It's seldom a good idea to let a really good brain lie idle for several hours.

Even worse, if it has had only trivia to bother with for weeks at a stretch.

Worst of all, is to take its owner for granted.

Rupert Giles shuffled the pile of trashy teenage magazines on the end of the coffee table in Buffy's living room for the umpteenth time and glanced at the clock. One thirty a.m. He wouldn't mind really. It was just that re-stocking at the Magic Box after a month of desperately slow business, thanks to Anya's bright idea of self-advertising merchandise let loose on the streets, was due to start at six with a rush delivery of live toads. The old ones had all been flattened, together with their pitiful miniature sandwich boards…

There was also the fact that sitting for Dawn hadn't got any easier since she'd discovered the half-written play script in his handwriting, in the bottom of a box of books being brought over from the apartment. It was all perfectly explainable. Experimental theatre had been all the rage at Oxford in the seventies. The death of Professor Tolkein, and dropping copious amounts of acid, had set free many a muse of Middle Earth, not his alone. Now Dawn had taken to whispering the phrase 'pervy hobbit sex' at odd moments whilst in his presence just to enjoy the reaction.

It was one thing to do this for his Slayer, to free her for her sacred duty. After all, Sacrifice was every Watcher's middle name, in fact he still had the deed poll, drawn up by the Council's lawyers, stashed somewhere. He'd managed to persuade Buffy and the others that the 'S' stood for 'Sebastian'.

Tonight, he knew Buffy *wasn't* patrolling. He had wondered since when did a sheer silk scarf top, lacking any visible means of support - not that he'd ever have dreamed of looking - and a sprayed-on leather pencil skirt constitute practical fighting attire, but experience had taught him it was better not to question these things. Catching her trying to hide a giant bottle of cream soda and jumbo bag of cheesy chips behind her back as she sidled out of the front door was answer enough in any case.

It was only the latest in a series of, well…impositions, to be frank. The whole gang was at it. In the first month after the awful loss of Joyce Summers, they had relied on their remaining grownup as a safe harbour in a choppy sea. It had been hard work, sorting out every little problem, trying to anticipate and alleviate every additional stress on their lives, bolstering their dented confidence, but it had been good to feel needed.There were times when he felt an unaccustomed surge of feeling welling up deep inside. Especially after Anya had begged him to taste test her new and improved Tex-Mex re-fried beans with extra chilli pizza, even before offering any to Xander.

Then things started to slip. Had it really been necessary for Tara and Willow to borrow the BMW to take their sick cat to the vet, four blocks from Tara's dorm? How did those furballs get in the glove compartment? Moreover, what on *earth* had they been feeding it? He'd never be able to drive with the hood up ever again. Buffy had bought him a cookery book for his birthday with all of her and Dawn's favourite recipes circled and 'No British Stuff' inscribed inside the front cover in fluorescent pink marker pen. As for Anya and, presumably, Xander, he was fairly sure that they were taking advantage of his relative ignorance of American labour laws by commandeering the training room at odd intervals during the working day and bolting it from the inside. His brow darkened as he remembered what he'd found hanging from the end of the pommel horse that afternoon.

Dawn's usual brand of music had left him with his usual brand of headache, and as the front door banged open, he winced. Bubbly voices filled the hall and then five bubbly twentysomethings overflowed into the living room.

"Giles, time to go home! You weren't sleeping in there, were you? I saw a demon and slayed it – at a party, even. Yay Buffy! Only, maybe it was really an actual penguin like Willow said, but the band drowned out the squawking, so no big. Can you take Mr Gordo to the drycleaners on your way to work? He fell into the garlic cheese dip."

"Why did you take a stuffed toy to…?"

"Giles, don't forget about the toads. You'll have to clean out the vivarium first because I didn't want to do it. We need two dozen copies of "Necromancy for Dummies" for the Psychic Fair next week, which I booked the Magic Box a two hundred dollar pitch at, but haven't told you about yet."

"Psychic…?Two hundred dollars? When is this, Anya?"

"April the first. It's a Sunday, but what's a lost half-day off, next to the chance to increase market share? By the way, I'll be in late tomorrow for some reason I haven't made up yet. Good night!"

April the first? Oh. Er, all right then, Anya. Good night, sleep well."

"Oh, I'm not going to sleep. That wouldn't be a good night at all. If you wanted to wish me good night you should say 'hope Xander lasts out for you'. But you enjoy *your* uninterrupted repose." She waved cheerfully as she set off with a red-faced but expectant boyfriend in tow.

//Thanks so much, Anya, for yet another reminder of the fact that I sleep alone, have done for I don't know how long and probably will do into the foreseeable future. Might have been in danger of forgetting, otherwise.//

Work. Sleep. Work. Help out the young people. Sleep. Train Slayer. Work. Repeat until death from boredom. There had to be more to life.

Somewhere in the backwaters of a really good brain, a primal force stirred.

//'Oi, Rupert, mate. Fancy a laugh? Get your own back on the oblivious little bastards.'

'A laugh at someone else's expense, hmm? Wee bit unethical, Ripper my lad.'

'Don't be such an old codger. Small stuff, nothing that can really hurt them. Dare you.'

'Old codger? Still young enough to best you, you cocky little thug.'

'Yeah? You and whose army? Go *on* Rupert. You know you want to…'

'Ohhhh…sod it. Why not?' //

"Are y-you okay, Mr Giles?" A pair of concerned blue eyes was studying his face thoughtfully.

"Thank you for asking, Tara, but I'm fine," Giles replied serenely as he rose from the couch, holding Mr Gordo at arm's length to avoid contact with his sweater, Someone had definitely overdone the garlic in that dip.

A week's grace, a day's plotting, an hour at the mall, and ten minutes at Mort's Pet Store in Main Street and he was all set. The Psychic Fair began at one and Anya was due to be setting up all morning. Perfect timing. All he had to do was wait for the calls.

"Giles? Giles! I've lost her! I promised to look after Miss Kitty while Tara's out of town and I came back and…look this is really weird, but there's this ginger cat in Tara's room and it's wearing Miss Kitty's collar, and she's *gone*!. It'll be catnappers, making fur coats for black and white art house movies, or…"

"Willow, what are you talking about? Tara's cat's always been ginger. Are you sure you're quite well…not been dabbling in any dubious magicks?"

"No! I mean, there was that one spell…but that's *so* not the point. Giles you *know* Miss Kitty's black and white. You saw her only last week."

Giles did a good imitation of his most patient and indulgent sigh. "Very funny, Willow. I'm sorry, I'm rather busy today, so…"

"I know, I know! I'll ring Tara. Wait, no, then she'll know I lost Miss Kitty. Think, Rosenberg…okay, mention the cat, nice and casual, get confirmation, avoid messy divorce with custody battle, get back to Giles, avoid being carted off to Nutsville, check. Call you right back."

Giles replaced the handset gently and sat back in his favourite chair, sipping from a tumbler of neat amber perfection and allowing a slight smile to play around his mouth. The phone trilled again. His Slayer sounded uncharacteristically tentative.

"It's Buffy. You are going to think I've lost my mind but… did you take Mr Gordo to my regular drycleaners?"

"Of course."

"No special finishes, funky fumes coming from the back of the store, warlocks hanging about disguised as frat guys bringing in their tuxedos?"

"Not that I recall, no. Buffy, is there a point to your questions?"

The audible sound of a hard swallow. "Yeah, there is. Mr Gordo has grown. He's… he's bigger."

"Grown? A stuffed pig? It might simply be a bit plumped up by the cleaning process. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure."

"No, Giles, listen to me. I really mean bigger. WAY bigger."

"How much bigger?"

"Let's just say that if I still wanted to snuggle with him late at night, about which I am so slaying you if you mention to anyone, ever, it would be me or him in the bed, but not both. He's five feet long and almost that around, Giles, but when you gave him back yesterday he seemed fine. What the hell is happening?"

"It *is* supposed to be a pig. Overeating?" Giles, valiantly trying to stifle an acute attack of the giggles, felt a camouflaging joke to be in order. Buffy was not amused.

"It's Hellmouthy badness, is what it is, and you know it. Break out the books, Watcher o' Mine. I need answers, pronto!"

//Yes, madam. Very good, madam.// " You're right, Buffy. I'll look into it straight away. Just watch out for anything untoward, um, *more* untoward, that is. The change in, er, Mr Gordo's size may be a mere prank by an amateur magician. But, bearing in mind that you *are* the Slayer, it's probable that the perpetrator is concealing something much more sinister."

"What?"

"Well, I don't know, obviously. He is concealing it."

There really was some excellent dialogue on that strange science fiction series Xander had made him sit through the other evening. He heard Buffy pause for a beat before she apparently decided it was coincidence and exhorted him to make every effort to solve the mystery.

He let them all stew for a hour or two and then prepared the piece de resistance, the unmasking of the fools. Calling the whole gang together at a little before midday, he surveyed the anxious faces in turn. He could tell that Willow had had no joy from her call to Tara; that Buffy fully expected Mr Gordo to be waddling his way down Main Street seeking to flatten her with demonised strength, and that Anya and Xander, hurrying over from the Oddfellows' Lodge, had no idea what could be so urgent as to warrant being called away from groping each other under the trestle tables.

Giles surveyed them all gravely over the tops of his spectacles, a hefty tome on the table in front of him. He retained an air of concentrated calm, but his ear was strained to catch the soft chimes of the grandfather clock in the corner. Before the hour, it would sound the quarter, half and three quarter all together, giving him his margin. Part of him felt a little giddy in anticipation: deplorably juvenile, no doubt, but still…

"It's important that you take what I am about to say very seriously. A stealthy power is at work, a spirit of mischief and vengeance. All my work so far brings me to this conclusion."

Buffy and Willow hung on his words. Anya and Xander exchanged a mystified glance.

"Willow, Buffy: would you mind just checking the front and back doors?" As they scuttled off, Giles casually reached into his trousers pocket, shook out a piece of fabric and started to polish his glasses. Anya really should wear something a little more practical than a turquoise silk and lace thong, he mused, as he gave the left lens a final brisk swipe, pocketed the garment again and looked up, the picture of innocent enquiry, into two open-mouthed faces.

"Something the matter?"

Xander gestured helplessly with a pointing finger. Giles looked to the side as if following the direction, and then cast a concerned eye on the lovers, who were engaged in a non-verbal tussle rather different from the ones they'd been having in Anya's breaks.

"Oh dear Lord. You two as well, it seems. This really is a bit of a pickle. Ah, ladies. All secure?"

The Slayer nodded, folded her arms and leaned against the counter.

"Locked up tighter than Spike's beach towel. Now spill, Giles. What are we up against?"

"I have the solution." He tapped the pages of the big book and cleared his throat as if preparing to read from it. Just as he opened his mouth, Anya finally snapped.

"Giles, empty your pockets!"

"I beg your pardon?" The precise shade of bewildered fluster was quite easy to calculate. It really helped to have an established persona one could rely on to confuse and deceive.

Anya stalked over to him and started trying to remove his jacket and explore where he might have hidden her very private property. "I know they're in here, and I want them back!"

"There's no time for silly games, Anya." Her hands were roving in some quite interesting places by now, but success depended, he had been taught at the Watchers' Academy, on ignoring even pleasant distractions. It was almost noon. Giles disentangled himself from his assistant, waited until he had the group's full attention, and prepared to deliver the… coup de grace.

"My source is in French, so you'll forgive me if I just give you the edited highlights and a rough translation."

Buffy fixed him with a warning glare. "I *won't* forgive you if you *don't*."

"You all seem to have been experiencing perceptual distortions: seeing things, altered memories, even small physical manifestations."

"Half an acre of pink plush? Small?"

"Buffy, please, let me finish. I alone of all of us have escaped its influence, for reasons that I hope are clear to you." He looked around at them, grunted in mock frustration at their lack of understanding, took off his glasses and reached into his back pocket again.

It made a nice change to be in control of this little herd for once; to be able to watch four jaws drop in perfect unison just by dint of a simple everyday gesture such as cleaning one's spectacles; but he could hear Tara's key in the back door lock in the midst of the utter silence, hear her creep in, wait in the wings for her cue. All good things (and some naughty, but nice, ones) must come to an end.

"The culprit is a common, seasonal creature active only once a year for the space of a few short hours. Uttering the creature's true name at just the right juncture breaks its hold. Its method…" he simulated reading from the text, "'Tendre un piege, et le dissimuler jusqu'a bout…"

Buffy tapped her foot. Willow frowned. They spoke at the same time.

"No forgiveness, Giles…"

"A trap? I don't…"

The chimes began. Tara stepped from behind the curtain, Miss Kitty in her arms.

"What's the magic word, then?" demanded Anya crossly.

"Poisson d'Avril," declared the trickster. " That ought to do it."

Willow, inattentive with relieved reunion, didn't catch it. The others, inattentive during French class, sought enlightenment from their ever reliable resource. Giles smiled smugly and just as the clock struck midday, gave it to them.

"April Fool."

END

March 24th 2004