Buffy and Giles ReVamp'd / Life Goes On

CHAPTER TWELVE Looking Toward Home

Dawn! We're leaving. . .now!

Giles instinctively cringed, his ears ringing in response to the thunderous bellow that his slayer had released.

She'll be out in about five minutes, Buffy announced, taking the seat next to where Giles was standing at the kitchen counter. They were in her apartment, waiting for Dawn to come out of the bedroom.

Explain to me again, why your sister is coming with us? the Brit grumbled when his hearing had finally returned.

Giles, you know I don't like leaving her here alone all day, she replied.

And this has absolutely nothing to do with me promising to take you out to breakfast?

You know what they say. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Especially since I am the one who will be paying for it, he frowned with a challenging glower. Dawn is a teenager. She is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Why, at her age you were running about doing all sort of ungodly things.

Which is why I know better than to leave her here alone on her own recognizance.

The Brit sighed. Buffy had a good point. Perhaps it was best that Dawn have some sort of supervision. There was no telling what sort of trouble she could make for herself. As he sighed once again, a new thought came to him.

She needn't be alone, he helpfully offered. You could ask Willow to keep her company.

Willow is coming with us, Buffy said, dismissing the idea.

She's what? Giles felt his will to argue deflate. Fine, fine. And I suppose Kennedy will be riding along as well.

No. She's meeting up with some of the other slayers later. They're going to have a girl-bonding moviepalooza. Kennedy's a no show.

Thank the gods for that, Giles mumbled under his breath.

Hmmmm, did you say something?

Nothing.

Something in his voice alerted Buffy. She burned a dubious squint in her Watcher's direction, which he returned with an innocent smile that she didn't believe at all. But Giles wasn't caving under the assault of her glare, and she abandoned the attack, turning instead to a new subject.

What did Mrs. Callaway tell you about this new property? she asked.

Not that much, actually, Giles returned. She said that it was very different from other places we've seen, and that it ticked off every one of my 'must haves'.

What does it look like?

Giles shrugged. I don't know. There wasn't a picture with the listing she e-mailed to me. There really wasn't much information included in the packet. Now what? You're displeased because there isn't a photograph?

Uh, duh, yeah! Don't you know your realty codes? No photo means the place looks uber-bad.

Then again, it could mean nothing other than there isn't a photo available, he argued.

No, it's definitely code, she countered. You know, like 'plenty of charm' means old, 'cozy' means small, or 'needs work' means it's an uninhabitable dump. Giles, what is it? You look like you've got a tummy ache.

Mrs. Callaway did mention the house could use a little work.

Great! she groaned. Maybe we should be stop after breakfast and pick up off to pick up rubber gloves for everyone and a couple cans of insect killer.

I doubt it will as bad as all that, Giles returned, though he was beginning to have a few doubts of his own.

A little more practice and you might actually sound convincing, she quipped, picking up on the Watcher's fear.

Dawn chose that moment to pop into the room. She was bubbly and excited, two states of emotion that she seldom displayed at such an early hour in the day.

I'm ready, the teen announced as if that were the only thing that mattered. Can we go now? I'm starving.

With a resigned exhale, Buffy dismounted her stool. Her sister was already on her way toward the door, and she gave Giles a firm nudge, urging him to follow.

Come on, Mr. Property Mogul she ordered, pushing him forward. I guess we should see what this dream house of yours looks like, before Mrs. Callaway sells it to some other sucker.

The house hunting parade moved its way out to the parking lot. Stopping off at Willow's door, Buffy knocked, letting her friend know they were ready to go. The red head quickly joined them, and together the foursome made their way to Giles' car.

A brief discussion decided the seating arrangements. Willow and Dawn got into the back, while Buffy settled into the front beside Giles. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Buffy spent a few minutes looking through the folder Mrs. Callaway had given them several weeks earlier.

There were dozens of pages in the package now, and Giles seemed no closer to finding a home than when he had started. Mrs. Callaway had been very thorough in her selections, showing the Brit a variety of buildings. They had seen commercial properties, warehouses and retail space. There were houses of every size and architectural style. Some places required only slight alterations. Others would take extensive renovating before they would suit the specific requirements for either Giles' house or Buffy's school.

It had been an exhausting search, and Buffy had been there at her Watcher's side, walking up countless flights of stairs, trooping through room upon room. Many of the viewings managed to come close to Giles' list of requirements, yet none quite fit, missing one or more important aspect. Their quarry proved elusive, yet Mrs. Callaway continued to gamely rise to her mission, presenting alternatives ranging from mediocre to unsatisfactory, until Giles and Buffy thought they had walked through every place there was for sale, at least within the five top cities upon which they had agreed to confine their quest.

For a quest it truly was. One of epic proportion. With Buffy riding shotgun in the passenger seat beside him, and one or another of the Scoobies often in tow, Giles gamely continued his sojourn into the real estate world. Today it was Willow and Dawn in the guest starring roles. Giles did his best to humor his slayer, enduring the teen's unending prattle, fighting to lose neither his concentration or patience throughout the ordeal of breakfast at the local pancake house.

Fortified by warm starchy goodness drenched in copious calories of sugared syrup, the foursome once again took to the road, Mrs. Callaway's directions in hand. Buffy played navigator, directing Giles through every turn, and past each landmark as he drove. They were in Westcliffe, a town with which Dawn was marginally familiar, having spent the last few weeks riding the school bus though its streets. It was also the area topping Buffy's Most Desired list. According to Willow's research, Westcliffe had the best high school to college matriculation rate, a fact that Buffy found extremely encouraging.

Okay, we are now on Elm Drive, Buffy informed the group as they passed a convenient street sign. Heading, what? she asked, looking to her Watcher for confirmation. That's the sun rising behind us, so west would be out in front of us. Right?

Correct, Giles nodded. Of course, you could have simply looked at the dashboard compass in front of you and discerned the very same thing.

We've been driving for like an hour already, Dawn's voiced petulantly complained from the back seat. Where is this place anyway? Are we even still in Westcliffe?

Buffy consulted the paper detailing Mrs. Callaway's directions, her eyes squinting as she tried to read Giles' small handwriting. According to this, we're right where we're supposed to be. We should be coming up on it pretty soon now. The address is 1313 Raven Heights Extension. She chuckled, tossing her next comment out to the rear seat. I wonder if that's anywhere near Mockingbird Lane.

Willow giggled, joining in on her friend's joke. The response caused Giles to cast a bewildered glance toward Buffy. And there is some significance to this particular address?

No significance, she replied, choking back a titter. Giles frowned, and pursued the line of questioning further.

When I mentioned the address to Xander, he seemed to find some perverse humor in the listing as well, the dubious Brit remarked.

I'm guessing they didn't have the Munsters in Britain, Willow snickered.

I'll explain later, Buffy smiled in response to Giles' further confusion.

I think this is our turn, Willow suddenly interjected. Didn't the directions say second left after Broad Street?

Buffy confirmed with another consultation of the paper in her hands. Second left. Past Windmere Lane and. . .there it is. Raven Heights. Right on cue, where it belongs.

Giles deftly steered the car onto a tree lined avenue, slowing his speed to accommodate the residential demands. They had entered a quiet neighborhood of middle income family homes. The road wound leisurely along, the distance between ever enlarging houses quickly increasing. Soon they were seeing mansions and estates with professionally landscaped yards, some veritable horticultural marvels of a size more familiar to public parks than private properties.

Uh, Giles? Buffy gaped as they rolled by a particularly magnificent grouping of palm trees. Are you sure we're in the right part of town? This looks like a pretty pricey neighborhood. Even with the assets from the Magic Shop and your insurance, I don't think you've got enough money to live here.

Mrs. Callaway did say the place could do with a bit of fixing up, Giles reminded her.

Look! Dawn leaned forward, her hand shooting out between them, pointing out something off in the distance. Buffy frowned. All she could see was a well landscaped expanse of endless yard in front of a mansion of incredible beauty, just like the last dozen or so they had passed. And there, Dawn continued excitedly. Between the trees. I think that's the ocean!

She's right, Willow squealed, catching the teen's enthusiasm. Mrs. Calloway didn't say anything about the house being on the beach, did she? 'Cause, that would be so cool!

There was no mention of beaches. Or water of any kind, Giles reiterated. His apprehension about the listing's price continued to escalate, becoming genuine concern.

You don't seem very excited, Buffy said, noting the Watcher's uncomfortably pursed lips. Is it the astronomical price of possible beach front property, or are you hydrophobic, and just don't like being near water in general? Which would be weird, you living here in California near the coast. You do know how to swim, don't you?

Giles ignored the last question, concentrating on the first. She promised the house was within my budget, he countered with a troubled grumble. Though I'm not quite sure that we agree on what that means exactly. Realtors apparently have an unrealistic notion about finances, especially when said monies and subsequent debt belong to someone else.

They were soon going to run out of street. A sign warned of the road's end somewhere up ahead. Slowing his progress, Giles and his passengers diligently scanned for a sign or marker that would tell them they were in the right vicinity. A copious stand of trees veiled the roadside's edge, hiding any properties lying beyond. The occasional glimpse of a lofty stone wall showed through an overgrowth of vines and unruly shrubbery, the unkempt foliage clambering along the rough surface, and creating a formidable barrier to curious eyes. To Buffy, it was like an illustration she remembered from a children's book, though she doubted Sleeping Beauty's castle awaited on the other side.

They almost drove past the entrance. It was Dawn who at the last second noticed an address number beneath the snarl of vines.

There! she screamed. Giles's jammed on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt halt. Four pairs of eyes stared as the vehicle's engine idled, each regarding the gap in the hedge with varying degrees of concern.

This is it? Giles spoke first, his voice breaking upward a half octave in tone. This blighted ruin? There must be some mistake,” he winced, turning hopefully toward his slayer. “Perhaps you read the directions incorrectly. Surely, this can't be the place.

It's the place alright, Buffy grimaced, her nose wrinkling with her own doubts. The house numbers match up, and everything, and. . . look. There's the For Sale sign, she pointed out a barely visible placard amongst the tangled mass of growth.

Maybe it's someone else's sign, Dawn offered hopefully. There could be more than one house for sale on a street, right? We must have passed at least three others on the way here. Maybe one of those was Giles' house.

I don't think it matters whose sign it is, Willow frowned. From what I understand, an agency can sell anyone's property, not just their own. They just have to share the commission. Besides, that sign has the logo from Giles' agency on it, and the lady in the picture looks like Mrs. Callaway.

You did tell her you need to actually live in this house? Buffy queried her Watcher pointedly. She doesn't think you're buying it to open some Haunted Halloween amusement park?

I vote we turn around right now, Dawn worriedly suggested. We could pretend we got lost. Or that we couldn't find the place.

Sounds like a perfectly believable excuse to me, Willow quickly seconded.

Giles sighed, the sound reconciled to his promise to meet up with his agent. No, no, he wearily intoned, his voice of adult reason rearing its influence. I at least owe the woman the courtesy of letting her know. . .

That she's insane?/ Buffy jumped in to finish for him. She met his scowling glare with a resigned sigh of her own. Fine. Do it your way. Just don't expect any sympathy when you crumble under her formidable powers of salesmanship wiles, and sign over what's left of your forever to be miserable life on some money pit.

I would hope my experience in retail offers me some modicum of protection from a simple sales pitch, the Watcher growled back.

Easing the car forward again, Giles turned into the driveway. Someone had made a feeble attempt to hack away the gnarled foliage, revealing the long curculios tree-line path. Giles drove slowly, and after a few dozen yards, the shady canopy suddenly gave way, opening upon a surprisingly large front yard, replete with extensive gardens and trees. The lawns were brown, and in desperate need of mowing. A profusion of weeds invaded every flower garden, choking out most of the color in the neglected beds. The entire landscape was in sad disarray, and yet an occasional hint of it former grandeur would arise in a spot of brilliant color, sprouting up seemingly from nowhere.

Whoa! Get a load of the house!

Dawn's announcement directed their attention toward the structure looming at the end of a long and circular driveway. Dominating the property was an immense house built in an Arts and Crafts design. It was not alone, either. The main structure was partnered by an equally gigantic garage, and the promising glimpse of several additional outbuildings lurking in the distance.

Somehow, the word honking enormous doesn't quite sum things up, Buffy breathed in awe, her eyes wide as they gaped at the mammoth expanse of house.

Technically, that would be two words, Giles corrected, but he was equally daunted by what he was seeing.

In its day, the home had been a grand place, and had undoubtedly sheltered some wealthy family from a bygone era past. Westcliffe's colorful history was rife with such dynastic lineages. These ambitious citizens amassed fortunes during the early nineteen hundreds, and their opulent lifestyle had fueled a creative boom in construction, leaving behind many impressive estates that had stood through the ages. Their generosity was also responsible for a legacy of parks, public buildings, and an extensive downtown shopping community, replete with a multitude of restaurants and businesses, all currently enjoying a new wave of revival, all key points that had led the Scooby gang to explore the town as a possible place to resettle.

As times and tastes changed over the century, many of those original family empires began to relocate their wealth, moving on to other larger, more modern cities. Their antiquated homes began to fall out of favor. They were simply too large, and too expensive for the average citizen to maintain. Over the decades, fires, earthquakes, and time slowly took their toll, as did a life-style trend in converting over large buildings into condos. In spite of a gradual decay due to society's, and their owner's neglect, there still remained a goodly supply of these large mansions available for purchase, especially in the town's coastal neighborhoods.

Fortunately, there had been a turn in the recent decade, and many of those surviving homesteads began to benefit from revitalization. A new wave of wealth arrived in Westcliffe. The town became a place for the wealthy to escape the big cities. Here they could enjoy the more leisurely pace of a second summer home within a community that was willing to provide nearly every amenity to which they had grown accustomed to, but without the penalty of higher taxes. It was a win win situation for both sides of the equation. Those that had money got all they wanted from those with ambition enough to sell and service in the hopes of someday achieving that same exalted status for themselves.

Because of this new trend toward the business elite, the old dowager homes of Westcliffe once again began to prosper again, as did the entire community. One only need to drive along the coast to see proof of this turnaround. Once stately houses received the construction equivalent of tummy tucks and face lifts. However, this particular home on Raven Heights Extension showed little sign it was touched by that rejuvenating trend. The exterior shingles were weathered, and peeling paint flaked in large, shaggy patches from the trim work. Layers of thick grime touched every window, shielding the interior from curious eyes, and a section of eaves had begun to pull away from the roof. Still, the ridge didn't sag, and all the decorative timber pieces remained intact, keeping the integrity of the original architectural style's pure essence. Nor was there any telltale sign of failure in the rock foundation, a fact Giles didn't fail to notice.

Braking the car to a stop, the Watcher allowed his gaze to take in the house before him. Though it encompassed two levels of living, it seemed grounded and solid with its horizontal presence. A second story porch on one elevation simply begged one to sit, relax, and enjoy the outdoors, while a massive ground level terrace wrapped around to one side and did much the same. There were plenty of windows, several interesting roof lines, and a wide double entry inviting the curious to enter. In all, it had once been a veritable mansion of opulent construction, whose history undoubtedly was once worthy of an equally notable and pretentious owner.

After a quiet moment of reflection, Giles managed to find his voice.

I can't afford this, he despairingly frowned. There's no possible way that this. . .this monstrous absurdity could be within my means.

Mrs. Callaway did mention there was always some wiggle room in the price, Buffy considerately reminded him.

It's going to take a lot more than a wiggle to buy this place, Willow added. We're talking some definite waggle needed here. Maybe even a shimmy or two thrown in for good measure.

It's got a chimney! Dawn said, looking on the positive side. She alone seemed excited by the dilapidated mansion before therm, her youthful vision seeming oblivious to the home's decayed and worn exterior. A chimney means a fireplace. At least Giles will have someplace to hang his stocking.

I would prefer/ a well appointed laundry, Giles returned dryly. Hopefully one that includes a dryer indoors.

I was talking about your Christmas stocking, the teen snorted reproachfully. Not the smelly feet kind. She could never tell if the Brit were being serious, or simply making another lame attempt at humor. As far as she was concerned, both usually fell flat of their intended purpose.

I'm not sure Giles is into Christmas chimneys, Buffy admonished her younger sibling's enthusiasm. He's more the 'Read and Relax with His Books Beside the Roaring Flames with a Cup of Tea' kind of fireplace guy.

I enjoy the holidays, Giles returned defensively. Though relaxing near a fire does sound absolutely lovely, he added with a wistful note in his voice.

This place looks really old. Willow said, voicing her own concern with the home's sorry exterior. It's probably not built to any safety codes. You are going to have them do an inspection before you move in? she anxiously inquired.

Giles glanced over his shoulder at the red head in the back seat. Perhaps we should view the house first,<.q> he brusquely countered. Preferably before you people have me move in.

A figure stepping forward from the shady recesses of the porch entry caught the gang's collective attention. It was Mrs. Callaway, Giles' realtor. She was directing a vigorous wave in the car's direction as she scampered across the front patio. Buffy could see she was already in full game face, not to mention having locked and loaded all her major feminine assets in preparation of delivering her latest pitch to her gullible client.

Whoa! Who's the bimbo with the big gazangas? Dawn giggled from the back seat.

That would be Mrs. Callaway, Buffy grumbled crankily, answering her sister.

Giles' new girlfriend? the teen remarked with a irreverent snicker.

The Watcher snorted an exasperated protest. She is not my. . .

His remonstration dissolved into a sputter as Mrs. Calloway appeared larger than life beside his window. Buffy noted she was panting from the exertion of her short run. Guess those magnificent bosoms weigh heavily on the lungs, and make breathing a problem, the slayer gleefully noted with a secretive grin. Too bad. Can't expect to catch a man if you can't run after him, and Giles jogs, so you're just going to have to set your sights on someone else!

Mrs. Calloway gestured excitedly, motioning for Giles to join her outside of the vehicle on the driveway. Exhaling a lengthy sigh of resignation, the Brit killed the ignition, and putting on a pleasant smile, he opened the car door and slipped out from behind the wheel.

Mrs. Callaway, he politely greeted the realtor.

Mr. Giles!

A coquettish lilt sang in the realtor's voice, her smile simultaneously personable and predatory. Placing a hand boldly on Giles' shoulder, she leaned in for an air kiss. Buffy saw her Watcher unconsciously stiffen, preparing for the uninvited and overly touchy attack on his personal space. The follow through kiss, however, never happened. A look of disappointment briefly fell over the realtor's smiling features, her bright demeanor faltering as the remaining car doors suddenly sprang open, and disgorged the car's three additional passengers.

And you brought Miss Summers and Rosenberg with you, she woodenly backpedaled. Her gaze fell upon the third girl, a new face in the forever-growing crowd that seemed to follow her client everywhere. And this young lady would be?

My sister, Dawn, Buffy said, making introductions. School's out, so we drug her along.

How nice, Mrs. Calloway said, forcing a smile. Her expression was less than convincing. It was the realtor's experience that friends seldom were helpful. Their opinions were never in agreement, and their presence usually meant increased work on her part. They only served to confuse her clients, and more often than not induced bouts of cold feet and stagnant indecision.

Nevertheless, a sale was a commission, so she bolstered her will, and with her best beaming smile, bravely soldiered on with her pitch.

Well, as I told you this morning. . . she said, directing her comment to Giles while herding the entire group toward the home. This house is what we call a short sale. That's when the bank agrees to allow the owner to sell for less than the debt secured against the property. Now, while the seller may accept a deal within a reasonable time, banks are notorious for dragging their part out. I've had clients that had to wait five, six months for an answer. However, she encouraged, seeing Giles' hesitation at that news. Before you decide to walk away, let me tell you a few important facts about the property.

In its current configuration, we have six bedrooms. Now, I know you only asked for two, she said, noting the Brit's concerned look. But I'm sure you can find another use for the additional space. You might want to put up a guest for the night. Would you have family visiting overseas from England? No? Then maybe a client? Or a friend?

Of course, you could always offer your partner her own office, she added with a curt nod toward Buffy. And lots of my clients use their spare rooms to set up a home gym. Her eyes longingly scanned the Brit's physique, expertly reading through the bulk of his suit. A reasonable outlay of cash for some equipment, and you could skip all those long lines waiting for the treadmill to free up. And I'm sure you could find something better to do with all the time you save there.

Seeing the overt ogle the realtor sent Giles' way, Dawn began to giggle uncontrolably. Meanwhile, Willow and Buffy shared an exasperated roll of their eyes at the older woman's shameless interest in the Watcher, who had the good grace to blush under what was becoming an uncomfortable moment.

She guided the foursome up onto the terrace porch. Ushering them firmly toward the front door, she continued with her seemingly inexhaustible spiel. She didn't lack for words of praise where it concerned the house.

The present owner did some work on the lower level. He spared no expense doing over the master bath. I think you'll be very pleased when you see what he did, she informed the Brit. They had reached the tall, double entry, and she paused, her hand lingering on the latch a moment. But I really should let the house speak for itself, she said, and with a dramatic flourish, she flung open the door, gesturing for them all to enter.

Buffy wasn't falling for the woman's pitch. From what I can see, you might want to gag it before it decides to speak, Buffy muttered under her breath.

Giles' Watcher ears, keenly attuned to his slayer's voice, heard every word of the disparaging comment. Immediately, he shot a disapproving glare her direction, his stern countenance telegraphing a clear warning to behave, which she answered with an innocent, wordless shrug.

And don't let the short sale process scare you, Mrs. Callaway obliviously continued, following the gang over the front threshold. I have an inside ear with someone at the bank, and can tell you that not only is the current owner motivated to sell, but the bank really wants to get this place off its books. I smell a great deal for you!

I hope that deal smells a lot better than this house. Willow said, her nose wrinkling in response to the assaulting odor. They had filed into the front hall, only to have a stale, musty smell overpower their senses. As with the more successful salespeople in her profession, the realtor had a solution for every negative contingency, and offered hers freely.

The house has been closed for a while, Mrs. Calloway explained, shutting the front door behind them. Open a few windows, let in the breeze, it'll freshen things up in no time.

In Fiona Calloway's business philosophy, selling a house was a series of steps. First, get the client to agree to see the property. Second, walk them through the front door. These were two more difficult goals in her process. Once inside, if she managed to close the door, she knew they were committed to the viewing. At that point, the rest of her work was a downhill walk in the park.

Launching into her spiel, the realtor began emphasizing the various strong points of the home. She led the group through a wide opening to their left, and entered the main living area, a room that stretched a good thirty plus feet from front to back, and was nearly as wide. An oversized window overlooked the front lawn, barely visible through the filth coating the glass. About mid-room was a wood and tile fireplace, anchored by a thick mantle wrought in a heavily grained oak, while to either side were built-in bookcases of the same rich wood. A coffered ceiling overhead lent the room a formal, distinguished air, as did the wide-plank flooring which bore evidence of heavy foot traffic, though the home was obviously empty, and appeared to have been so for some time.

This room is huge, Dawn understated with awe. She did several slow spins, moving across the room, her arms extended to demonstrate the vastness of the space around her. Coming to a stop next to the fireplace, the teen wrinkled her nose in imitation of Willow's earlier expression. I think that smell is coming from the chimney, she announced, leaning forward to peer cautiously up into the structure's darkened interior. Immediately, she recoiled, waving a hand vigorously before her face in an attempt to dissipate the odor lingering in the air. Pee-yew! Something must've died up there!

We recommend you have these things inspected and cleaned before you start any fires, Mrs. Callaway informed Giles, flashing him another smile. Can't you just imagine yourself sitting here on a cool evening? The scent of burning wood in the air. . .

The suffocating smoke filling the room, Buffy muttered sardonically under her breath. She received another censorious glare from the Brit, which she shrugged away with a sweet smile.

This home has also has a secondary living space, the realtor continued, oblivious of the silent exchange passing between the Watcher and his slayer. Indicating everyone should follow, she passed through the broad arch at the rear of the living room, leading the way into next great empty space.

If there was anything Fiona Callaway had discovered in her years of showing homes, it was that a prospective client often failed to understand the potential of an unfurnished room. Since confusion could easily lead to a failed sale, the realtor was more than happy to offer up a few ideas to help her buyers see the vision, and this room was definitely one of those spaces she felt required an explanation.

I like to think of this area as a two for one special, Mrs. Calloway suggested, turning to talk over her shoulder. Her heels clicked loudly against the slate flooring underfoot as she waved toward the huge windows that compromised the forward corner of the room. Over here is your four-season sunroom. A few chairs, a table, and a bit of imagination, this could be a lovely place to sit and drink in the great outdoors. And once all these windows are clean, you'll have tons of natural light to enjoy! And back here. . .

Before anyone could truly appreciate the wondrous features hidden beneath layers of grime, she herded her charges toward the back two thirds of the spaciously empty room.

This area could be your media entertainment center, Mrs. Calloway explained. A large comfy sofa here, she said, gesturing in one direction. And your TV on that wall over there, she finished, indicating a blank expanse opposite. This would be the perfect place for watching movies, and all those exciting football games. Why, you'll be the envy of all your friends.

This last comment prompted a chorus of snickers from her fellow females.

You obviously don't know Giles, Dawn snorted, all to glad to point out the flaw in an adult's logic. He really isn't into TV. Mostly, he watches the news, and documentary type stuff. You know, anything that's boring. In fact, the last time we saw it, his TV set was only this big, the teen said, her hands demonstrating an entertainment system less than manly in its portable size. Not exactly sized for sharing with friends, if he even has any of those.

Gosh Giles, do you even watch sports? Willow curiously frowned, looking to her high school mentor.

We already know Giles doesn't do football, Buffy snipped, smugly rubbing in the realtor's lack of savvy when it came to Watchers. When Giles looked like he was about to protest, she hurried to cut him off. We're talking real football here, Giles. American style. Not that weird stuff you play over in England. He also doesn't do baseball, or hockey, or basketball. . . She ticked off the growing list on her fingers for the realtor's benefit.

It's not as though I don't approve of sports, Giles peevishly defended his manhood. In my university days, I was a decent enough rugby player. Even tried out for the team.

Tried out, huh? Dawn snickered, whispering behind her hand toward her companions. Sounds like guy code for I didn't have the right stuff to make it.

Giles fired off an indignant scowl at the trio of younger Scoobies. It came down to a choice. Whether to play, or to devote myself to my studies.

Guess we all know how that one played out, Dawn bitingly mumbled under her breath. At another glare from the Watcher, she snipped back with a defensive retort. What? Unless you're secretly hiding a few million adoring fans we don't know about, it’s not like you bent it like Beckman.

Pardon me for deciding my education would take me further than a few seasons of fleeting fame, the Brit pithily replied, his tone caustically acid.

Huffing a snooty sigh, Dawn interlocked her arms over her front, and raising a defiant chin, stalwartly stood her ground against the piqued Watcher's glower. An uncomfortable minute passed, and no one spoke during the generational stare down. Finally, the realtor tactfully picked up her pitch, and continued with her tour of the house.

Why don't we all check out the next room? she diplomatically suggested, waving the Scoobies on toward the next grand room.

The tour, and the commentary continued as they moved on to the dining room, which occupied the very center of the home's first story. True to form, Mrs. Callaway promptly began to point out the various features they all should note, such as access to the front hall entry, and plenty of space for large table.

Just think about the dinner parties you could have, she said, aiming her comment at Giles. All those wonderful holiday get togethers with your family and friends. . .