“And Giles,” Xander said, winding up his improvised lecture on why Anya reminded him of tutti-frutti ice cream, that had expanded to cover everyone they knew, “is vanilla.”
He took a quick slurp of his rapidly melting chocolate fudge and nodded wisely, oblivious to his sudden acquisition of a moustache. “Not boring, no, just sort of bland.”
Spike, a silent observer, sighed. “Tell me, Harris; what’s two plus two?”
“Four?” Xander said cautiously, suspecting a trick.
“Nice to see there’s something you can get right,” Spike replied, stalking off.
Vanilla, his aching, well-whipped arse. Giles was clearly a passion fruit.
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