It was quite impossible. Or, at the very least, quite improbable. These sorts of things most assuredly did not happen to Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. No, not at all. It was, in truth, very improbable that he would have been chosen to be Faith's watcher, and even more improbable yet that he was expected to take over for Rupert Giles.

It was much more expected that he would make a mess of things, and, he had to admit, he was well on his way to handily accomplishing that particular feat.

It was rather amazing what inanities could go through one's head at the most inopportune times. Times such as when one was confronted by a sultry Slayer - not his own. A slip of a girl really, but one with shiny, candy-bright lips and doe-eyes and a low-cut blouse offering just a peek of ripe curves; a girl who whispered "want, take, have" and sank to her knees.

Wesley couldn't make a sound, could barely breathe as Buffy's nimble fingers unzipped his trousers and slipped inside his boxer shorts to find him there - hard - like he always was when in her presence. He tried to protest, to pull away, but she was strong and he was so very weak. The feel of her mouth on him - tentative and unpracticed - made him shake and grip the desk behind him with punishing force, his face turned up to stare blindly at the high, dark library ceiling.

It was over embarrassingly quickly, and he couldn't even find the breath to warn her, just came rudely in her mouth. She sat back on her heels and wiped her face, her pointed pink tongue darting out to lick her lips.

"Later, Wes," she said, flowing gracefully to her feet. "See you in the morning."

He could only watch her go.