Bananarama by Te April 2000 Disclaimers: See, it's good that they don't belong to me, because sometimes the meds don't work. Spoilers: The Giles scene in this week's ep. Ratings Note: Um... PG-13? Author's Note: I had a really good time with Linda tonight. A part of the Fruit Salad thingus, but since *I* don't remember what else was part of it, you don't have to, either. Acknowledgments: To and for the Cowshark, from whom all crackheadedness flows. * It had to happen. He knew it had to happen. Of things that happened, this thing had the highest level of had-to-ness that Xander had seen in years. Of course, the had-to-ness didn't make the happening any easier. Though Xander was reasonably sure there wasn't much out there that could make dreaming about having wild hot monkey sex with Giles any easier. And the thing was, it wasn't even really the *sex* part that was making things difficult. It was the combination of sex, wild, and hot, which somehow led to the both of them hooting and grunting like rhesus monkeys on their way to orgasm. There'd been no way to explain the "ook, ook, OOOOOOOOOK" part to Anya, so Xander had just used his handy morning erection the best way he knew how. He could handle being called Jungle Boy. Really, he could. Sure, Cheetah would've sounded cooler (at least until somebody asked), but he couldn't fault Anya for not being up on her early twentieth century pop culture. Some people might question the had-to-happen-ness of a wild, hot, monkey sex dream with Rupert Giles, but Xander was well-versed in the way of these things. If you ate burritos at the most disreputable Mexican restaurant you can find, you would later wind up in an enclosed space with the woman of your dreams. If you walked into a coffeehouse where the second most British man you knew was busily raising the free-estrogen levels by singing really well and also playing a guitar and also wearing leather and also an earring... the only possible result was a dream such as the one he'd had last night, which had included a flogging with what could only have been a banana peel. Well, Xander wasn't actually *sure* it had been a banana peel -- he'd been blindfolded -- but it made definite thematic sense. No, there'd been no way around it, as there had been no way around the dream about wild, hot sex, or the dream about hot sex, or the numerous dreams that had simply featured sex. The only question in Xander's mind was just how far he intended to let the adjective breeding go. What was the next logical step after wild, hot, monkey sex? Wild, hot, monkey sex on surfboards? Not likely. Xander knew his subconscious quite well, and it wasn't likely to be anything as normal as that. It was going to be wild, hot, monkey, BDSM sex, and then there'd be the cows, and the nuns, and his parents, and all of Giles' dead friends, and Anya, and lemon juice, and after that there'd just be no stopping it. In the end, there was only one thing he could do. * Giles was brooding. It wasn't a pouty Buffy brood, or a whiny Spike brood, or even a broody Angel brood. No, this was a brood a man could be proud of. A brood that spoke of unspeakable pasts, a brood that spoke of hard-won redemption and the eternity of temptation, a brood that went flying through a window to be replaced with the standard vaguely gay British brood when Giles realized that he had, in fact, stolen Angel's brood. Worst of all, vaguely gay British broods need constant refueling with literature that has absolutely nothing interesting and demon-y in it and Earl Grey tea and Giles hated Earl Grey tea. Gramma's Tummy Mint, now, *that* was a tea. Unfortunately, it's difficult to brood very well over Celestial Seasonings unless you are a lesbian, who are the only human beings on earth who can keep a straight face while doing so. He sighed heavily and got to business, not stopping until he was sweating bergamot and the steam had leached all color out of his face. At last, the stage was set for his brood: Standard Vaguely Gay British Brood #4: Have I made an arse out of myself? I wonder if suicide would be too tasteless. **NOTE: While this brood does -- on the face of it -- contain vast similarities to even heterosexual and non-British broods, the important thing to remember is that they spell ass a-r-s-e.** However, just as he was settling in to his largest and most uncomfortable chair, the doorbell rang. Giles waited. As soon as it rang the second time, he quickly ran through the 'Our Help, Who Art No Good' and answered it. And was confronted with the sight of Xander dressed in nothing but a loincloth and assorted fetching smudges. "Ah!" said Giles. "You've come to be my noble savage! Keen!" "Ook!" said Xander. "Oook ook ook OOOOK!" At which point Xander pounced with all the pounce his little near-naked body could muster and began ripping off Giles' clothes. Giles, for his part, mused on the terrible, terrible burden advanced cultures had to bear and helped as best he could with the strangely invigorating primative ritual. Later, he introduced Xander to the glories of a properly tied Windsor knot, but the attempt to instill shame met only with such an endearingly puzzled look Giles decided to throw another several rituals. Later than that, Giles slept easily behind his yards of mosquito netting. Xander's sleep was equally deep, curled happily as he was on the throw placed lovingly next to Giles' bed. Unfortunately, neither of them so much as stirred when the cows began gathering. End. ________________________________________________________ Try Opera Web Browser and e-mail at http://www.opera.com