The Surprise Birthday Party
A Buffy: The Series Fanfic By Dianna
Disclaimer: The Characters in Buffy: The Vampire Slayer were created by Joss Whedon and are owned by him, Mutant Enemy, and Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred.
In short: I ain't making a cent on this and I'm writing it for fun. All hail Saint Joss!
“Okay, so, we need what else, Giles?” Buffy looked around Giles’ apartment. “Streamers, check. Chips, check, music, check, cake, check, friends,” she looked around the darkened room and smiled. Jenny, Willow, Oz, Buffy and Angel were sitting around his freshly-cleaned and cheerily-decorated apartment, each holding a drink. (though Giles admitted, his, Angel’s and Jenny’s were a bit stronger than the teens’ were.) “...check. All we need is the birthday boy!”
Giles put his arm around Jenny’s waist as she sipped her drink. “Tell me again why I let you talk me into this?” he murmured into her ear.
“Show you later.” she murmured. A Cheshire-Cat grin slid across her face.
“Don't be surprised when I take you up on that.” he smiled back at her, and let go. Jenny went into the kitchen and got the candles, and Giles went over to the coffee table to grab an hors d’oeurve.
Buffy lightly slapped his hand away from the chips. “Giles, wait until he gets here. He’d complain if you ate all the spicy Doritos!”
Giles grumbled a bit, but backed away from the chips. Buffy smiled up at him, and spontaneously, he ruffled her hair a bit. “Hey, old guy, watch the ‘do!” she grinned again, and attempted to ruffle his hair in return. Being short, however, she only managed to disrupt his glasses slightly. Rearranging them on his face, he said. “Then watch the spectacles, tiny.”
Oz and Willow snuggled together on the sofa, each holding a cup of steaming hot chocolate. Willow looked out the window, and saw Cordelia’s car pull up. “Guys! It’s time!!” She and Oz hid behind the sofa, Buffy snuck into the closet. “Angel, do that thing where you’re gone!” Willow said from her hiding spot. Angel disappeared into the shadows, and Jenny hid under the desk, right before Giles sat down at it. He said to no one in particular, “I wonder what she said to get him over here.”
“She doesn’t have to say anything to get him here. She drives.” Willow whispered.
“But how is she gonna get him into the house?” Oz asked.
Then they heard two voices arguing outside. “Cordelia, I very seriously *doubt* that Giles grabbed your notebook by mistake. It’s hot pink!!”
“Look, Harris, maybe he likes hot pink, okay?! Maybe he has a pink fetish in his sordid past! How do I know! Look, I saw him leave school with it. Before I could catch up to him, he left in that ridiculous little car of his! Just ring the damn doorbell, ‘kay?” Cordelia really was trying to get him inside the house quickly, Giles had to credit her that. “And then later I’ll give you your present...” she promised in a seductive tone.
“Cordelia...you’re insatiable.” he grinned. “I’m liking it.”
A muffled giggle came from the closet. “You have a dirty mind, Buffy!” Oz whispered.
“Yeah, well, no one knows what you two are doing behind that sofa!” she whispered back.
Willow chimed in. “And no one knows whether or not Angel’s in the closet with you!”
“But I think everyone knows what Xander’s present from Cordelia was...” Jenny stifled a laugh at Angel’s comment. He *was* in the closet with Buffy.
“And you two are playing ‘three minutes in the closet’, right?” she said from her hiding spot.
“Actually,” Buffy answered, “We’re playing doctor. And I know where *you’re* hiding, little miss under the desk, so -- ”
Giles blushed. “Buffy, Really!! Aren’t those two going to come up for air?”
“Xander...knock it off, all right? Ooooh...”
“All right -- hey! not the earlobes -- let’s get this notebook and go to my house.” Xander rang the doorbell.
Rolling his eyes, Giles got up and answered his door. “Xander, Cordelia. Come in.” He flicked on the lights, and everyone jumped out from their hiding places and yelled “SURPRISE!!”
Xander was so startled that he whipped out a cross from his back pocket.
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Coughing, not Speaking
Clair De Lune