Title: The Bond: Reconstruction --- Part III: By George, I think he's got it
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.
See Authors notes in Part I.
* * * * * * *
Several hours later, Giles murmured, “I’ll take it,” to one last outfit. Sharon had pulled together an entire wardrobe for him - from underwear to cuff links - and selected items for him that were near duplicates of his late, lamented things. Much to her delight, there were very few of choices he did not buy. She’d managed to find a suit or two that nearly rivaled Jenkins: he would, after all, need something suitable as the head of the council. He had selected the Prada loafers in soft black leather and even softer brown suede, comfort and luxury almost too decadent to contemplate. He had had to take a moment to stiffen his resolve. In a final monument to her perceptiveness, Sharon presented him with a selection of discreet earrings for his currently empty earlobe. There was even a small jade stud that matched his favorite new shirt. He glanced up at Sharon with a cocked eyebrow.
“By George, I think he’s got it, “ she said happily (with a passable English accent.) “Well done, Mr. Giles. You’ve gone through two of the Fab Five food groups, and since you’re staying at a hotel, so you only have two left!” She was really quite proud of him - once she got him started - the man could shop.
Utterly bewildered, Giles said, “Does this have something to do with that television show?”
“Oh,” she said, deflating, “I thought you had seen Queer Eye. I mean after you jumped for the full fluff and buff at the salon - you know, the haircut, nails and facial - I thought you were going for the full wow-your-sweetie package.”
Giles froze. “Sharon, my understanding of that dreadfully named show is that the subject’s wardrobe is refurbished.”
“They also redecorate his home, give him cooking pointers, grooming tips, and some hints on how to better connect with his significant other. It’s amazing to see the difference. Most men are usually nominated by wives or girlfriends whose fellows just aren’t getting the message...”
“That the woman wants more than to be with a sloppily dressed, self-involved pillock who ignores her?” guessed Giles, blanching. The sense that he’d very nearly missed an important clue washed over him: Buffy had intimated the program was more than about clothes. He was not only a blind, ignorant prat, but also a deaf, blind and ignorant prat.
“Exactly, Mr. Giles. I knew you had it.”
He certainly hoped so. If he wanted to truly surprise Buffy there was so much more he needed to do, yet here he stood with pins in his pants and a tailor crouched at his heels. He looked at his watch, and then at Sharon. “We meet at 7 for dinner, and it’s 4:45 already,” he said weakly.
“Stall for time,” she said practically. Her eyes popped a little when she saw her gentle customer snap into command mode. His shoulders went back, his back went ramrod straight and his gorgeous eyes flashed. He was, just, WOW.
“Right,” this new Giles said, reaching for his phone on the chair. He hissed as he nearly fell over the tailor crouching on the floor; the tailor hissed back through a mouthful of pins. Sharon grimaced and fished the phone out of Giles belongings. He gave her a grateful look, glared at the phone in thought a moment, then hit a speed dial number with the air of a man making battle plans.
“Willow,” he said crisply, “I need a favor. I’m planning a little surprise for Buffy and I’m bit delayed. I need her not to be back to the hotel until about 7 o’clock or so. Could you handle a small diversion?”
Listening to Willow’s reply, Giles unconsciously put his hand in his pocket, jerking the hem out of the tailor’s hands. The tailor poked him lightly, with a pin, in response.
“Oh! No, Willow everything’s’ quite all right - I was just a bit startled,” he said, glowering at the tailor, who pointed mutely at his pocket. Giles removed the offending hand while apologizing with a quirk of lips and eyebrows.
“Yes, I know you’re a terrible liar, Willow, that’s why she won’t suspect a thing. Are there any ingredients for the, er, project, that you need? Well, then that’s the truth; ask her to get them for you. She was going jogging with a few of the others at between five and five thirty; perhaps she could pick them up. The shop is blocks away, it would double her jog time, and when she returns she will have just enough time to get ready. I just need you to delay her a little while; I can handle the rest.”
Giles’ hand crept towards his pocket as he patiently listened to Willow worry about leaking the surprise - at length. He caught himself and looked ruefully at the tailor, who had noticed and was waiting, pin in hand. Unforgiving little prat, wasn’t he? “It will be fine, Willow. Yes, Willow. Thank you, Willow. I’m very grateful,” he said warmly. “No, no special occasion. We’ve just been working so hard, and Buffy seemed a bit off this morning. Just thought we needed a little change of scenery.” He stroked the lapel of his new jacket, and quirked an eyebrow at Sharon, who snorted. Giles grinned. “Yes, thank you Willow. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
“Operation Diversion Complete?” Sharon asked.
“Not quite,” said Command Giles, “One more call now, and in about ten minutes a call will come for me.” Sharon looked a bit mystified. “I trust my purchases are about ready to ring up? And that you’re about finished,” he added in the direction of his feet. The tailor nodded. “Right,” said Giles, “Sharon, could you get this lot rung up for me and ready to go, and I’ll be right out.” He began punching numbers into his cell phone again. Sharon really wished she could hear what he planned next, but well, she’d been given her marching orders.
By the time Giles joined Sharon at her register, he’d made dinner reservations and planned for a few things to be delivered to their suite, thanks to the concierge at their hotel. Sharon was dying to know what Mr. Giles had planned, and just as she opened her mouth, his cell phone rang. Glanced at his watch, and tried not to look smug; she was right on schedule. “Rupert Giles,” he said.
“It’s me, Giles,” said Buffy.
“Oh good, I was just about to call you. Would you mind if we put dinner back and hour?
“I was just about to say the same thing. Willow’s got me running errands for her,” she said with a sigh, “And by running errands, I mean with feet.”
“I see,” said Giles, “it’s good of you to do so. If she’s close to perfecting her formula….”
“I know how much we need it, Giles,” Buffy huffed, “It’s peachy. I’ll hop like a bunny over to the local magic shop.”
After a pause, Giles said lightly, “I’d agree with Anya that you hopping through streets like a bunny is certainly uncalled for.”
Buffy gave a sad little snort, “I never did get the bunny thing.” She gave a little sigh and asked brightly, “How was the mall?”
“Appalling,” said Giles, lying smoothly, with a placating gesture towards Sharon, “I was accosted by a harpy with a bottle of cologne. There really ought to be a law.”
“So not so hot, huh?” He could hear the disappointment in her voice, which made him both delighted and ashamed. He shouldn't tease so.
“I don’t think you’ll be entirely ashamed of me,” he said modestly. Sharon rolled her eyes and tried not to giggle.
“Giles, I never said,” she began and he hushed her.
“It’s all right, really Buffy,” he said, gently, “I got a call this afternoon from that antiquarian bookseller over near the university, and dropped everything to fetch a copy of Graves, ahem, Compendium. I’ve missed mine quite a lot.”
“Ah, the demon encyclopedia. And you’re still there, right?” she said, amused.
“Something like that, “ he said evasively, watching Sharon shake her head in disbelief as she folded and bagged his clothing. He stopped her from folding the jade silk shirt, indicating he wanted it to still be on the hangar.
She nodded wisely, held up a pair of medium brown flat-front wool slacks, and a chocolate brown suede jacket, and mouthed “Tonight?” Giles nodded.
Sharon gave him a double thumbs up, and, as he continued his appalling bunch of lies to Buffy, she bundled the outfit into a hanging bag, dug out the right belt and shoes and tucked all in the bottom of the bag. She glanced up at Giles, bent down, fished out a pack of boxer briefs and tucked them in the hanging bag. Looking back up, she raised her eyebrows at him in a clear indication of “done.” Still blushing about the underwear, Giles tugged on his earlobe. She had forgotten the jade earring, and it was her turn to blush. She dove back down into the bags.
Meanwhile, Giles was explaining to Buffy that, in his haste to depart, he’d left a terrible mess in the suite’s lounge, and that he wanted to make a proper presentation of his purchases. Could she please wait until after dinner for the presentation?
“Ooooh,” she squealed, “A fashion show? With the strutting and the posing? I think I could like that.”
Blushing more than he ever thought possible, Giles said severely, “Buffy, I do not strut. And I surely will not pose.”
“I dunno, watcher-mine, I think a fashion show is just the ticket tonight. It could be a dinner show, with room service.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Buffy,” he said, “But I’ve made reservations for us at Chevre’, which is a block or two from the hotel. I had thought we could return to the hotel for dessert.”
“Dinner reservations. Wow. What’s the occasion, Giles?”
“The war is over and reconstruction has begun?”
After a moment, she laughed, “Took ya long enough; welcome to 2004. And you better not be bringing home any nasty old carpet bags, mister.”
“Indeed. Shall I pick you up at your door at eight?”
“Righty ho, Giles. Pip pip!” Buffy rang off.
Shaking her head in wonder at his storytelling – and that the girlfriend’s name was Buffy - Sharon handed Giles his sales slip, which had to be folded thrice in order to fit in his wallet. Then she handed him his alteration receipts and the charge slip, which he signed with an air of damming the torpedoes.
“Sharon, you’ve been of immeasurable help, and I’m quite grateful to you. I have one last request however; do you think this establishment might have within it a fondue pot, pleasantly scented candles and a carpet bag?”
She blinked. “Um, I’m not sure about the fondue pot, but candles are downstairs with giftware and handbags are to the left of the escalator on the main floor."
“And fine jewelry?”
“On the same level as giftware.”
“Thank you, Sharon. There is one more last thing: may I have your business card, and the name of your supervisor? I’d like to tell your employer what a treasure you are.” She beamed at him, handed him the information as he gathered his bags.
“Thank you again,” he said with a gentle smile.
“You’re very welcome.” He turned to go. “Mr. Giles?”
“Yes, Sharon?”
“Fine jewelry; planning on proposing?”
With a slightly more mischievous smile Giles replied, “Seeing that Buffy isn’t yet aware that tonight is our first date, I hardly think it would be appropriate.”