[ The way she sits does interesting things to the hemline of the shirt she's wearing, riding it up around her hips while she hugs her leg to her chest, baring the insides of her thighs and making Giles very aware that she's only wearing underwear beneath it. He makes a conscious effort to avert his gaze, casting a silent prayer that he's not giving himself away, and tries to concentrate on lathering soap onto his face.

Buffy's commentary filters through, somehow; Giles makes an appropriately amused noise, staring at himself in the mirror. Is he imagining it, or are there more lines around his eyes? God, but he looks tired. And old.

He picks up his razor. ]

I'm sure they'll be able to offer you something, um, more appropriate. There seems to be no end to it all. I still haven't managed to catch whomever it is cleaning our rooms. I'm starting to wonder if the staff even exist, corporally speaking.

[ Relaxing into the shop talk and the routine of shaving, he drags the razor down his cheek, along his jaw, then rinses it under the faucet. Movements he could do in his sleep at this point: scrape, rinse, scrape. He continues as he does it: ]

I've heard that someone has made a map of sorts, of the house and the grounds. As much as one can when it's changing so often. I'll see if I can make a copy, then we should start investigating. In the meantime, it may be a good idea to keep your patrols.. circumspect, as much as possible. If there is anything here that wishes us harm, it wouldn't do to draw its attention until we have as much information as we can get.