you and I - I mean, we won, and got a shiny new chance. You can’t even see - you can’t even see...” faltering, cheeks flushed with anger, she glared at him through teary eyes.
“Ah,” he said a bit guiltily, ‘I fail to see that it’s time to change out of my battle fatigues and rejoin the world? I trust that I am not about to be struck blind? ”
She gave a watery giggle. “Like the “my will be done” spell worked so well for Willow. Giles, you’ve got Sunnydale Survivor Syndrome: stuck planning for the worst, and holding on to the one thing you have left as if it’s the most important thing in the world - even if it does nothing for your coloring.”
“This sweater is not this most important thing I have left in the world,” he said gently, looking into her eyes as deeply as he dared. As the moment stretched between them, he was surprised to see her shiver and look away.
“Good to know,” she said, looking back with a cheeky smile, “Whatcha going to do about it?” She took a sip of surely tepid coffee, and Giles stared, bewildered by the tiny tremor in her hand. “ I could come along, and help pick things out.”
“Heavens forefend,” he growled. “I can dress myself, thank you; have for years.”
“Well, let’s not forget the dark ages of tweed.”
“Those were perfectly wonderful suits. And useful. There was a tailor in London - a cousin to a member of the council - had the most lovely shop; Jenkins of Saville Row. He understood how to tailor a jacket so that it would hang properly if one were carrying a stake, or daggers or,”
“Or a Bavarian Fighting Axe?” she teased.
“No, no,” he said, deadpan, “Never in a jacket. The pocket for fighting axes is traditionally sewn into the back of the waistcoat. It’s really quite clever.”
“Oh, I give up,” she said in mock exasperation, “I’m talking about moving on and turning over a new leaf for spring and all, and you start droning on about another form of battle armor! NO TWEED, do you hear me? No regression into Tweedy Book Guy. There will be no tweed.”
“Well, too warm for it anyway. Perhaps a few things are in order. Do you think they’ll have any gray shirts at the stores this time of year? Maybe I should wait.”
“No!” she growled, “No Tweed! No Gray!” She swarmed forward and grabbed a double handful of his sweater. “Come back with something that even remotely looks like this,” she said, tugging on it, eyes dancing, “And I’ll rip it off your back.”
“I’d like to see you try,” he said dangerously.
Looking up at him, hands twined in his sweater, she went still, shivered, and then blushed. Before he could react, she recovered and danced away. “Never tempt a slayer. You’ve got your orders, mister. It’s time to dress like a civilian again. You have 24 hours to de-baggy sweater yourself, or suffer the consequences.”
“Which one? The once where you call in the Queer Eyed people, a forced march shopping trip with you, or ripping the clothes off my back?”
“Ripping the clothes off your back while on a shopping trip with me and the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy people.”
“Right. Well, then, I think a little research is in order....”
“Nope, your demon books have no tips on fashion sense. Go thou out into the world, and shop. Hie thee hence, and a vaunt already.” With that, she pushed him out into the hall and slammed the door.
“Buffy - my keys. And I don’t know where the mall IS.”
“Fine, “ she said, opening the door a crack and tossing his keys to the ground, as she slammed the door before he could block it with his foot. Her muffled voice continued, “Two blocks west, take a right, go three blocks and you can’t miss it. See you at dinner.”
And so, he found himself - the newly minted head of the Watcher’s Council, talented linguist, seasoned warrior and sometime mage, entrusted with a mystical destiny to stand with his slayer against the night, to protect the world from evil - locked out of his hotel room and sent on a mission to a shopping mall.
Bloody hell.
He stood for a few more moments, staring blankly at the people milling around the food court. How they could stomach fast food at this hour of the morning he could never comprehend. If there was a nice bakery about perhaps he could have a jelly before jumping once more into the breach.
//Once more into the breach,// the watcher thought as the memories flashed through his brain; “We few, we happy few.” Spike. “We band of buggered.”
He couldn’t help but be reminded by the three of those happy few who had been lost since that the fight with Glory, and it would have been four if not for Willow’s spell, which he was more than grateful for, despite the fact it - “Oh, do shut up,” he told himself with a mental shake, “You’ll bloody well _be_ buggered if you stand about all morning being morbid.” No wonder Buffy threw him out of the hotel; he was the Grim Watcher of Doom.
But he was stalling and he knew it. The place seemed so large and teeming with humanity, yet also oddly sterile and lacking in personality. He longed for the comfortable bustle of the Burlington Arcade, back in London, with its small, charming shops and proper clothing. Perhaps he should call Jenkins - get him started on a new suit or two. But no tweed. Right. What exactly was he doing here?
The answer to that would be Buffy. Giles was somewhat bewildered by her orders this morning, though since she brought it to his attention; he was beginning to find his own company irritatingly gloomy. He supposed he could hardly fault her for being irritated. And frankly, he was thrown by her demeanor; alternately nervous and aggressive, teasing and shy - and blushing! All signs that something was afoot in the mystery that was her mind. He could hardly believe the kind of mild flirting they’d engaged in before had elicited an entirely different response. Perhaps he had come on a bit strong.
Yet, she had shivered. Something he did made her shiver. Interesting.
He would very much like to see if she would shiver again.