Distribution: Feel free, as long as my name remains on it
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the words and I gain no profit. Characters belong to The Boss and co. (M.E.), and thank God they do, or I would have nothing to dream about
Originally posted on lj.
A/N: The exact words: "Jenny & Giles + pants" Came up in conversation about why Giles was scanning books on dragonyphoenix's journal on lj.
This fic has nothing to do with scanning books. It has everything to do with pants.
You're welcome.
"You Americans won't be satisfied until you've bastardised the entire English language, will you?" Giles dabbed frantically at the ever-blooming wine stain setting into his trouser leg.
Jenny's eyebrow quirked, "and here I thought you'd be pissed off because I doused you in red wine. No, you're going to attack my nationality." Her foot slipped from her shoe to slide across the carpet, bridging the gap between them. "It's a special kind of logic you've got going there, England." Her toe crept beneath the hem of his pant-leg, brushing against his ankle, then the bare skin of his cal—
"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" Giles leapt from his stool, blind infuriation consummate. Kicking the stool aside—his furniture was expendable, his rage was not—he strode towards Jenny, nostrils flaring. If he'd noticed the her game of footsie, he didn't show it.
"Woah, Rupert, could you breathe for a second?" She bit her lip, looking up at him through her lashes, the epitome of demure. "What's up? I mean, I can always wash your pants for—"
"Stop saying pants!"
The Technopagan's brow furrowed. "You're mad… because I said pants?"
His sigh was weighted with exasperation. "These" he motioned downwards, "are not pants."
Jenny smirked, "I hate to break it to you, Rupert, but yeah, they are."
Giles cracked. He pulled off his belt and yanked down the zip of his fly.
Oh my. If Jenny bit down any harder she's draw blood. But she was no blushing virgin—her smirk was that of a master seductress. "Rupert" she breathed, "what are you doing?"
"Proving a point." He shoved down the waistband of his trousers until it swung around his ankle, then, with a glint in his eye, he pointed to the black boxer shorts that lay hidden beneath. "These are pants." He met her gaze, dark and heated, and pointed to the all but discarded capris puddled at his feet, "those are trousers."
Between one moment and the next, Giles found himself flattened on the carpet, a very enthusiastic Jenny pinning him beneath her.
Both pants and trousers were soon long gone.
**
Hours later, when time came for them to part, Giles pulled on his trousers as he walked her to her car. But it was Jenny, as it happens, who left wearing the pants.