Title: The First Time (2/9)
Author: Liz

(notes and disclaimer with part one)

Giles stood and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. He flinched as he dried himself off as best he could, still sensitive to the touch, and a familiar wrinkle creased his brow as he tried to piece it together. He didn't delude himself with any notions of Buffy suddenly unable to control her desire for him... No, she'd made her feelings on that matter quite clear long before tonight.

When Buffy first started college, she had come to him for help. And just in case her numerous comments in high school hadn't sufficed, the mere sight of him in his bathrobe had given Buffy cause to remind him yet again that she found him both 'old' and 'gross'. So what was different about tonight, a year and a half later? He wadded up the handkerchief and dropped it in the bin by his desk. He dressed again, pants back in place, shirt buttoned as well as he could manage with several of the buttons missing. Then he sat heavily, elbows resting on the desk as he ran his hands through his already-disheveled hair, trying to force his mind past the incredible feel of her.

The way she had been pacing so furiously when she arrived... Usually, if she was anxious to meet Willow or Xander, she simply told him so, babbled some sort of cheerful, abrupt apology for "bailing" on him and waltzed out the door. But tonight, she was restless, furious that the demon she'd spent the entire evening hunting had gotten away. Her frustration was palpable, and it had only seemed to increase until... he groaned when he realized what had happened. Giles had read several Watchers' journal entries about it, but he had convinced himself it wasn't going to be an issue for Buffy. After all, she'd never really seemed bothered by it. Faith clearly had, though.

Damnit, I should have been better prepared for this, he angrily berated himself. Especially after Buffy told him about her increasing compulsion to hunt at night. At that time, though, she'd had Riley to go home to. But the young man had been gone for weeks now.

A tiny sniffle caught his attention, and he turned to see Buffy standing at the entrance of the hallway, head lowered, consciously holding her shirt down to cover as much of her legs as it could. "Giles," she whispered, "could you, um, maybe make some tea or something?" She didn't actually want any tea, but he took the hint and went into the kitchen, giving her time to collect her clothing before he returned. Giles intended to wait until she called for him, but the sound of muffled crying brought him back into the living room.

Buffy was dressed again, sitting in the chair in the corner, knees hugged to her chest and looking utterly miserable. The sight of her broke his heart... not since her eighteenth birthday had he felt he'd failed her so completely. He should have cautioned her this might happen. He should have made more certain she had known what she wanted. He should have...

"Giles, stop it."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I think that's my line."

He wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her and hold her until she stopped crying, but he didn't feel it was his right. Instead, he sat on the ottoman next to the chair and placed his hand lightly on her knee. Then he took a deep breath, called himself every kind of fool he could think of, and tried to brace himself for the conversation to come.

Buffy spoke again, "I mean it, Giles. Stop it."

He removed his hand from her knee, asking softly, "S-stop what?"

"What I know you're doing right now. Thinking it's your fault or something. You didn't do anything wrong, Giles, and I'm so sorry... God, you must think I'm, like, the biggest slut ever." She moaned pitifully and lowered her head to her knees.

His own feelings would have to wait. Right now, she needed his reassurance. Right now, she needed her Watcher.

"Buffy, look at me."

She shook her head, reluctant to meet his eyes, but he insisted. "Please. Look at me."

After a moment, she finally lifted her head, and Giles began. "First, let me assure you that although I was... surprised... by what happened... it bears no reflection on you."

"Giles, how could it not? God, I'm so embarrassed! One second I'm all crazed and itching, then the next thing I know, I'm in the middle of the biggest screaming orgasm I've ever..." Her hands flew to her mouth as she realized what she'd just said. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, Giles couldn't hide the half-smile that crept across his face at her confession, but he did his best to stay focused on what he needed to say. He took her hand in his and spoke with all the reassurance he could muster.

"Buffy, listen to me. You've just told me something important that confirms what I suspected."

"What, you mean the screaming-"

"No! No, ah, not that part," he said. "I mean the way you described how restless you felt. If you'll recall, you were extremely frustrated and anxious when you arrived. Then there was the way you kept pacing about. And the way it seemed to be exacerbated by my questions about the demon that got away." This, at least, seemed to have gotten her attention, and she leaned in to listen, curious where he was headed with this.

"You told me several months ago that you'd begun going out at night, not just to patrol, but to hunt."

"Right..."

"Do you remember how this began?"

"I thought it was the whole merging with the First Slayer thing. Like I had some of that primal hunter stuff left over."

"Yes, of course, but something more particular. A specific impulse that motivated you."

"Well, it was like I couldn't sleep if I didn't. I just felt so restless and itchy all over, and..." Her eyes went wide as she realized. "Oh my god, Giles, it was the same feeling! Like I wouldn't be able to stop myself from climbing the walls if I didn't... oh, jeez, don't tell me I've moved on to some kind of primal slayer sex thing now." She rolled her eyes, burying her head in her hands once again. "Naturally, this would happen after Riley's gone, and I can't just go home and..."

"Actually," he interrupted, "you may not be too far off."

"You're kidding!" Her head shot up again at that, "I've got some sort of slayage-induced nymphomania? Giles, what the hell?!"

"No, no, it's not that. At least, well, not exactly."

"How exactly, Giles? Come on, shy time is over here. I've officially gone from self-loathing to seriously freaked out. What the hell is wrong with me?!"

"Nothing, Buffy. There is nothing wrong with you. But you have experienced an aspect of your Slayer nature I'd thought might not be an issue for you. Perhaps it wouldn't have been if we hadn't performed the enjoining spell. I'm just so sorry I didn't prepare you for the possibility."

"Okay, Giles, enough with the hemming and hawing, and just explain it already."

"Right. Sorry." He took another deep breath. There was one fairly clear way to explain it, but he knew she wouldn't care for the comparison. "Buffy, did Xander ever tell you how he came to sleep with Faith?" As he expected, Buffy blanched at the mention of the other Slayer, but she simply shook her head. "Well, I don't wish to betray Xander's confidence, so you'll have to understand that he is not to know I told you this. I wouldn't be telling you at all, except that..."

"Giles, I get it. Relevant info that's none of my business. I disavow all knowledge. Now spill. I'm not liking the part where you tell me I'm like Faith."

"You must understand..."

"I will. When you tell me. So get with the telling."

"O-of course. It seems that night, Xander stumbled upon a fight just in time to keep Faith from being seriously injured or killed by one of the Sisterhood of Jhe."

"No way! The demon chicks who were trying to present The Hellmouth's Grand Reopening? How the hell did Xander manage to fight off one of them if Faith was having trouble with her?"

"He hit her with his uncle's car."

"Oh. That'd do it."

"Rather. He drove Faith back to her motel, and she was extremely agitated, frustrated after such a taxing fight when she didn't succeed in killing the demon in question. She, ah... she essentially tossed him on the bed, had her way with him, and then threw him out so she could take a shower."

Out of habit, Giles reached for his glasses to clean them, but he wasn't wearing them. And his handkerchief was in the bin across the room. So he simply stared at his hands, hoping his face wouldn't betray him when he spoke again. "It wasn't anything to do with being attracted to him. Or having any feelings for him. It was simply a matter of needing... satisfaction. Release."

"Whoa. Faith used to try to talk to me about that kind of stuff. How slaying made her all hungry and horny, especially if she went too long without a good kill. I just thought she was being gross."

"Well, to a certain extent, she was." Buffy smiled at that, and he continued. "But the urge she felt, the need for that kind of cathartic release, it's not entirely uncommon in slayers. And what happened here tonight... between us... It's not unheard of, either, for the Slayer to seek... solace... in her Watcher. After a particularly invigorating or frustrating fight. I had thought, however, that this wouldn't become an issue for you. Or for us."

"Why not?"

"Traditionally, the Slayer and her Watcher are a very isolated pair. Often on the move, rarely ever with ties to family or friends. The very notion of a Slayer having a boyfriend is practically unheard of. But you have friends. You have interests and outlets for your energy outside of slaying. And until a little while ago, you had someone in your life to turn to if you felt... frustrated."

"Oh. Right."

"So, ah..." Giles again found his cuticles more fascinating than he'd ever thought possible and continued, "Since Riley left, have you been... with... anyone new?"

"Zero. Zip. No soup for Buffy. Just me, myself, and a battery-operated gag gift Willow gave me last year when... oh, wow, you're not loving the overshare."

"Hm? Oh, sorry." Giles shook his head. Yet another mental image to torture himself with later. "I gather your, um, self-reliance as it were... hasn't been enough to..." He couldn't believe the ridiculousness of his predicament. The woman of his dreams had just thoroughly ravished him on his couch, yet here he was, stammering over the subject of whether she found release in pleasuring herself. Nothing to do but to blurt it out. Deep breath. Be the Watcher.

"Do you come when you masturbate?"

Buffy's eyes went wide at the directness of the question, but her surprise was far outweighed by her evident frustration. "No, damnit, it just makes things worse! I get all hot and bothered, then my brain goes and thinks of Riley or Angel... or even worse, Parker... and then it's back to the land of the jilted. Not really an orgasmic kind of place."

"No," he sympathized, "I imagine it isn't."

Yet another in a long series of deep breaths preceded his next statement. He summoned all the kindness and understanding he had ever shown her and wore it as a mask over his feelings as he turned to look at her again. "Trust me with this, Buffy. With what happened tonight. I know it's been somewhat unsettling, caught us both quite by surprise... but I understand and think not a bit less of you for it. In fact," he smiled wistfully, trying to inject a touch of levity, "one might even consider it my duty." The amused confusion that shot across Buffy's face confirmed that his efforts to lighten the mood had succeeded. Something he felt he had to do before he continued.

"Buffy, this... this need. If it returns, I want you to feel you can come to me. I won't read anything into it or presume upon your intentions. After all," he said, forcing the words past his lips, knowing the answer even as he silently prayed that he was somehow wrong. "After all, i-it isn't as if you have any... any actual interest in me."

"Well, that's true."

Rupert Giles' heart died a little at how blithely she said those words. Her utter lack of interest was as plain a fact of her life as whether she'd been to the dry cleaner's that week. <Would you like starch in this blouse? Nope. Any interest in the man who adores you more than life itself? Nope. Excellent, then, pick these up on Friday.> Still, he knew his feelings were neither her responsibility, nor her problem. As with so many things in his life, he would have to bury this piece of himself in service to his Slayer.

So with his Watcher self firmly at the fore, he offered to show her some of the Diary entries he'd come across that supported his theory, but she said she would take his word for it, not eager to read, as she put it, "Watcher porn". He'd intended to make her more comfortable with what had happened this evening, reassure her that her needs made her no less of a Slayer, or a lady, in his eyes. And he was gratified to see that he'd been successful. But the ease with which she had written off the very notion of any personal element beyond their "professional" relationship...

The bottom line was that he was her Watcher first, in all things. And if this happened again, he told himself, at least he would be prepared. Would know her need. Bitterly, he took a moment to curse the heritage that prevented him from a long, uninteresting life as a grocer. Buffy had lost much, sacrificed much on the altar of her destiny. But she wasn't the only one. He had just been given his fondest wish in the cruelest way possible. The woman he loved had come astride him, screaming his name, and she would very likely do so again. But not because she cared for him - or even because she found him vaguely attractive.

She had fucked him, plainly and simply, because it required less feeling than masturbating in her room.

After coasting for several more minutes through all the right things to say to her, Giles rightly suggested that she would likely sleep well that night for a change. Buffy took the hint as if it had been her own idea and gathered herself to go, but she paused at the door a moment to thank Giles for his understanding.

"Of course, Buffy," he told her. "I understand perfectly."

As the door closed behind her, Rupert Giles took in the empty room. He didn't want to sleep yet, and he was nowhere near the level of detachment it would require to chronicle this evening's events - if he ever decided to do so. He didn't want to read, and the late-night chatter on the telly held no appeal. Nor, he thought, did he care for a cup of tea. Crossing to the counter, he opened the decanter of Scotch. There wasn't much, he thought, but just maybe it would be enough. He poured himself a liberal shot, which he downed greedily, relishing the burning as it coated his throat. Then he took the bottle and glass in hand and walked to the chair Buffy had previously occupied. As he took another drink, he eyed the couch, images of what had transpired swimming unwelcome before his eyes.

Another drink.

Just maybe, he hoped. Maybe tonight, he wouldn't dream.