I don't think even Lenny's ears are virgin.Do you?

I seriously doubt it.

Would it be alright if I posted another little short thing I cooked up last night?

Between confessions, barfly chit-chat, and Gwennie? Nuh uh.

SA, of course it would be all right! I love to see what you've written.

In any case, there's a thing floating around livejournal about coming out of the WIP closet. This might be just what I need to jumpstart me on the fics that got stalled in all the craziness of last year.

Every day is WIP Day for me...I post as it happens. Cause I'm a fiend for the feedback.

Just for future reference, count me in as wanting to read anything that y'all cook up.

More fic! Travers and Buffy, strolling and talking. And numbah!

"After that . . . interval . . . in college," he went on, "Rupert settled in fairly well. I tried to direct him into the archives and research, but he kept insisting he wanted to be a Watcher in the field. Apparently we never fully succeeding in eradicating the rebel in him."

"I'm glad," Buffy said quietly.

Travers pursed his lips. "We do have reasons for why we do things the way we do--and it's not just because that's the way things have always been done. That's not even true. There have been periods where it was judged immoral to take a young girl away from her family, others when it was considered that leaving her in her community, among people she knew, would give her a greater sense of responsibility in fighting the evil things."

"And?" Buffy asked when he paused.

"It made no difference," he said softly. "The Slayers fought, and the Slayers died. Sometimes she tried harder because her loved ones were in danger, sometimes that very danger distracted her at a critical moment."

"And did we ever get a say in how we were treating, through all the long years the Coucil has been around?"

Travers walked quietly for several moments. "I have been a part of the Watchers Council in one way or another for nearly forty years. In that time, do you know how many Slayers there have been?"

Buffy shook her head, dreading the answer.

"Twenty-three. Not even an average of a year and a half for each. Consider how long you have been a Slayer, Miss Summers, and think how short the life span of some of those Slayers has been." He stared off into the darkness. "One meets this lovely young girl, strong and brave, trained for the war, ready to do her duty. One starts to get to know her, and then she's gone. And there's another girl, equally strong and brave, equally doomed. It doesn't take many memorial services before one stops trying to know her as more than the Vampire Slayer. It's the only way to stay sane."

The image of all those deaths twisted Buffy's stomach. "Then why haven't you tried to figure out why I've survived so long? You can use it to stop those girls dying."

He turned on her. "Do you think we enjoy this? Sending girls who could be our sisters, our nieces, our daughters to this doom? Do you really think it is only about the power for us?"

"That's all I saw when you were here last Fall. And then there was the Crucia-whatever. Everything designed to make me jump to your tune. You never asked me what I thought about the job, and I'm the one doing it. Slayers are the ones dying out here, not Watchers--"

They stared at each other, then Travers began walking again. "We lose a great many Watchers in the field. Someone on the Council always says, 'Damned shame about So-and-So, wants to go in the field with the Slayer.' It's considered less prestigious. The simple fact is, we're afraid." He glanced at Buffy. "It has happened before, losing a Watcher--even a Slayer--to the vampires. We try to act on it as soon as we can, especially if it's a Watcher. There is too much knowledge that can be used against us in the wrong hands."

She bristled. "Why not go to the extra effort for a Slayer who's been turned?"

His smile was sad, but oddly proud. "They don't last long. Someone wrote a tedious thesis on the matter some years back, but the current theory is that the--spark--that makes one a Slayer survives the transformation, and the dichotomy of being the thing one is sworn to kill is too much for them. They rarely survive long."

"Rarely isn't never."

"No. And those are the bad times." He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Miss Summers, your Watcher, my friend, is dead. There's a memorial service planned for Rupert Giles. Once we're sure. You know he must be stopped."

Buffy closed her eyes. Yes, she knew it. Every Slayer cell in her body knew it. Except the ones in her heart, that still whimpered, "Not Giles. I can't do this without him."

Travers took her hands gently. "We're not asking you to do it yourself. Perhaps, in the first few hours, before you had a chance to think, it would have been possible. But not now. That's why I'm here with the others."

She glanced out into the darkness, where the trio of commandos had disappeared. "You're going after him. In force."

"Yes."

"He'll try to stop you."

"I know. Which is why we must move quickly. But I need to know where he is."

"You don't think I can do it, do you."

"I don't think it's something we should ask you to do. Truly, Miss Summers, we're not monsters. Unlike the vampires."

Not her call. Not her responsibility. Part of her knew this was cowardice speaking, but the other part, the part that was still crying, was glad to have the decision taken out of her hands. Besides, they'd find out sooner or later, and sooner reduced the chances of them all getting killed. She took a deep breath, focused on the carved weeping angel on a nearby mausoleum, and told Quentin Travers about Sunrise Grove.

Guh...

That's wonderful pain, Connie. I love your take on the Watchers and the reasons why they act like they do.

Oh, damn you, Connie. Damn you to an eternity (or at least a few years) of writing this stuff. Because I want to read it. All of it. Every single blessed word.

Yea, verily, let it be said that Connie has done the improbable: made me sympathise with those prats at the Council.

Brava, Connie. Please keep at it. (see above)

Erika, as always, the voices come shining through. Your Lenny is (why am I not surprised?) pitch-perfect; I hear Orbach's delievery in every word.