Title: Lolita
Author: Wednesday Adams
Email: nj_adams@hotmail.com
Rating: NC17
Paring: G/B
Spoilers: Season 5, Into The Woods - ish.
Feedback: I'm not going to beg. Okay, I will. (On my knees) Please, please, pretty please.
Distribution: Please ask.
Disclaimer: None of the characters depicted in this story are mine. Giles and Buffy belong to Joss Whedon. I'm just borrowing to have my wicked way. I'll give them a wipe down and put them back before he notices. Lolita, Dolly, Dolores & quotes belong to Vladimir Nabokov. I've borrowed those too. No copyright infringement or disrespect intended.
Dedication: This one is for Auntie Giles, who encouraged me to run with the idea and waved her tweed hanky from the sidelines. Thanks for believing in me.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. Look at this tangle of thorns."

-----

Giles found the book while he was clearing out the attic. He was riffling through a box of old papers when he spotted the garish sixties cover through a thick layer of dust. Lifting it from the pile, he wiped the front clean with his shirtsleeve and carried it through to the bedroom. The spine of the book cracked as opened the cover.

An inscription caught his eye.

"Rupert, be sure to read. I hope you like it. Bon Lisez, love Lolita."

Giles sat down on the bed and closed the book, resting it on the bedside table.

Dolly. He remembered the first time he saw her, leaning against the window of the local village shop. Swamped by the school uniform she was still growing into, unruly hair pulled back into two uneven plaits, socks, unmatched, the left sliding slowly down, as she absentmindedly rubbed the back of her shin with her toe.

"What yer doin'?"

The words squeezed out between sucks on her lolly. Her breath smelled of bubblegum.

"Nothing, just been to the library." Hard to believe he was only a year older. Twelve, going on thirty.

"Wanna come down the woods?" She flashed a sly grin. "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours?"

He blushed and mumbled something incomprehensible as he hurried past, her laughter chasing him down the street.

Giles shook his head slightly; surprised the feelings were still there, even after all this time.

Picking up the book again, he flicked through the yellowed pages, remembering odd snippets here and there. As he read, the slight sweet smell caught in his nose. Dusty, earthy, as if the bound papers were starting their slow disintegration back to mother nature. That was the beauty of books: the impermanence. The imprisoning of a thought, an idea, for a limited period of time, eventually relinquished. He didn't trust new technology; the arrogance made him uneasy. Fixing in the dye. Setting things in stone.

It didn't allow you to move on.

-----

Five years later, Dolly had grown into her given name, Dolores. Dolores was strong-minded, or 'willful' as it was called then, but someone had noticed her potential. Rupert came home from school for the summer holidays and found a packing trunk in the hallway, next to the old Grandfather clock. His father heard him arrive and called him into the study.

"Rupert, I want you to meet Dolores."

Rupert pretended he didn't remember her and thrust out an awkward hand.

"Hi, er, nice to meet you."

She took his hand and grinned.

"But we know each other already, don't we Rupert? And now, here you are, all grown up. And *so* handsome. Are you going to be a Watcher too, like your father? I've heard he's the best there is."

Her tone bordered on salacious. Once again, Rupert was reduced to an embarrassed stammer.

"Rupert, it's all right, Dolores knows all about us. The Council contacted her last week."

Giles Senior looked proudly at his new charge.

"We have a new Slayer."

------

Rupert had learned to box and fence at boarding school, but had never shown much interest, or promise. But when his father asked him to be Dolores' sparring partner, he rose to the challenge, throwing himself into their daily training sessions. He enjoyed both the discipline it gave his body and the opportunities it afforded his adolescent mind. The adrenaline ignited his imagination, like oxygen blowing across a naked flame. The glimpses of sweat-slicked flesh, a toned muscle here, a plump curve there, were fuel for his fire.

She knew the effect she had. And she loved to torment him. Every twist, every turn, was executed for maximum effect. The flick of her wrist, the drag of the fencing foil across his chest, running her hands through her hair when she removed her mask. She was the conductor of his symphony, building the tension with every thrust and parry.

He squirreled these images away carefully, tidbits to feast on later. Alone in his bedroom, he flicked through his mementos, as he thrust himself, desperate and guilt-ridden, into his sweaty palms.

-----

A year later, Rupert was on his way home after his first term at Oxford and in good spirits. He hadn't phoned ahead, wanting to savor the walk from the train station and save his parents to trip to collect him. The air was crisp and clean and the winter trees, stripped bare of their rusty autumn coats, were covered in the first kisses of frost. He stamped his feet as he stepped up to the front door, then turned his key in the lock and stepped inside.

"Hello?"

No one answered. Not a huge surprise. There was rarely a welcome party for his trips home. He could hear music coming from the library. Holst, "The Planets". His father always did have majestic tastes.

Rupert dropped his bags on the floor and stepped towards the rousing sound of strings and brass, making their assault on Saturn. As he put his hand on the door handle, he heard another noise that made him stop. A groaning noise. He paused. Perhaps Dolores was home and she was training? The thought of watching her, unawares, was too tempting, so he eased the door open as quietly as possible and peeked inside.

He couldn't see much. Just the nearest wall of the library, covered in dark paneled wood, and the far wall, obscured by shelves and shelves of books. The smell was distinctive: dark and sweet, tangled with his father's old tobacco smoke. He pushed the door a little further and saw the back of the well-worn leather armchair. The desk behind was covered with strange maps, torn and curling at the edges.

Suddenly, he noticed a movement from the chair. Dolores' head came into view, her face tilted towards him, her eyes closed. But she wasn't groaning. With a lurch, he realised that the sound was far deeper than she could ever make, and it was coming from beneath her.

Despite the cold, he was suddenly sweating. The thumping in his chest and the ticking of the clock drowned out the music and everything seemed to slow down. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick. Tock. Delores was rocking gently, forward and back, forward and back. The sweat was prickling in his palms. He felt sick, revolted, but he couldn't bring himself to turn away.

Then, to his horror, she opened her eyes. For a moment she looked startled, then she caught his gaze and held it. Smiling, she started to rock faster. The groaning from the chair got louder and Delores grinned wider and wider, bucking now against her anonymous paramour.

Rupert was mesmerized by the sight. He was swaying, almost rocking with her, knowing this was wrong, but unable to leave. The sounds grew more and more jagged and breathless, and then, as they rose to a strangled crescendo, he heard a familiar voice.

"Oh, God, Dolores!"

Rupert rushed from the room, hand clamped on his mouth. He managed to get to the bathroom before he was physically sick.

He didn't know who he was more disgusted with.

Her, his father, or himself.

-----

Rupert feared that if the Council found out his secret, his father would lose everything. So he kept it, even though it lay heavy in his stomach, like black-green bile, rotting away every ounce of respect for all of them. Being a Watcher was all he had ever wanted to be and it was heartbreaking to discover that the man he had respected and that he had followed without question, had been so weak. Without his compass points, Rupert lost his way. He left Oxford, took up with Ethan and buried himself in the dark arts.

But Giles always knew he would find his way back: the discipline and the tradition were in his blood. As he tired of Ethan's hedonistic ways, he started to miss the sanctuary of the Council and his calling. Finally, he made the decision to return to Oxford and complete his training, trying to put the memory of his father's betrayal behind him.

Then he met Buffy.

He'd known from the first moment he saw her that he could cross the line. That was the damnable irony. Like father, like son, and many other Watchers through the generations, he had experienced both the privilege and demands of his birthright. To take a young woman, at such an impressionable age, and be all things, father, teacher, trainer, brother-in-arms, and friend, but never lover.

New Slayers were like uncut diamonds. Watchers looked deep into their cloudy depths, gauging just where and how hard to strike to bring forth the natural talent each possessed. But they had to judge it just right; there was no room for error. Each slayer was different, unique, and one slip was all it would take to shatter through to the core. Looking into such gems, day after day, year after year, was it any wonder that so many men had been dazzled by their soft lights?

But Giles was a man of principle. And once he had made a promise to himself, he didn't break it. He had to prove that he could be the man his father never was. Respectable and upright: preserving the sanctity of his watcher's vows.

-----

Buffy called round later that evening, wanting a workout. She'd been patrolling a lot recently, and Giles knew she was pushing herself dangerously close to her physical limit. Instead of going through another grueling training session, he suggested they work on a few yoga positions at home, to try to help her relax and concentrate her mind.

She was now balanced precariously on one hand, trying to keep her body as vertical as gravity would allow, weight distributed evenly through her fingers, thumb and her palm. Giles was by her side, not touching, but ready to catch her if she fell. He could sense her tension, she had been on edge all evening, and in that frame of mind, she could easily slip.

But Giles' concentration was challenged too. There was something different about tonight. It wasn't just finding the book. Buffy had been distracted and distant when she arrived and then irritated when Giles had asked her if everything was okay. It wasn't like her - she usually confided in him about most things.

As he pondered, Buffy's arm suddenly gave out and she collapsed to the floor, twisting her wrist awkwardly under her shoulder.

"Fuck! Where the hell were you?"

"Buffy, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" Giles dropped to his knees beside her and put a hand on her arm.

"No. No thanks to you." She sat up, pulling her arm away from his touch and rubbing her wrist. "Just leave me alone, I'll be fine."

"Look, I'm sorry. Just let me have a look at it." Giles tried to take her wrist again. Buffy jerked away.

"Just leave me alone!" And then she burst into tears.

"Buffy? What is it? What's wrong?"

She was too upset to reply. Giles pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Buffy curled into him, her head pressed against his chest. He rocked her gently, until the tears subsided.

Finally, Buffy raised her head and looked at him, her eyes red and face blotchy.

"Nobody <sniff>, wants me. Am I really such a <sniff> terrible person?"

Giles rested his forehead lightly on hers.

"No, shhh. Of course not."

He placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head and sat back.

"Why don't we just leave the training for now, get you somewhere more comfortable, and take a look at that wrist."

Buffy nodded and dried her eyes on her sleeve.

Giles helped her to her feet and led her to the sofa. He sat her down and then pulled her arm gently towards him, before tentatively maneuvering the wrist back and forth.

"How does that feel?"

"Ouch! Pretty damn sore, but I don't think it's broken."

Giles frowned.

"You've probably just sprained it, but it's going to be swollen for a while. You'll need to rest it, no more patrolling for a while." His stern look gave way to concern. "Some ice would help, but I'm not sure I've got any."

"What happened to Boy Scout Giles? Thought you were always supposed to be prepared?"

"I'm afraid my Boy Scout talents never stretched to much more than making tea. But if you're really lucky," he looked sideways at her and grinned, "I could improvise a sling out of a tea towel."

Buffy rubbed her arm ruefully.

"S'okay, don't think I'm the walking wounded just yet, but some painkillers would be good. My wrist is starting to feel like I've gone twenty rounds with Lennox Lewis."

Giles raised his eyebrows at her but got up to rummage in the desk drawer. After a few moments he held up a small bottle, triumphant.

"More prepared than I thought. Codeine. Had them after I had a run in with my dentist. Needless to say, I came off worse. They're pretty strong, but they'll certainly take the edge off."

"Whatever. Right now I think I'd even knock back some of your disgusting whisky if I thought it would help some."

"Well, I think codeine is marginally preferable to giving you my single malt, which I know you won't appreciate. But I should warn you, it might make you feel a bit drowsy."

"Stop trying to be Dad, and give them to me already."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Half an hour later, Buffy was fast asleep, curled up in the corner of the sofa.

Giles watched her quietly for while, not sure whether to try to wake her. A stray strand of hair tumbled slowly across her face. He reached forward and gently brushed it away with his fingers. She murmured something unintelligible and snuggled down further.

She looked so peaceful, and he knew she hadn't slept properly for days. He didn't want to disturb her, but she couldn't stay there all night.

There was only one thing for it.

He carefully slipped one arm under her legs slid the other around her shoulders and lifted her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected. Usually when they were training, he was aware of her strength, but now, she felt tiny: vulnerable. She didn't stir. He carried her carefully upstairs, into the bedroom, and over to the bed. Shifting her weight slightly and trying to stay balanced, he leaned down and pulled back the covers. Then, gently, laid her down on the crisp linen sheets.

Giles sat at the end of the bed and gently removed first her left shoe, then the right, placing them neatly, side by side, on the floor. Then he examined the rest of her outfit. She could sleep perfectly well in her T-shirt, and in any case, he didn't want to have to move her arm too much. But the sweatpants were baggy and had an elasticated waist. They could slip off quite easily. He grasped the bunched fabric at her hips and managed to tug the trousers down and off, before folding them and depositing them on top of her shoes.

Glancing back, he realized he could see the white hem of her knickers, poking out from under her top. Trying not to look, he glimpsed the slight swell of her pubis under the lace, before turning his gaze away. Squaring his shoulders, he concentrated on the task at hand, pulling the sheet and quilt up over her and tucking her in. Task complete, Giles went through to the living room and poured a large whisky. As the alcohol burned its way down his throat, he shuddered involuntarily, making a mental note to remember that the girl in his bed was his professional responsibility. He was her Watcher: nothing more, nothing less. He poured another drink, and then one more. Dutch courage.

Some hours later, Giles tiptoed into the bedroom. Buffy was still sleeping the sleep of the dead and he hadn't the heart to wake her. But he needed to sleep too, and the couch really wasn't designed for a fully-grown man to stretch out on. As quietly as he could, he undressed, slipped into his pajamas, and crawled under the bedclothes. He turned away from her, being careful to stay as far on his own side of the bed as possible.

He lay awake for a long while, listening to her breathing. It was exquisite torture, knowing that she was close to him, but that he couldn't touch. Mustn't touch. Why was that again?

Buffy stirred in her sleep, rolling over towards him and throwing an arm over his chest. Then her hand moved lower, grasped his waist and she snuggled towards him, spooning against his back. She mumbled something indistinct and than fell silent. Giles stiffened, not sure whether to move or not. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton of his pyjamas. He wanted so much to just lie there, wrapped in her heat. He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation. Couldn't hurt, could it? Just a few moments, then he'd move.

At first he thought he was imagining it. Her fingers, lightly stroking his stomach where his pajama top had ridden up. No, it was just the rise and fall of her chest, her hand moving in synchrony. Or was it? There it was again. This time, more deliberate. His heart skipped a beat, then started thumping wildly. He held completely still, trying to work out what the hell was going on. But there was no mistake. Buffy was winding her fingers through the coarse hair across his mid-riff.

He lay there, not knowing what to do, but trying to feign sleep. He tried to rationalize it. She was still sleeping, confused, thinking she was at Riley's. Dreaming that he was home and all was well.

<Can't wake her, she'd be mortified. She'll stop in a minute.>

But all the time, the other voice in his head was pleading silently to her.

<Please, please, don't stop.>

She couldn't have heard. Yet, it seemed as if she was responding to his wordless entreaties. Her hand moved lower, tickling across his abdomen, making lazy circles on the hollow at his hip. The already taut muscles in his stomach jumped at her touch, the jolt sending a shockwave down to his rapidly swelling erection. As he jumped, she pressed her body tighter against his back, and he felt her warm breasts pushing into his shoulder blades.

Every nerve in his body was on alert. This couldn't be happening. He felt like Damocles, sword suspended by a thread, his fate in the lap of the Gods. Then Buffy spoke.

"Giles. Stop pretending to be asleep. It's not working."

His eyes flew open. He didn't move for a second. Then he shifted over onto his back, and looked at her. She propped herself up on one elbow and smiled.

"It's okay you know. I'm not a complete idiot. I do realize that you're trying really hard to be responsible here." She giggled slightly. "Really hard. But I'm not fourteen anymore. In fact I'm long past 'sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed'. I'm old enough to know my own mind, and I've decided. We need to get this over with. We're both adults and we can deal with this in an adult way."

Giles looked at her, shocked, and stammered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come *on*. Ever since Riley left you've been acting all weird around me. It's nice and safe when I'm married off, but now I'm available, you don't know what to do with yourself."

She leaned towards him and whispered in his ear. "But *I* do."

Giles was stunned, lost for words. Buffy bit playfully at his neck and ear lobe while she danced her fingers delicately over his stomach. She slid her leg over his, her knee grazing his groin, before whispering again.

"Want me to show you?"

Buffy's leg snaked around him as she lifted her body, straddling his thighs.

Lust spiraled through his body like a tornado, while a hundred competing thoughts and emotions rushed through his mind. But, somewhere in the chaos, a small part of his befuddled brain knew this was wrong. Suddenly, he seized her by the wrists. Wrestling with the last ounce of his self-control, he spoke slowly and clearly, punctuating each word with a slight shake of her arms.

"We are not going to do this."

Buffy struggled against him, trying to twist out of his grip. "But you want me, I want you, what's the problem?"

Giles brow creased as he studied her face. He couldn't quite believe he was stopping her either. And the vision of Buffy squirming astride him dressed only in a T-shirt and knickers wasn't helping one bit. He took a deep breath.

"There are many, many reasons why this is not going to happen. One, because I am your Watcher. Two, because I'm old enough to be your father. Three, you don't really want to do this. You're upset and you're hurting and you're trying to prove something…."

Giles' voice cut off as Buffy wrenched her hands free and pressed one over his mouth.

"True, you're old enough to be my father, but I've got thing about older men, remember? You're still about two hundred years younger than my first boyfriend." She wriggled her way up his thighs so she was straddling his hips, feeling his now very obvious erection pressing against her crotch.

"So you're my Watcher. Big deal. Don't see the problem. You watching is just fine."

With that, Buffy removed her hand from his mouth and started to pull her T-shirt off over her head.

"As for Riley, he was a nice guy an' all, but if I'm really honest, really not all that in the bedroom department."

She threw the T-shirt onto the floor, reached down and started to undo the buttons on Giles' pajama top. Giles made a feeble attempt to stop her, but she shoved him back onto the bed, as she continued.

"He treated everything like an army maneuver. Brush teeth: check. Push-ups: check. Foreplay: check. 'Brace yourself, I'm going in'. Fifteen minutes of pounding away and that was it. Orgasm, check. Like clockwork. But you, on the other hand," Buffy finished the buttons, then sat back and crossed her arms across her chest, "you could probably teach me a thing or two."

Giles was speechless. He opened and closed his mouth for a few seconds, then managed to stammer,

"I really don't think the Watcher's duties are supposed to cover this kind of training, the Council…"

"Screw the Council. I didn't see anything in the Slayer's Handbook that says we can't have sex if I want to. And *I* want to."

Buffy pulled open the drawstring of Giles' pajamas. "And I'd say it's pretty obvious you do too."

Giles blushed and tried in vain to cover himself up.

This wasn't at all how he'd imagined it. The many times he had played the scene over in his mind, the possible temptations; it wasn't anything like this. He never in his wildest imaginings thought that *he* would be fighting *her* off. And he was so confused. Could this really be what she wanted? Could it be different? Dolores was only sixteen. Buffy was twenty. Most Slayers didn't make it that far. She had plenty of experience; it wasn't as if he would be her first lover…

His train of thought was violently interrupted when Buffy took his hands in hers and yanked them up over his head. When she pinned his wrists together and slid her lace-covered breasts over his exposed chest, the heady scent of warm musky skin and vanilla assaulted his senses like a physical blow. Suddenly the reasons why this was so wrong were eluding him. She reached his mouth with hers and bit roughly into his bottom lip. His resolve started to crumble. As she rubbed her crotch suggestively against his throbbing erection, his desire for her overwhelmed him. He finally snapped.

Wrenching his hands free, he grabbed the back of her neck, crushing her face to his and kissing her fiercely, forcing his tongue deep inside her mouth. She responded in kind, kissing him back with equal fervor, their tongues dueling, teeth clashing, her hands grasping at fistfuls of hair. Giles pushed her over and onto her back, leaning down, biting hard on the tender skin of her neck and shoulders as he suckled heat to the surface.

Buffy moaned as he continued biting, sucking and kissing his way down her neck to her breasts. He fumbled impatiently with the clasp, then gave up, pushing his hands inside the flimsy material to get to her. His found her nipples and twisted hard with his fingers as he buried his head in her cleavage. Buffy yelped; the pain sharp but tempered by the sudden rush of lust to her groin.

Her desire sharpened her already heightened senses and every touch seemed to ignite sparks, like lightening streaks, stinging into her core. The rough pads at the tips of his fingers caught on her sensitive nipples and the coarse stubble on his chin rasped against her soft flesh. With every kiss he peppered on her breasts she arched against him, hands plucking at the shirt still on his back, sweat beading on her brow and forming tiny rivulets that trickled down her neck.

Giles tasted salt on his lips and looked up to see her, head thrown back and eyes closed. Her hair was tangled, fanning out across the pillow, her cheeks flushed and her breasts poking out from torn scraps of lace. She looked like a goddess. Disheveled, but magnificent in her disarray. He was far beyond rational thought now, his principles sent spinning off into the ether by his need for this young woman in his arms.

He reached down and slid one hand over wet lace, feeling her heat through the thin scrap of material. He parted her thighs and slipped a rough finger under the elastic and into her slick passage. She moaned as he pushed deliberately inside her, feeling her muscles clamping around him. He bent down to take a nipple in his mouth as he slowly thrust in and out, twisting up inside her and pressing against the sensitive spot of her inner wall. He suckled in tandem with each upward stroke, sending bolts of pleasure flying from her breast to her womb and back. As she rocked against him, he inserted another finger, then another before stroking his thumb over her swollen bud, taking her closer and closer to the edge.

Buffy was writhing under him, trying to grind herself harder and harder against his hand. He knew she was close. But he wasn't going to let it end there.

Despite her protestations, he pulled his hand away and returned his attentions to her bra. Finally managing to undo the clasp, he pushed the straps down her arms before divesting her of the torn undergarment. Then he slid his hands under her bottom, and peeled off the twisted, soaked knickers. Once Buffy was completely naked, he shrugged off his pajama top and kicked off the leggings, turning back to her to press his full weight against her sweat-slicked body.

He reveled in the sensation of bare skin against bare skin. But Buffy was more impatient. She buried her head in his neck and whispered,

"I want you inside me. Please…fuck me?"

Giles' stomach lurched and a wave of lust rolled through his body. He couldn't have stopped himself, even if he'd tried. He reached down and slid his hands under her knees, then, lifted them up, so that her pelvis tilted towards him. He leaned into her and rubbed his cock along her wet cleft. Pressing the head against her entrance, he pushed himself inside, inch-by-inch, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the exquisite sensation of her warmth enveloping his length. He tried to hold back, to quell the rush of desire that threatened to engulf him but Buffy wrapped her legs tight around him, and pulled him into her. He gave in and pounded into her as she met each thrust.

He couldn't believe it was real, yet every sense screamed it was so. She was under him, surrounding him, clawing at his back, moaning his name. And he was moving inside her, breathing her scent, feeling her body taut and bucking beneath his. He could feel the tension building in his belly, the ache in his balls as they tightened; he knew he couldn't last that much longer. He forced a hand between their bodies to reach her clitoris and thrust his fingers against the slippery flesh. Buffy cried out as he massaged her with urgent strokes. Giles gritted his teeth as he willed her on, wanting her to come.

He didn't have long to wait. A few seconds later, she screamed, and the ball of tension inside her finally exploded. She clamped her legs around his hips as her muscles contracted in wave after wave. Giles felt her spasm against him and his own body rushed over the edge to join her. He came, jerking inside her, convulsing uncontrollably with the intensity of his release.

His arms gave way and he collapsed on top of her, his face pressed to her breast, gasping for air. He lay, panting, feeling her heart racing under his cheek.

Even as the last tremors twitched through his body, Giles felt the panic rise in his chest. He couldn't believe what had just happened. What the hell was he thinking? He cringed inwardly, bracing himself against the flood of anger and guilt he knew would hit any moment. But before he could berate himself any further, Giles felt a sob wrench itself from the body beneath him. He twisted his head up and saw that Buffy was crying.

"Buffy, are you okay? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?"

He winced at the bruises forming on her pale neck and then remembered,

"Your wrist…"

She shook her head. "No, not that. I'm sorry. So s…sorry."

"What do you mean sorry? Sorry for what?"

Another sob escaped her.

"I've really fucked up."

Buffy wriggled out from under him, reached over and grabbed her T-shirt and leggings from the floor. She pulled them on quickly and turned round to face him.

"I shouldn't have done that. I've spoiled everything."

Giles sat up in alarm.

"You haven't done anything wrong. This is my fault. This shouldn't have happened."

Buffy shook her head impatiently.

"You don't understand. Sex spoils everything. I always fuck this up. Buffy. Sex. Doesn't work. Bad, bad combination."

Giles reached forward to touch her arm, but she jerked her back.

"Just stay away from me and forget this ever happened." She got up and started pulling on her shoes.

Giles panicked, this was all going so wrong.

"I am not going to let you chastise yourself for something that is not your fault. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I have responsibilities. I am your Watcher. I am not supposed to want you. I am not supposed to take you to my bed… "

Buffy turned and looked at him. The pain on her face was unbearable.

"I wanted you to want me. I wanted to feel needed. And for just one brief moment back there I felt you did. But now it's all a huge mess and you feel bad and I feel bad and when am I ever going to learn that I am the Slayer and Slayers are not supposed to have one minute of happiness, or the whole fucking world falls apart."

She finished in a big rush, pulled on the last shoe and stormed out of the bedroom. Giles heard her feet pounding down the stairs and the front door slamming behind her.

Giles punched the pillow with his fist. "Dammit!"

-------

Giles lay in bed, drowning in whisky and self-blame.

He was no better than any of them: his father, Angel, Parker, Riley. She was lonely, frightened and confused, and he had taken advantage of her, abused the trust that she had placed in him, at the time when she needed him most. He was a weak, pathetic, self-serving prick, who didn't deserve one penny of his Watcher's salary. There was no place for a man like him in civilized society. He should be locked away and never allowed to lay eyes on her again.

But even as he played jury, judge and executioner in his own private trial, images of their lovemaking flickered before him. The smell of her was in his skin, the taste of her on his lips. He could feel the fire of her passion; hear the cries of her need. And when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the vision of her shining naked body, writhing beneath him, as she screamed his name.

He closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him. The burning pain of his betrayal soothed by the sweetness of her memory. She was sickness and cure: his agony and his ecstasy.

He reached for his glass and knocked a book from the nightstand. As it fell, a few pages shook free from the loose bindings. Giles picked up a single sheet from the floor and squinted at the print.

"Light of my life. Fire of my loins."

"My Sin. My Soul."

He sank back into the pillows and buried his head in their faint vanilla scent.

"My Lolita."

THE END