Just kinda imagine that text up there is scrolling, 'k? I have no earthly idea how to do that trick. *g*
I know I'm late, but I live in a time zone of my very own, and I come bearing a ficlet so you'll forgive me, right? ::flutters eyelashes::
"Explain it to me again, if you would be so kind. Why exactly are we putting ourselves through this ignominious farce?"
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce shrugged awkwardly, and dumped the holdall he was carrying on the desk.
"Angel knows some people who know some people who..." He stopped. Frowned. Started again. "I owe Angel a favour and he owes..." His voice faded at the sight of Giles rolling his eyes heavenward.
"Look! It's not my fault! Let's just put on the clothes, put on the show, and then I can go back to LA, you can go back to your books and we never have to speak of this again." Giles blinked at him. "Please?"
Giles sighed and pulled the holdall towards him, unzipping it quickly as he nodded.
"Very well. I suppose there's... Good Lord!" He reached in and silently withdrew the leather pants, holding them at arm's length as though they might bite. Wesley fidgeted uncomfortably in the suit he'd dug out from the back of the closet to make this visit seem at least semi-official.
One brow on Giles' aristocratically chiselled face lifted in query and Wesley blushed.
"I find leather to be more... hardwearing, in the pursuit of rogue demons." He reached forward and snatched the pants from Giles' hand and the man immediately dug back into the bag and withdrew the matching jacket.
"Hardwearing, hmm?" The ever-present handkerchief came out and Giles' glasses were swiftly removed, polished and returned. "So, you are to be wearing head to foot leather. What, pray tell, is to be my costume?"
Wesley glanced fearfully at the seemingly empty bag and began to shuffle backwards, clutching the leather pants to his chest like a security blanket.
"Your... outfit is in the side compartment so it didn't get... snagged."
Each click of zipper teeth separating reverberated around the library and down Wesley's spine to his toes via his cock. He'd said this was a bad idea. He'd pleaded not to be sent back to Sunnydale like this. But Angel, or more precisely, Angel's contact, had insisted. His stomach clenched as one long-fingered hand slipped into the bag and withdrew a cellophane-wrapped pair of fishnet stockings, which were immediately dropped onto the desk.
The hand returned, faster now, and pulled out a neatly folded basque, matching suspenders and a string of pale, faux pearls.
Giles stared silently at his find, then lifted his head. Wesley spoke before he could take a breath.
"The stilettos are in the bottom of the bag. They're in your size. I tried to make sure they'll be as comfortable as possible, but..."
"I don't care whose bloody birthday gift this is, Wes. I'm not doing that again!"
(I've written this pairing precisely once - or is it twice? - before, both at the urging of literati, so any mistakes are her fault, okay? *g*)
Happy birthday darlin'. I hope it was a good one! *snogs*