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The Tarakian Shredder demon was still coming apart in the air, its dust catching the moonlight as it settled across the headstones, when the full weight of what she'd done landed on Buffy all at once. Her Slayer senses hadn't come down yet — every nerve still humming. She swung the sword up over her shoulder and let it rest there.
They'd tracked the demon to the graveyard an hour ago—a mistake, as it turned out. The vampires had come out of nowhere, three of them, and suddenly it was four against however many of them there were. In the last few days, four bodies had turned up in the neighbourhood: one drained, one mauled, two that didn't fit either pattern. The inconsistency had muddied things. It was only after she'd gotten hold of a vampire the night before—and then killed him—that the picture had clarified. The demon wasn't hunting alone this time.
Through the slow-settling haze of demon dust, Giles's voice arrived as if from a great distance, quiet, and weighted with lassitude—and something that might, in a less composed man, have been disbelief. "Well, that was…unnecessarily thorough."
Buffy, knelt by a chipped marker, resting the sword -Giles’ sword - upright, then began brushing dirt from her favourite leather jacket. Her eyes lazily drifted up to her Watcher, which they often did after she bested an enemy - something along the lines of casual confidence oozing from her. “Giles, are you—” She froze. Her witty Slayer reflexes dissolving on her tongue, and the cockiness fell straight out of her body. ‘ERROR 404: TWEED NOT FOUND’ flashed through her mind.
The demon hadn’t finished him—it died to her sword first—but its last, flailing swipe had carved Giles’s shirt, trousers, and dignity into scraps that fluttered away in the night breeze, along with Buffy’s ability to string together a coherent sentence. There he stood among the crypts, clutching his glasses and covering his groin with one hand, his feet still clad in socks and shoes. Somehow, he looked simultaneously ridiculous and more alarmingly…fit.
Buffy’s mouth went dry. This was her Watcher. Her mentor. A tweed-wearing middle aged librarian, and yet, her gaze betrayed her. His briefs clung to him, the thin fabric slightly damp with sweat and dust, outlining far more than they concealed. Moonlight traced every line of his body with merciless clarity: the lean, corded muscle of his shoulders and arms, the unexpected breadth of his chest dusted with dark hair that gleamed faintly with perspiration. A faint trail of it disappeared beneath the waistband, drawing her gaze inexorably downward to the sharp cut of his hips and the powerful lines of his thighs. His skin looked warm, almost feverish against the chill night air. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, glistening path down the centre of his chest.
Buffy’s mouth went dry. Her heart slammed against her ribs, heavy and erratic, sending heat flooding through her veins and pooling low in her belly. The cool graveyard breeze ghosted over her own overheated skin, raising goosebumps, but it did nothing to quench the sudden, traitorous flush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks. This was Giles, could she be…attracted to Giles? No. No, God, no—this was wrong. And yet her pulse stuttered. Her eyes kept betraying her, drinking in the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, the subtle flex of muscle in his abdomen as he tried — and failed — to shield himself with one large hand.
“Buffy?” Giles asked, voice steady but edged with something awkward as he pushed up his glasses. “Did it catch you as well?” Funny really how his first concern was of her, and not of the fact that he was naked, in public, he really was ridiculous.
She forced her lips into a grin that probably looked more like a grimace, trying to pass off as unperturbed, and failing. “Nope! Totally fine. Everything’s—uh—great.” Her voice pitched three octaves higher and precariously quivered.
“Buffy,” Giles said quietly, almost gently. His gaze flicked down to her parted lips, then back up. “You’re staring.”
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Shame and arousal crashed through her in a searing wave. She jerked backward, nearly stumbling over a low headstone, her breath coming in short, useless bursts. She needed distance. A barrier. Somewhere to hide from her own ridiculous reactions. To be blind. She spotted Xander idly kicking through a pile of demon dust and practically flew to his side.
“Hey!” Xander yelped as Buffy flung herself against his back, peering past his shoulder in a gesture decidedly more shield than sleuth. He twisted around. “Buffy, what—?”
“I’m standing,” she mumbled muffled against his flannel, almost burrowing into his body with how hard she was pressing her face into him. “You’re, uh, blocking. Best blocker. Just…keep blocking.”
“Xander frowned, following her panicked gaze until he finally noticed Giles standing across from them in his underwear. He flinched back, eyes wide. A strangled noise, half-laugh, half-gasp, escaped his throat. “Whoa. Nice boxer briefs, G-man. Very…minimalist.
"Charmed, as ever, by your assistance, Xander," Giles muttered, folding his arms against the cold. "I don't suppose any of you might spare something for me to wear?"
Buffy pressed her face into Xander’s back. “Xander, shirt. Hoodie. Give him everything. Now.”
“I am not giving him all my clothes! Then I’m in my boxers—” Xander began, but began unzipping his oversized hoodie. He shot Buffy a dubious look. “Why are you using me as a human barricade?”
“The demon dust!” Buffy hissed. “It’s abrasive! It’s bad for pores! Just throw him the hoodie, Xander!”
Xander sighed, shrugged off his oversized hoodie and tossed it. Giles caught it one-handed. The motion pulled the waistband of his briefs lower for one torturous second, revealing the sharp V of his hips and a shadow of dark hair. Buffy’s breath hitched audibly. When the hoodie settled over him, it barely reached mid-thigh. The sight of his bare, powerful legs beneath the soft fabric somehow felt even more obscene than full nudity, he tugged the hem down, the motion doing nothing to hide the lingering outline beneath.
“Right. Well,” Giles cleared his throat, the hoodie doing little to cover his thighs. “If you’re finished cowering, Buffy, we should probably head home.”
Buffy cracked one eye, her cheeks flamed, and a loud, high-pitched ringing noises started to pulse in her ears. “Actually…” She edged backward, keeping Xander angled as a shield. “I think the graveyard’s—um—super safe tonight. I—I need to go home. And, uh, maybe bleach my eyes. Bye!” Without waiting, she sprinted for the gates, leaving Xander blinking and Giles shivering.
“Was it something I said?” Giles muttered more to himself than to Xander, glancing after her.
“Xander shook his head. “Don’t take it personally, Giles. I saw smoke coming out of her ears right before she bolted. Now let’s get you some pants before someone calls the cops.”