Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters are the property of their original owners.
“YOU BASTARDS!” roared Xander Harris while shaking an angry fist at the car making its getaway in a skidding turn at the street corner up ahead. The sound of screeching tires almost drowned out the raucous laughter and jeers of the bunch of college students from UC-Sunnydale crammed in the Jeep convertible now vanishing from sight. These departing guys had just successfully attacked their latest drive-by victim on this Halloween night.
Letting his upraised fist drop to his side, Xander twisted his neck to despondently look over his shoulder at the damage. Not that this teenager really needed to bother. The liquid now seeping throughout the back of his Army fatigues from neck to knee level, all due to the multiple impacts just seconds ago of numerous small white spheroids, told him well enough he’d been thoroughly egged.
A dripping Xander shambled towards the high school a couple of blocks further on, beginning to sourly regret his recent change of plans. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bright idea, heading straight there from home to wait at the library for Buffy and Wils in their escort duties tonight, instead of meeting his best friends at the Revello house. On the other hand, if those two girls had also been walking along with him, they might’ve been targeted too by those college jerks. In which case, Buffy would’ve definitely run down the fleeing car despite wearing what she’d earlier found in that costume shop where he'd bought his own outfit, some noblewoman’s opulent, floor-length gown.
Xander couldn’t help snickering to himself at the absurd image suddenly appearing in his mind. If this magnificent dress had actually been spoiled, there was no way the enraged Slayer clad in her egg-splattered dream costume could’ve been restrained from stomping a Jeep into lots of glass, plastic, and metal pieces. All while this vehicle’s terrified occupants watched in shock while a short blonde girl did the utterly impossible.
Fifteen minutes later, Xander’s mood had turned back into glumness. Standing inside the library storage room in just his socks and underwear, the young man hung up on a handy wall hook there a set of damp clothing. He’d just washed these clean in the room’s sink, and next wrung the green shirt and pants out over this basin as best as he could. However, there was no possible chance his fatigues were going to be dry enough in time for him to wear those clothes while taking the younger kids around town in their trick-or-treating.
Groaning under his breath at how much detention Snyder the troll was going to give him for not showing up dressed for Halloween, Xander turned away from his useless costume to dolefully eye the supply shelf at the other side of the small room. There, like the rest of the Scoobies, he’d started storing a spare set of clothes for those all-too-regular occasions when his current attire got seriously shredded and needed to be replaced after another fun-filled night on the Hellmouth. It was often much easier to simply stop by the unlocked and empty high school and change there rather than trudge all the way home in torn and demon-slimed jeans and Hawaiian shirts.
Reaching out towards a dilapidated card table set against the wall, Xander absently grabbed and then twirled in his fingers a pencil stub, which was the only thing he’d found in the pockets of the Army fatigues before beginning to clean these. Still holding this little piece of junk perhaps left behind by the previous wearer of that costume, Xander headed towards the supply shelf, ready to confess defeat and put on his spare pants and t-shirt.
An instant later, he stopped dead in his tracks. The most incredible inspiration had just burst into full-fledged existence in the mind of Xander Harris. Dazedly staring ahead in the distance while the pencil stub dangled from his fingers, the teenager’s mouth soon showed a very evil grin.
“What ho, old chap! By jove, you look decidedly spiffing, dash it all! I say, shall we be off to have tea with the Queen?”
It was just after those cheerful words spoken in a horrible imitation of a certain Briton’s accent that Xander totally lost it, guffawing at the top of his lungs. After a minute of so of his delighted merriment, the boy dressed in an Englishman’s tweed suit got himself somewhat under control. He still continued to smirk at his likeness in the corner mirror of the library storage room.
Doing a slow spin on the spot, Xander approvingly regarded the rotating reflection of him in Rupert Giles’ standby set of conservative clothing, every item of this which had just been gleefully appropriated by a much younger American to be worn as a Halloween costume.