Tim Bayliss felt sure things were out of hand at the Bronze.Too many bodies,(many of whom were married to other, absent, bodies. They should be ashamed. Tim was, just watching. But he couldn't stop watching.) It was like a car accident with breasts. Or what happened at his parents' cocktail parties.

Once when Tim was nine, he caught Mrs. Green and Mr. Randall, the neighbors on opposite sides of the Bayliss', in the closet together. Really caught them, with their hands all over each other. He tried to tell his mother, but she'd said he'd misunderstood, that they were just being affectionate, and what were you doing with the closet open anyway, Timothy? End of conversation. He was always Timothy when he was in trouble.My mother is such a liar, he thought, not for the first time. And not only about stuff like that. She told me a big white smile and a firm handshake would impress people, but she didn't know what it was like...everybody having fun and being in on something, and you are too shy to say anything, having to practice what you do say in the bathroom mirror.Under your breath so your brothers and sisters can't hear and laugh. Or your father, who might...he still can't think about that. But other people called it discipline so sometimes Tim did, too,
Except with his cousins. They were brave, so they made him brave. Like the people at work now.

"Old man still riding your ass, Timmy?" they'd say.

"Only when I'm awake," he'd say, trying to match their tough tone.

"I don't get it, T.J. You don't even do anything. Not girls, not drinking.You even do your homework, for Chrissake,"

"I'm sure I do plenty," Tim said. "You don't see everything."

"I'd still like to go ten rounds with him."

" Don't say that. You could get in trouble."

"God, Timmy, don't shit a brick. It's only us here."

Yeah, Bayliss, he reminds himself, don't shit a brick. He takes a glass of the punch, even after that weird little Snyder guy complains cause somebody spiked it.He makes a point not to look at the Snyder guy, if he's learned anything in school, it's that vibes are contagious and that you try to avoid geek vibes.He senses how everybody avoids Snyder, and knows if he took his side he'd get some of the same. And there's something there Tim himself doesn't quite like.But his conscience nags him enough that he shrugs and gives the principal a look that says "it's nothing personal."

It's really getting loud in here. Tim likes it better when it's quiet. -more-

A familiar voice says "You suck! Get off the stage!" as the doctors and accountants swing into "Louie, Louie" for the third time. Badly. That Munch is such a ballsy guy...just says what he thinks when he thinks it. Tim could never do that.He looks at the gyrating couples. He could never do that either. He'd feel stupid.Frank had said they'd be here only an hour but he is too busy laughing and being amusing to notice the time.The intense genius, Frank Pembleton, laughing. Something Tim never gets to see. I knew it, he thinks, it is all my fault.He fishes in his pocket and brings out one of his candy bars, which is soft from the heat in here. Chocolate always feels good, he thinks. Only his mother's relentless lectures on manners stop him from licking melted chocolate off his fingers.A little redhead comes up to him. She's cute. Tim blushes, and looks at the floor.
"Are you Tim? Cause I've been looking for you,"
" You must have me confused with somebody else," he said.
"Not unless there's another detective that looks lost with big brown eyes. That sounds like you. This place is kinda intimidating, huh? I used to feel that way but my friends and I are in here all the time. And my boyfriend's a Dingo. I'm with the band. I love it when I get to say that."
"If you have a boyfriend, what do you want with me? Oh, God, I'm sorry...I can't believe I said that. I thought this was a prank or something...forgive me."

"No big. It's flattering, really. And you look so much like...somebody I had such a big crush on...I don't get that much attention from guys."
"Me either...from girls, I mean. I look like Xander, right? Does it disappoint you to see how Xander ends up? Because I was Xander. Without all the jokes.He's pretty funny." He takes out the last candy bar. "Want half?"
"Trust me," Willow says. "You don't want any more of that."
"Yes," Tim says, "I do. I want it very much. Everybody tells me what I want and don't want. My parents, my boss, Frank...other people. And you, Pippi, a complete fucking stranger? You don't get a vote. OK? I'm sure there's a gold star with your name on it somewhere."
"OK! But I think you should know...you're not yourself. And my name's not Pippi!"
"I'm sorry," he said. "What is your name?" He felt bad, hearing her voice shake.
"Willow Rosenburg, And that chocolate's tainted."
"That makes two of us," Tim says.

And you, Pippi, a complete fucking stranger? You don't get a vote. OK? I'm sure there's a gold star with your name on it somewhere."

"Willow Rosenburg, And that chocolate's tainted." "That makes two of us," Tim says.

Thanks.I'm glad to hear it...Tim's funny that way...he'll go along being Mr. Nice Guy for the longest time...then some hostile will come in from somewhere and even he won't see it coming. And Willow, whom I love, but who was kind of an apple-polisher in her teen years, sure as hell won't either.

Oh, man.

erika, this keeps getting more - I don't know. Just, so damned readable.

I posted a challenge in my lj. (Go. Play!)

Here's my own response to it. I could use a beta. It is very unbeta-d. I have to get ready for church and am already behind. Quickly, the premise is to take an episode you love, eliminate the major plot point, but still have at least one of the major results of that plot point. Please play.

...

Band Candy Is Dandy, But Liquor . . .

(started 7:30 am, finished at 8:30)

Hoooo boy! When Buffy walked in the house, she knew she was busted. She looked at me, then at Mr. Giles, then at me again. I think she died a little, inside. I'm ashamed that I took a little perverse delight in her discomfort. Dammit! I don't know how I'm going to get through to this girl. After years of lies, defiance, the big "coming out" as slayer, the running away this past summer, the returning with an attitude, now she's back to sneaking around? I don't buy for a minute that she just needed some control over her own life decisions. Well, that's not exactly true. I do buy it to an extent, but she's up to something. She wasn't just sneaking around tonight for nothing. I might have been born at night, but it wasn't last night. Had she just been busting loose, Willow would have been in on the lie, and probably out with her, instead of in the lied-to-camp, with us old fogies. Something is going on, and I don't know how to make her tell me what that is.

When Mr. Giles sent her to her room, I wanted to cheer. Why wasn't Hank more like that? I was always bad cop, to his good, too-many-shoes-buying cop. There's something appealing about Mr. Giles, aside from his refusal to be cowed by Buffy. The accent doesn't hurt. It almost turned a bit Cockney—or maybe not Cockney, but it did change—when he told Buffy not to, "freak out." Heh. Hmmmm. He is rather easy on the eyes. Where Hank was pretty, Mr. Giles is manly. I loved Hank's looks when we first met, but I out-grew them, or maybe he never outgrew them.

"Mrs. Summers?"

"Hmmmm? Sorry, Mr. Giles. I was just thinking about you—how . . . how well you handled Buffy, just then."

"Please, call me Rupert. Given Buffy's behavior as of late, I suspect we will find ourselves conspiring, quite often. My co-conspirators always use my given name . . . unless, it seems, they're children, and then apparently, they use my last name."

Is he flirting with me? I think he's flirting with me. Oh Joyce, you're so lonely, you're looking for flirtation from the first striking librarian to cross your path. Get a hold of yourself. "Well, if I'm to call you by your first name—Rupert, is it—then you must call me Joyce."

"Yes, I'm Rupert, and done. Joyce it is. Joyce is rather lovely."

So are you, Rupert, and growing more so by the minute. I must stop this. I'm making myself blush. I hope he doesn't notice. I wonder if he'll notice. "Why, thank you. As is Ru . . ."

"Oh please. 'Rupert' is a horrible name. Hard on the ears."

"Not at all, particularly when said with that . . . with a British accent. It's a form of 'Robert,' isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is. My grandmother's father was 'Rupert.' I'm named for him."

"I wish I'd given Buffy a different name."

"Really? Is there any significance to it?"

"Well, I liked 'Anne.' That's her middle name, but Hank and I both thought maybe it was too plain. She was a teeny little thing, so feminine, right from birth, and so pretty. 'Buffy' felt right, then. Later, I regretted it, but I never told Buffy, because . . . well, how does a mother tell her own child—the child she named—that she doesn't like her name?"

"I am ashamed to admit I had wondered if you'd nicked it from that old television show . . ."

"Family Affair? If you're ashamed to admit you wondered about it, imagine how ashamed I am to admit it's true." Oh my, his laugh! I am in trouble. On other occasions, he's always seemed a little uptight. I guess the other times we've me, "uptight" has been called for. Tonight, he is sort of smooth, like a good, single malt Scotch. "Can I get you a drink, Mr.—Rupert?"

"It's a bit late for tea."

"I was thinking Scotch."

"Oh, well then, yes, please. And at least it's not Ripper."

"Pardon?"

"Ripper was my nickname, during my misspent youth."

"That's charming."

"Oh, no. It's affected. I told people I was called Ripper, when it was really wishful thinking. I suppose it's an example of telling a lie often enough, that it becomes the truth."

"Why Ripper?" Buffy's door slammed shut. I hope she didn't hear me talking about her name, but I suppose I have bigger problems with her, than that.

"Joyce, what do you think is going on with Buffy?"

"I don't know, but she is driving me crazy. I just want to protect her."

"All parents want that."

"Yeah, but at least most parents know what to protect their children from."

"Yes. Quite. You and I have to be especially careful. Shall we go up and talk to her?"

"Usually, when she's like this, I leave her alone . . . You know what? That strategy has failed me, hasn't it? I mean, if it took me this long to figure out she was a slayer . . ."

"Joyce, I am afraid I am to blame for Buffy's secrecy. There were times that Buffy wanted to tell you, and I forbid it."

"And does she usually listen to you when you're forbidding things, Rupert?"

"Well, as a rule, no but . . ."

"Exactly. Let's go talk to her."

(cont'd)

Buffy's door is shut. Fueled by Scotch and righteous anger, I start, as if to barge in, but Rupert gestures for me to knock. I suppose with him there, I have to. She might be undressing, but I hate to give up the element of surprise. She may be taking back the night, but I have to take back my house, and position as mother. I always wanted to be a friend. Maybe that's where I've gone wrong.

"Buffy?"

"Yeah." Her voice is terse and sullen.

"Buffy, Rupert and I need to talk with you."

"Rupert?

"Buffy, please let us in."

"Just a minute. I'm changing."

"For the better, I hope."

Hmmmm, Rupert can be rather funny.

"Very funny, Giles." Buffy opens the door, with a sullen look I just want to slap right off of her face. Maybe I should have listened to my mother, and spanked her.

"Buffy, I don't like how we've handled tonight. I was going to let sleeping dogs lie, but Rupert convinced me we should try to talk to you. Will you come downstairs? I—come downstairs, now."

"Buffy, your mother and I want to protect you."

"Don't you think that's ironic Giles, considering I've saved both of your lives on more than one occasion?"

"Buffy, I don't think mouthing off at Mr. Giles is going to help anything, here."

"Really? It's helping my mood, considerably."

"Joyce, may I?"

Oh Rupert, you may. Boy. No wonder my kid is in so much trouble, or is so much trouble. Here we are trying to stave off chaos, and I'm thinking dirty thoughts about her watcher. "Please do, Rupert."

"Thank you, Joyce. Buffy, you must understand that we need to know where you are, what you're doing, to this level of detail, because you are the slayer."

"Speak for yourself, Rupert."

"I'm sorry, Joyce. Buffy, you're going to find your mother and I are united front. The impetus each of us feels for joining forces may differ, but in the end, we have the same reasons. We worry for you. We want to ensure your safety from any number of threats, demonic and otherwise, and . . ."

"And we love you, honey."

"And I love you too, both of you."

Rupert's face softens at that. I want to touch the slight crinkles around his eyes, and the charming, if odd line that cuts a diagonal across his forehead. I need to think about my kid. This is getting ridiculous, but knowing a man has a father's love for your child is sexy as hell.

"Buffy, you're still a child. You're a child that's had to face more than any child should have to face. You've grown up in so many ways, but you're still my girl . . . our girl. Don't shut us out. Something is going on. I know this is more than you feeling caged, because you also lied to Willow."

"Mom, I can't. Don't push me."

"Buffy, how exactly is wanting to know what's going on with your life, pushing?"

"It's pushing, because I am not ready to tell you."

"Then Buffy, I fear we're at something of an impasse. How are your mother and I supposed to trust you, if you are lying and sneaking around?"

"Does this help? I am not in danger. Something is going on. It's huge, but it's not. I . . . I just can't talk about it, yet."

"Well honey, what are we supposed to do, then? How are Rupert and I . . ."

"I don't know. Look, can you give me some time?"

"I don't know, Buffy . . ."

"Buffy, you're asking a lot of your mother."

"And you're both asking a lot of me. I need to be trusted with some bits of my life, private stuff, stuff that only affects me."

"Buffy, are you pregnant?"

"Mom!"

"Answer your mother, Buffy."

"No. No. No. I am not pregnant. God. I don't even have a boyfriend. Except for that one time with Angel, I've never . . . This is ridiculous. I need to get out of here."

"No, Buffy. No more. For too many years, I let you run away from things—get going, when the going got tough."

"You don't know what it's like, neither of you do. When . . . I have to blow off some steam."

"Well then, why—if it's all right with your mother—why don't you spend the night at Willow's? Joyce?"

Oh dear. She's going to leave, and instead of feeling like I've failed, I'm excited by the possibilities that opens up. I am a disgrace. "Well, I'd have to speak with Mrs. Rosenberg, first, to ensure that's where you're going."

"Fine. Whatever. I'll call Willow while I'm packing. Be warned, if I can't go there, I'm going to Xander's. I need some space."

We're alone again. I am a mess. I am so worried about my Buffy. We're either on the verge of a major breakthrough, in which case, I'm nervous, because I don't want to flub it up, or we're on the verge of a major breakdown, in which case, I already have. And what am I thinking? I'm thinking I need another glass of Scotch, and that I hope I can get one down Rupert's throat, as well. I shouldn't be a parent. Good thing I only have one. Rupert shouldn't be a librarian either, watcher or not. He's Indiana Jones, only with a better accent, and less obvious, but more effective knee-weakening looks and mannerisms. Gah!

"Joyce, could you do with another?"

"I was just thinking that, Rupert. Please pour yourself one, as well."

"Oh, don't worry. I will."

"Am I failing by letting her go?"

"No. I don't think so. She didn't storm out. She effectively asked for permission. She's agreed to your conditions. This could be the start of something."

Lord, I hope so. "I hope so."

Deb, thanks."Readable" is good, better than "Don't quit your day job,", in any event. It's gotten a little darker than I originally intended(although I hope there still are light and funny parts, even with Tim unpacking his mental baggage...maybe they got the semi-sweet band candy.) Cindy, I like that a lot.

It's your fault. Your Kay, Joyce, Ripper stuff was going through my mind when I watched Band Candy last night, erika. I wanted more Joyce/Giles that wasn't so very much by accident.

Does that make me a bad influence?Cause that would be wrong...in a very novel and exciting way that kind of gives me a happy.Even though I can no longer unwrap a candy bar or pass a dumpster without giggling moronically.So, okay, how would Willow talk Timmy down? Being the one Who Knows Better didn't work(not to be all New Age and stuff but even I am surprised at how far he pushed back that time.)Appealing to his (chronic) sense of responsiblity? Ego stroking?Heh...now I hear AH in my head saying "There'll be no 'stroking' by me of any kind ever."