“Anyone would think you were a blushing virgin.”

“Anyone would think I have a modicum of decency and a civilized sense of modesty.”

Buffy rose from the fire they'd made after getting cleaned up, using tree branches and dry leaf litter…and the lighter Giles carried everywhere with him, and turned her jeans over on their makeshift drying rack.

Giles averted his eyes. Watching Buffy walk around in little more than a tank top and very brief, flimsy knickers was bad enough, but twice now she'd turned around, revealing quite innocently that there was even less in the back of them than the front. He wondered if it even occurred to her that he was a man, and not just a rather weathered British bookend or some such.

She turned around when she was done and shook her head at his obvious discomfiture.

“Oh, for God's sake, Giles. If this were Rio, you'd be seeing a lot more than this. We're going to be here, at least for a while, if not longer and there's no doctor, no emergency room…not even a jar of chaffing cream, so haul off those jeans and get them over here by the fire. You know if you were in charge of you, you'd make you take them off.”

They stared at each other for a moment, dazed by her creative logic and grammar… then Giles started to laugh. “You do know you're quite mad?”

“I'm warm and dry,” she shot back, her mouth threatening mutiny with every syllable. She managed to keep it to one giggle before her next statement. “And you're going to get jungle rot or something.” Then they were both laughing. “Oh, c'mon Giles. You have to take them off. I mean, I'm not getting dinner here, so we might as well have the show,” she suggested mischievously.

Giles, who had actually started to move, sat down again. “There will be no 'show'.”

Buffy sighed exasperatedly. “Anyone would think you didn't wear any underwear or something,” she growled, her eyes growing wide at the realization of what she'd just said. The grey saucers rose to look questioningly into his green ones.

He rolled them yet again and then cleared his throat expressively. “Of course I wear them. I just don't particularly want to model them for you.”

“Giles, I'm the Slayer, remember? If I want to see them, it won't take more than a couple of shakes of a Watcher's tail…”

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn't dare?” He realized too late that the word 'dare' should never, ever be used in conversation with Buffy.

“Buffy, I forbid you to…*Buffy*!”

Within seconds he was flat on his back, and his belt buckle was undone, the top button of his pants open. A flat black, satiny band of elastic across his abdomen confirmed the presence of some kind of underwear.

Buffy took a deep breath and drew the zipper down just as Giles got his second wind and tried to sit up. In a split second she'd shifted to grab the legs of the jeans, tipping him back on his back, and used her slayer strength to pull them clean off. In belayed deference to Giles, she resisted the temptation to do more than glance, or gloat, and instead turned immediately and went to arrange his pants on her improvised drying rack over the dwindling fire.

“Bugger it, Buffy!” he growled as he righted himself.

“I have to go get some more firewood,” she said without turning back to him. “Nice boxers, Giles.”

Red faced, Giles looked down at his small black boxer shorts. They were one of several pairs Anya had given him for Christmas over the last few years and his favourites: comfortable and well fitting, and they never rode up. By the time he looked up, Buffy was out of sight.

Well, now he was in the jungle alone, in his underwear, with Buffy. *Wonderful*. He wondered in passing if the others were looking for them yet. It was going to take the group a lot of work just to find those two demons again…provided they were able to actually ascertain what kind of demons they were. And those demons then had to actually know what the anomaly was…unless of course it was still there. His head started to hurt. There was no way the others were going to find them. He was almost certain the anomaly was unrelated to the Kymarath demons in any way other than dumb luck, and really, there was no way for Willow and Xander to ascertain the species of a random pair of demons he and Buffy happened to encounter whilst patrolling.

“Buffy? Is everything all right?” he called, unable to hear even her footfalls now, but reluctant to go striding around in his underwear.

No answer.

“Buffy? Where are you?” With Slayer hearing she should have heard him that time.

With a muttered oath, he got up and retrieved his damp boots from by the fire. One thing he was not going to do was go stomping around an alien forest in his bare feet. He stopped and turned slowly back to the fire. Buffy's sneakers were still there. Another, more strident, oath followed.

He found her, and her large bundle of firewood, sitting by a small tree examining her left foot.

“What have you done?”

Buffy looked up and Giles could see pain in her eyes. He went straight to her side and examined the foot himself, squinting in the failing light. The very large thorn was embedded deeply in the fleshy pad behind her big toe. He had nothing to extract it with. “Hang on to me, and expect this to hurt,” he told her, aware that in their situation they couldn't afford any infections.

“What? You're not going to amputate or something?” she demanded, clutching at his shoulder as he obscured the foot from her view.

“No I'm…” but the rest of his sentence was obscured by the shriek Buffy let out as he squeezed the area around the thorn quite mercilessly, until the sliver popped out like a cherry pit from a small rosy mouth, which then allowed him to carefully draw it right out of her foot. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Silence answered him. He turned, still cradling the now-bleeding foot. She was staring at him with ill concealed temper and distress.

“That hurt…a lot. Like it wasn't hurting before you touched it.”

“I am sorry, Buffy, but we can't afford to leave it in there to get infected. I did manage to get the whole thing out.”

“You could have told me what you were going to do instead of just…”

“Just what?” he asked, still checking the wound. “Just taking advantage of you? Extracting your thorn without your permission…?”

Buffy's gaze fell, riveting itself on a small, weird insect making its way laboriously through the leaf litter on the forest floor. The emphasis on the word 'permission' was not lost on her.

“I didn't really think you were that kind of shy, Giles. I seriously doubt that Ripper would mind if he walked down the street naked, let alone in those cute little boxers...”

“Yes, well, I never said I was shy,” he growled. “It's simply a matter of personal space. I don't happen to be comfortable cavorting around in my underwear while you're likewise unclothed. It's not…it isn't…”

Buffy finally looked up. “It's not us,” she said fondly. “But it is us. It's like everything else. Whatever comes up, we deal. You got the thorn out because we can't afford an infection. What do you think sleeping in wet pants all night was going to get you?”

“Rather a lot of chaffing and probably a cold,” he admitted ruefully.

She looked down. He was kneeling, sitting on his calves. He had great thighs, pale as they were against the silky black of his underwear. And as hard as it was getting in this light to see anything now, she was well aware that his shorts were amply filled. She squashed the thought.

“Okay, so now I've seen yours, and you've seen mine. We're even. Let's get this stuff back to camp.”

Giles helped her to her feet then picked up her bundle of sticks, pausing when he straightened, to look at the bush she was sitting next to.

“You haven't eaten any of this fruit?” he demanded, picking several pieces of purple, vaguely plum-like fruit.

She shook her head. “If I'd known, I would have in a minute, if only to stop you from doing any more poison tests. Giles!” she shrieked, almost sounding like Dawn when temper met fear.

Giles swallowed the bite of sweet, sticky fruit and met her gaze. “Yes, Buffy?”

“I hope you get the runs…no, I hope you get it coming out of both ends,” she huffed. “Not only have you done it again…you got to eat first!”

Without further comment, Giles tied several more pieces of fruit in his shirtfront, handed her the sticks and then picked her up, so that she was forced to adjust her load swiftly and shift the bundle of fruit as she settled against his chest.

“Why are you carrying me? It was just a thorn,” she asked, ignoring the fact that her foot was still throbbing excruciatingly.

“It was a bloody big thorn and it left an open hole. Walking back through the filth on the forest floor is a lovely invitation to infection.”

She rolled her eyes. “And we can't afford any infections. Right.”

Buffy enjoyed the trip back more than she was ever going to let on to Giles. The warmth of his body, the sense of security and connection, was overwhelming. She'd been alone for far too long…ever since her mother's death, in fact. She closed her eyes against that revelation. Spike's face danced in her thoughts.

She'd been planning to see him for Valentine's Day. Just once more…just to… She didn't know how she felt about anything…much less an ensouled Spike. She knew that the vampire had made her care for him, whether she wanted to or not. She wanted…needed…to go out with him to find out if she was in denial again…if she really was in love with him and not willing to admit it. It scared her that she'd plunged so low during the last horrible year for want of him, and worse, that there was any possibility that she could still have feelings for him after…

Once, with Angel, was bad enough, but falling for another vampire…another dead guy…

What did that make her…?

She closed her eyes against the thought and burrowed her face into Giles' shirt again, letting the warmth and the soothing smell of him obliterate all other thoughts…

Above her, Giles looked down at the golden head. They weren't far from their fire now, and he was almost disappointed that he'd soon have to relinquish his load…though the sticks they'd been losing all the way back would not be missed, and he rather suspected that he was going to have to rinse his shirt and t-shirt at some point. There was a distinct stickiness in the area where he'd tied the fruit.

When they got back, the fire was little more than coals. Giles allowed Buffy to find her feet, or foot, before releasing her…very slowly…nearly as slowly as she let go of him.

“I'll see to the fire,” he said hoarsely.

She nodded silently as he took the remainder of the sticks and went to stir the fire back to life, and sat down.

It was getting darker. Buffy could see just enough to know that even though they'd cleared an area to sleep, they were still vulnerable to everything that walked or crawled in their little jungle and it was creeping her out. Demons and Vamps you could kill and they were gone…poisonous bugs or snakes and crawly things in the night…you had to see them before you could kill them…or before they killed you. Not that they were exactly equipped for any kind of defence against wild animals. All they had were the swords, the stakes and the bottle of Holy Water she was carrying when they came through the rift.

When Giles finally turned she could see that he'd prodded the fire into a decent burn again. He brought her pants.

“They seem to be dry enough to wear, although rather smoky.”

Buffy took them and smiled. “Cool. At least I won't be getting bit on my…um…are my sneakers dry?”

Giles waited until he turned to smile to himself. That she thought her lovely bottom was safe was probably a good thing. He'd get more sleep that way. He hadn't the heart to tell her that if something wanted to bite her enough it would simply crawl down or up as the case warranted, into her clothing to find its mark.

He examined the shoes. “Quite dry, except for the thickest part of the tongues.” When he turned to hand them to her, she was dressed again. He was chagrined to realize a part of him regretted that.

“Shoes with tongues,” she muttered, easing the sore foot into the second one. “Next there'll be socks with lips.” When it was done, she grinned. “Cool. My toes are no longer bite-y food.”

He half smiled. “How are your arms?”

She held them up for his inspection. He slid a finger over the skin of her forearm, tracing bites, and scratches from the sticks. Her body's responding shiver startled her. He seemed to hesitate for a microsecond when it happened, then continued his examination.

“There…there doesn't appear to have been any reaction beyond what you'd expect for the average mosquito bite. No burning, or nausea, or feverishness to speak of?”

Buffy shook her head. “None,” she attempted to say, but her voice had gone hoarse all of a sudden. “Nothing,” she repeated. “Y-you?”

He swallowed and dropped his arm to his side. “A few lumps and bumps here and there. I'm fine.” After a beat his brows drew together. “Starving, actually...and still thirsty. Dying for a good cup of tea, really…and absolutely not looking forward to sleeping on the ground tonight, but other than that…splendid.”

It worked. She was smiling again. That smile that said he was being a twit but that she loved it. She'd been doing that since she was sixteen…

“So, here it is, probably not much past six in the evening and all we can do is sleep?”

“Well, I suppose we could chat,” he offered half-heartedly.

Or there's the wacky notion that Buffy might not want to die of dehydration,” she added as the evening zephyr blew across the creek, making it smell like a hint of rain.

“Oh, good Lord, I-I'd forgotten. I'm sorry, Buffy, but form dictates that we wait until morning…a-although, one would think that if there was anything particularly nasty I should have been feeling some discomfort by now…”

“Duh,” she grumped.

When it became apparent she was going anyway, he helped her limp down to the bank and scooped his two hands, locked together, into the crystal clear water, raising them so that she could drink from them. It took several scoops for her to get enough, her lips moving over his cupped palms and drawing the water into her mouth. Giles vainly tried to ignore the sensation.

She straightened when she was done. “God, that was good.”

“Right, yes. Good. Hopefully we won't be fighting over the same bush in the morning,” he added, altogether too briskly. “Come on, we shouldn't hang about the bank at this time of night. Never know what might come down here to drink…or to hunt things that come down here to drink…”

He helped her back to the camp in silence, Buffy extremely aware of the strength of his arm around her and the warmth of his body. She was turning around in her mind the image of his long, hard legs and the way they disappeared into those shorts. There was also the image of him bending to pick up her shoes earlier, which she'd locked away for later consideration lest her reaction show on her face when he was talking to her. He was supposed to be old and…well…old. Old guys didn't have legs Xander would kill for, or a butt that wouldn't quit…

Okay, that's it. Giles' butt was…Giles' butt. Spike's ass was the one that wouldn't quit…quite the hard little…at least that's what she'd told herself back then, while trying to shut out the memory of Angel's cute, but considerably less…hard…one, or Riley's entirely too cherubic, pink one.

When Giles eased her down next to the fire and straightened again, she studied him properly. He'd taken his glasses off and stored them with his wallet and keys, in some rocks under one of the trees that bordered their copse.

*A Giles word, that: 'Copse'*. She sighed, letting her eyes wander up his long body, from his strong, narrow male feet up to his now slightly sunburned face. He really didn't look much like her Giles. He looked like a man…one put together pretty damned well…put together in a way that was making her have other than Slayer-y thoughts about her Watcher…extremely other. She mentally slapped herself, sure there was something really wrong with that, but not sure what it was. He was checking his jeans, and bending again to check his shoes.

A little groan left her lips, making her jump like a scared cat, but Giles didn't seem to have heard. It was ridiculous. He was Giles. Of the tea, the very old books and the even older tweed…well, sweaters and jeans these days…but still really old. Her brows came together.

“Who chooses your clothes?”

He half-turned, pulling on his almost-dry jeans. “I haven't bought any new clothes in years. What are you talking about?”

“Well that explains a lot,” she drawled. “You have the worst taste. Those old sweaters do nothing for you…and you so need to get some decent jeans for that b…for um…so you don't look so shabby all the time.”

He picked up his shoes and came towards her. “I'm shabby? Do I need to dress now to be of use to you?”

That was a little sharp. “I-I didn't mean…”

They looked at each other, Buffy wavering helplessly as the green eyes bore into hers. There was a lot more to that question than just a fashion discussion.

Then her expression hardened. “Does a reference to clothes have to mean something other than 'you need to do something to show off your goods a little more'?”

“My what?”

“You heard me. I happened to notice for the first time that you've got something decent to hang great clothes on, but all you ever wear are hand-me-downs.”

“I'll have you know those are all my own clothes…a-admittedly accumulated over many years a-and none of them new—”

“None of them are even from this century. You look…” She took a deep breath and plunged. “You look great, Giles. So why is it all I can ever remember is the shabby old professor look, or the 'look, I'm a business man, now' look? If it wasn't Watcher-tweed it was old sweaters or coats out of the ark.”