InsaneJournal

"God, I hate winter," Buffy moaned.

Giles had to agree.  A British winter meant cold temperatures, crisp weather, sometimes a lovely snowfall.  Winter in California meant one thing only: Rain.  The rain that never spoiled the beauty of summer (or relieved the unchanging enamel blue of the sky that he found so dull) drenched Halloween, the Americans' Thanksgiving, Christmastide, and frequently his Slayer's birthday as well.

He stripped off his waterproof jacket and hung it up.  "You go dry off and find some spare clothing.  I'll make us some tea."

Buffy skimmed off to the bathroom, muttering something about Englishmen and tea and practically undressing as she went.  Smiling, Giles eased out of his wet shoes and socks, leaving them by the door, and headed for the kitchen.

It had been a normal patrol night, except for the rain.  The skies had been clear when Buffy had come by earlier, and she'd been wearing a new leather jacket and glittery shoes--fetching, but hardly practical.  Giles had known better than to reprove, and they'd driven out to one of the older cemeteries, one they hadn't patrolled in a while as its age and neglect made it a location less likely for new vampires.

Contrary to expectation, half a dozen hungry, stupid fledglings had just arisen and were trying to find their way out of the grounds to the fresh blood they could smell on the rising wind.  Giles surmised that they were all victims of a recent car crash; Sunnydale did occasionally have ordinary catastrophes fuelled by alcohol, hormones, and youth rather than demonic intervention.  The downpour had begun quite suddenly while he and Buffy were still tangling with the lot, and they hadn't been able to retreat from the field until they'd chased down the last vampire, speeding toward the interstate in his terror.

He heard the shower running as he spooned Assam into the tea basket.  He wouldn't mind a hot shower himself, though he was far drier than Buffy, having dressed sensibly, of course.  He cast his eyes heavenward a moment, simply because it was good form, and then turned to the drawers beside the sink to check his secret biscuit stash.

He heard Buffy scurrying upstairs as he was stooping by the drawer.  The kettle began to puff, and he pulled out a box of shortbread cookies with a layer of chocolate, one of Buffy's favorites, and straightened with a soft groan for his knees to pour the water.

***

Buffy grumbled as she searched Giles's dresser.  The bottom drawer, left corner was where she usually stashed her spare clothes, but there was a conspicuous gap where her dry things should be.  Bad Watcher, not getting around to doing his Slayer's laundry.  And after the indignity of getting caught in a cold rain while fighting a crew of vamps who could barely walk yet, let alone stand up to the Slayer.  It would have been an easy patrol if it hadn't been for getting drenched and slogging through the mud, and wet vamp-dust was even ickier than dry.

Well, she'd just have to ransack the Watcher's closet for something of his to put on until her own clothes had run through the dryer.  Which she hoped he had thought of doing.  The leather jacket might be a loss though, dammit.

Buffy threw open the closet door and shamelessly waded in.  OK, grey sweater, grey henley, grey sweater.  Ugh.  The old tweed outfits had more color variety.  What about a shirt?  She shuffled in deeper in search of clean crisp Oxford cloth to cover her rapidly cooling bod.  "Ow!"  Ever the Slayer, she pounced on the thing that had just caused her to stub her toe and dragged it into the light.

It was a cardboard box.  Just a largish cardboard box, the sort of thing you buy for storage in your closet, but Buffy had half kicked off the lid, and the contents were *not* more of the grey sweaters and henleys.  There was something... glittery and purple in there, and maybe it was some kind of trigger for a spell, so of course Buffy lifted off the lid and looked inside.

Purple sequins.  Spangly purple sequins.  A spangly purple sequined dress, with fringe at the hem.  A bronze-blonde wig that looked like it had been made for Tina Turner.  Shiny purple pumps--very *large* pumps--that matched the dress.  And--she picked up the spidery black thing and dropped it at once--yep, fishnet stockings.

In Rupert Giles's closet.

Buffy's thoughts ticked over like an engine idling.  Why on earth...?  Maybe they were clothes a friend, a female friend, had left... but those shoes weren't made for female feet, no way.  Those shiny purple pumps were each big enough for her two feet to fit in... they had to be Giles's.  Giles's?  She tried to imagine her Watcher in wig, sequined dress, and fishnet stockings, and felt her brain begin to short out.

***

"Buffy!"  Giles started up the steps.  "Tea's ready, and I found some biscuits, too."  Why was she still up there?  He hadn't thought she was wounded, and if she was, why hadn't she said so?

"Coming!" she called, her voice oddly high and bright.  Not reassured, Giles trotted up to the bedroom and saw her, clad in nothing but a towel and fumbling with a cardboard box.

He couldn't help it: He started to laugh.

The partly baffled, partly wounded, partly indignant, and entirely Buffy-ish expression with which she responded to his laughter--whilst clutching the towel for dear life--only made him laugh harder.  He managed to stagger over to the bed, sit down, and drag the box between his feet, all the while aware of his Slayer's steadily increasing glare.  By the time his mirth had died down to spasmodic giggling, she had gotten to her feet and was watching him with hands on hips.  She had put on one of his dress shirts while he was overcome.

"No, Buffy, it's not what you're thinking. Hee--"  Giles wiped the tears from his cheeks.  "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking."  He rummaged around in the box, came up with the fishnets, and began giggling again.  Goodness.  If she had come across those, no doubt her pose of anger was hiding a serious wiggins, as she might put it.

"So tell me what I *should* be thinking," she challenged.  He patted the bed, and Buffy sat down next to him.

"Before I started at--much less left--the Watchers' academy, before I met Ethan, I went to an ordinary public school.  Er, private school, you would call it."

"Right."  Buffy nodded.

"We had an annual school play in the upper form, the, ah, graduating class.  Always some sort of farce or pantomime that put most of us in women's clothes."  He pulled out the pumps and suppressed more laughter.  Purple!  "A few years ago, just before I was called here to Sunnydale, we had a class reunion.  Part of the festivities was a recreation of our school play."  He lifted the dress and spread it out to glitter in the light of the bedside lamp.  "Hence this costume."

Buffy swallowed and looked a bit more relaxed.  "Why all the cross-dressing?"

Giles raised his eyebrows.  "Haven't you ever seen Monty Python or Benny Hill?  Cross-dressing is one of the mainstays of British humor, along with Northern accents and women's bottoms."

Buffy gave him a skeptical look.  "What about all that Masterpiece Theatre eyeglass-polishing Oscar Wilde-type banter?"

"Oh, Wilde was Anglo-Irish, you know.  He doesn't count."  He chuckled.  "Napoleon called us a nation of shopkeepers, but we're really a nation of vulgar music-hall crowds who think nothing's funnier than a man wearing a dress."  He had to start laughing again.  "And Lord, in my case, they'd be right."

***

Buffy found herself petting the sequined dress and watching the way the glittery surface shifted its lights under her hand.  Purple dress and shoes and bronze wig, and Giles's eyes were kind of green....  Pretty soon she also found herself looking at him in a thoughtful sort of way, wondering, just wondering, and Giles started shaking his head and saying, "No, oh no...."

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"It'll be dreadful!  There's no point to it out, outside the play, and I don't remember my lines, or, or any of the songs--"

"You *sang*, too?  Oh, I have got to see this.  Come on, Giles."  She petted the dress again, forgetting that it was lying across his lap.  "If seeing my Watcher in a Tina Turner look-alike outfit is my only reward for being Chosen, I'm not asking for very much."

Blushing and stammering, Giles gathered up the box and trotted downstairs to the bathroom.  Giggling, Buffy resumed her search for something to wear.

She was just starting to think that she'd have to pretend flannel boxers were running shorts when it hit her.  She was already wearing one of Giles's dress shirts, after all (he'd been too giggly over the costume to even notice that).  Why not surprise Giles by wearing a *Giles* costume when he came back wearing a *woman's* costume?

The familiar old tweeds were still in the closet, in matching sets.  Buffy had to bite her lip not to giggle as she got dressed.  It was all really baggy, of course, but she cinched up the belt tight and buttoned the vest neatly.  The vest fit better than she'd expected, and the jacket would finish it off--  She started to put it on, realized she felt kind of warm already, and decided to wait until she heard him coming.  She wasn't gonna miss him clomping upstairs in high heels.

***

To be continued!