__Lust For Loafers And Other Discoveries__
By Beadtific



In the end, shopping wasn’t so bad. Giles wandered about the mall, peering in various shops, waiting for one to strike his fancy. He’d formed an unreasonable lust for a pair of loafers in the window of a very exclusive shoe store. They looked perfect, sort of a monk-strap style, avoiding those nasty bands of topstitching in regular- style loafers. Loafers like that itched when worn sockless. He had owned a pair like that once, though perhaps not quite as nice; these looked deliciously comfortable. Giles thought of Buffy’s shoe addiction and smiled. How she would laugh to seem him mooning over Prada loafers. \\But, there’s no need to get ahead of yourself, old man,// he told himself firmly,\\ New clothes before new shoes.//

He found himself finally in a department store he’d once heard Willow praise for stylish clothes whose prices did not generally cause fainting. All he needed was a clothing-related head injury. Though large, it was quiet, and had an understated elegance he found very appealing.

Yet Giles wandered gloomy as a thundercloud while he picked a few items up here and there, mourning the remembrance of sweaters past. More than just sweaters, actually; he’d lost a nearly half of his wardrobe when Sunnydale sank, and another quarter during an unfortunate luggage theft in Bombay. He snorted to himself. He was certain that somewhere in the backstreets of Bombay, a street urchin was swanning about in a bespoke suit. It had been some very fine work - beautiful Italian wool, reinforced stake pockets, bespelled to repel blood, other common stains and most demon effluvia - a really lovely suit. At least the thief would be clean.

There were clothes stored in the watcher’s Bath flat, but they were mainly there because he didn’t really like them very much, Giles mused as he entered the dressing room. He supposed he’d become accustomed of picking up the bare minimum for whatever occasion, without much thought put into it. Case in point: the lava-lava he’d purchased in order to show proper respect to the elders of the Micronesian village that boasted two activated slayers – twin girls. Giles thought it a subtle way to let the elders know that members of the council could and would honor the girls’ culture. It was quite comfortable, and he’d taken to wearing in his quarters when in hot, steamy climates. He’d donned the sarong again during a particularly hot research session in Rio, and the resulting uproar from Xander – who was wearing just as little, but in pants form - ensured that he’d never wear it again in public.

After rather absently changing his clothing, Giles looked in the mirror and looked at his reflection in disgust. Evidently his thought process was still impaired; black v-neck sweater, black slacks. He looked like bloody Angel in the midst of a good brood. That would most certainly not do. Why not get a long leather duster and some black nail varnish so he could look like both of Buffy’s vampire ex-lovers at once? The question was, which would be more disconcerting, bleaching himself platinum, or gelling his hair straight up?

Giles sunk into a sarcastic funk, stomped back to the sales floor, and gazed bitterly at the racks of clothing that extended for what seemed to be acres. The Englishman was already tired, hungry, and had only been here for a half hour.

Giles was startled by a gentle cough. “Are you all right sir?” He turned to find a polished young woman giving him a concerned look. “May I help you?”

He let go of his funk with an embarrassed chuckle. “Oh dear lord, yes. I’m a bit at sea. I - I need to replenish my wardrobe and am, well, a bit...”

“Overwhelmed?” she said kindly. “Whew. You looked like someone had run over your puppy and cut up your gold card: overwhelmed I can fix.” She took in his Angelesque outfit. “You’re doing fine; what you’ve picked out is very nice, if a bit somber. Perhaps replace the black sweater with a nice charcoal gray or something a little brighter? ”

“Believe it or not, somber is not my goal. Besides, I’ve been forbidden to wear gray.”

“I take it this wardrobe overhaul is not just for you, then?” she asked teasingly.

Giles gave a heavy sigh, “A friend threatened to set a television program on me, um, it’s called Q-Queer,“

“Ah, a Queer Eye aficionado?” she guessed, “Oh, those Fab Five have been so good for business, let me tell you. My name is Sharon, and I would be happy to help you choose some things. Shall we get started?”

As he trailed after her, Giles wondered vaguely how a nickname for The Beatles and shopping had become intertwined; Americans could be so bewildering.

With mind - boggling efficiency, the capable Sharon took his measurements, coaxed a surprising amount of information regarding fit and preferences out of Giles and finally tucked him into a spacious, well-lit dressing room with a cup of coffee and a raspberry Danish. It wasn’t a jelly, but it was quite nice. He never did have breakfast, and shopping was quite tiring.

“Okay Mr. Giles, “ Sharon called, knocking on his door. “I have a few things for you to see to make sure I’m on the right track.” She brought in a several outfits and hung them up for his approval.”

“These are quite nice, Sharon,” he said, a bit awed. The young woman had a gift, evidently, for understanding bewildered sartorial ramblings. He fingered a beautiful silk dress shirt; it was the most extraordinary shade of green.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, picking it up and holding up to Giles. “I knew it! It turns your eyes the same color.” Giles turned and looked into the mirror. She was right. His eyes were as jade green as the shirt - quite astonishing. He ran a hand down the heavy material and felt his calloused hands snag on the silk. “Perhaps I need a manicure, “ he frowned critically at them.

Why don’t you go down to our salon; I’ll call ahead for you. Get a manicure while I pick out a few more things for you, and I’ll have some shoes sent over as well. Then you can try everything on in one fell swoop.”

Perking up a bit, Giles inquired if the lusted-after loafers might be available here. Sharon’s eyes went wide with delight. “Prada loafers?” she chuckled, “Be still my heart. Mr. Giles, we are going to have a very good day together.”

Giles spent his ride down the escalator justifying to the expense of purchasing nearly an entire wardrobe, including ridiculously overpriced shoes. Prada loafers would hardly put a dent in his bank account, let alone the council funds. He’d outfitted all the Sunnydale survivors, put the newly activated slayers on salary, arranged for comfortable dwellings around areas of mystical activity and fussed over them enough so that they were all probably glad to see the back of him. He believed very strongly there would be no more Doublemeat Palace for the Chosen Ones. He supposed by now he was due a little refurbishment. “And goodness knows, if by some fluke my new clothing causes Buffy to shiver...”

He froze at the bottom of the escalator. Clothes Fluke. Isn’t that what Willow called her ultimately disastrous kissing of Xander?

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to engineer a Clothes Fluke with Buffy. Was he? Disaster with Buffy was the last thing he’d ever want. Disaster with Buffy again, he corrected himself ruefully, thinking of his missteps of the last few years. Whatever gave him that idea, beyond those little shivers, that Buffy might even be remotely interested in him as a man?

She was right; he had been so tired he could hardly see straight, let alone watch for anything. They were so busy figuring out the council finances, rounding up new slayers, and gathering - as Buffy put it - the least terminally cranky retired watchers, he’d hardly had time to brush his teeth. All this on top of trying to grieve for lost friends, keep an eye on prophesies and watch for impeding signs of apocalypse.

The search for slayers and watchers had slowed enough that they’d taken the opportunity to have a working holiday. While the others were gathering up the a few stragglers overseas, Buffy was bonding with the most recent batch of slayers. Willow was refining a spell to search out potential watchers - a spell as complex as the one locator spell for potential slayers - so they were staying put until she had it figured out. Due to some of the spell’s smellier components, she was working in a guesthouse attached to the home of a reactivated watcher. Giles was looking for some texts that might help Willow, and replacing some of the books he’d lost in Sunnydale. Most of them were scanned into Willow’s computer, but it really wasn’t the same. It had been a rather restful week really.

Until this morning. Was he truly so addled that he was imagining that Buffy might have... and that they could... well, it did no good to even to speculate on it, if his intuition was playing him false. He was not about to place a juvenile call to Willow or Xander to ask if Buffy had feelings for him. His memory skills as a watcher were all he had to go on at the moment.

Taking a centering breath, Giles replayed this morning’s skirmish in his memory, attempting to verify the signals he hoped Buffy was sending. Parsing Buffy logic, he replayed the discussion in his mind. Buffy made her points, clearly, that much he could follow. Yet, there was something underneath it all that made her defensive enough to snap as well as tease him. Giles focused on the moment this morning when she seemed both fierce and vulnerable; the feel of her tiny hands balled in his sweater, the vanilla and honey of her scent, and the fierceness of her eyes when she threatened to rip any gray sweater-like clothing off his back.

He had countered her threat, and she had shivered. Something in her face and in that shiver had called out of him an answering flush of desire; a flush, he had to admit, that unsettled him so that he found himself glowering at a food court twenty minutes later. Giles took another centering breath and replayed the moment; and there it was. She had gone still and heavy against his chest, her eyes dilated, and she shivered.

“You ignorant, blind prat,” he whispered to himself, his eyes snapping open. That was desire in her eyes, no “ew” about it. He grinned in delight and was immediately knocked to the ground by two chattering ladies who paid no attention to the tall man blocking the escalator. He helped gather their scattered packages, assured them of his continued good health, and made his way to the salon with a decided bounce in his step.

Giles’ good cheer was such that the manicurist found him quite the handful.

* * *