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There comes a time when Giles thinks he's seen every fighting style under the sun - every slayer has their own, after all, with their skills born out of instinct rather than years of mastering a complete, if prescriptive, set of skills - and he's learned to analyse them all, to work out what the slayer's gut is telling her to achieve, be it jujitsu or streetfighting or gunwomanship, and train her to the height of her power.
Yet there is always one slayer he can never get a handle on, who kicks and cuts and shoots with no discernible pattern, who leaves him incapable of analysis, glasses never removed from his face so that he can always see her, watch her perform for him with a saucy wink and a backflip. Because, God help him, she isn't a slayer under his care - she's Faith, and she always makes sure he knows that, one way or another.