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."

Quickie - back with real comments later.

Today's Sunday 100 theme is "three people sitting on the steps."

The Night Before Apocalypse ("Chosen")

Moonlight, flooding Revello Drive.

She passes the bottle. "Here - wet your whistle. Gonna be a long day tomorrow."

Spike stares at her - his eyes are weary and wary, too. "Ta. What's in it, then? Smells lovely."

"Lagavullin. Seriously, you look like you need a pick-me-up."

"He doesn't take it straight, Faith." Buffy drops down at Spike's elbow. "Here - nice warm pig's blood."

Spike takes the two flasks, pouring the whiskey in with the blood, shaking, chugging. "Mrrmphm," he mutters, as the alcohol kicks in. "Ave, Caesar, and all that. Oh, and cheers, slayers. One drink for luck."

Nice, Deb, even if I must admit to not knowing one Scotch from another.Now, pig's blood...no, just kidding.

Annoying! cereal: "That makes two of us,"

"I know we've just met, and everything? But I wish you wouldn't talk like that about yourself. It makes me feel all oogy."

He smiles reluctantly at the way she says it. 'You Sunnydale people have your own dictionary, don't you? Where I come from, we don't speak 'oogy'."
"Um, strange and offputting?"
"I thought that was 'wiggins'. What's a wiggins, then?"
"You feel oogy after you have a wiggins, sometimes. Look, we started on the wrong foot before. I guess I should have leveled with you...but your file said you were emotional so I didn't want to take the chance that you'd...flip out or something. I'm Willow, and that chocolate's turning you into a teenager."

"I'm Tim Bayliss," he said.

"We covered that already," she says, and gives him a look that says "Keep up!" which is oddly similar to the one he gets every day. Do gifted people take classes to learn how to do that? he wonders.

Actually, he's glad to hear about the chocolate. It would explain the tripping, the stammer, the embarrassment, the fact that he's gotten...distracted by billboards on the street. He was debating whether to go to a neurologist, a psychiatrist or both. Right now, he wants to hug the petite thing in the really ugly sweater. It's really ugly. How could her friends let her out like that? Don't they care? Mentally he adds "short attention span" to his symptom list.

"What file do you have on me?"

"SPD Personnel...you'd think they'd be harder to get in than the ME's office....their firewalls need a major update." And Willow looked proud, in spite of herself."In your performance review for Security Detail in '92, it says both "highly emotional" and...um...this isn't so nice."

"Might as well talk about me to my face. And don't kids read "Rolling Stone' anymore?"

"Ok, it says 'has enough issues for his own subscription.' But look at the good...at least they thought you have a lot going on, mentally."

Right now, he wants to hug the petite thing in the really ugly sweater. It's really ugly. How could her friends let her out like that? Don't they care? Mentally he adds "short attention span" to his symptom list.

Based on the above...

"Ok, it says 'has enough issues for his own subscription.' But look at the good...at least they thought you have a lot going on, mentally."

and this...

erika, will you marry me? I am so in luv with everything you write. The timing, the snark, the intelligence...

I realize, both straight females and all, but still. Gah!

Aw, shucks.Maybe this plural marriage could get big.And, cause I'm all greedy, does it sound like Willow and Timmy? Or like I'm showing off.