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Random fic snippet
Found this on the hard drive. No idea where I was going with it: something to do with Wesley, I think.
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Nigel Hammond had frequently had mixed feelings about this whole Watcher business. It had struck him, from time to time, that it was potentially rather a risky occupation. This opinion had been validated, a little more completely than he would have wished for, when the Watchers’ Council blew up. A risky occupation indeed. Fortunately for Nigel himself, he had been in Prague, consulting with the National Library about a couple of rather obscure old scrolls, and had thus managed to avoid such an ignominious end.
Now, several months later, the Council was being reborn, led by the legendary Rupert Giles, Maverick Watcher (the ‘Maverick’ went with the name; no-one at the old Watchers’ Council had ever omitted it; it was something of a trial for those remaining to remember *not* to say it). They had makeshift offices in south London (cheaper rent than where they had been, and that did, for the first time, matter), and were slowly building up their library. The old guard, Quentin Travers’ cronies, had refused to have anything to do with the proceedings, and had gone off by themselves. Those who didn’t mind the change in management had remained.
Nigel didn’t much mind one way or the other.
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Nigel Hammond had frequently had mixed feelings about this whole Watcher business. It had struck him, from time to time, that it was potentially rather a risky occupation. This opinion had been validated, a little more completely than he would have wished for, when the Watchers’ Council blew up. A risky occupation indeed. Fortunately for Nigel himself, he had been in Prague, consulting with the National Library about a couple of rather obscure old scrolls, and had thus managed to avoid such an ignominious end.
Now, several months later, the Council was being reborn, led by the legendary Rupert Giles, Maverick Watcher (the ‘Maverick’ went with the name; no-one at the old Watchers’ Council had ever omitted it; it was something of a trial for those remaining to remember *not* to say it). They had makeshift offices in south London (cheaper rent than where they had been, and that did, for the first time, matter), and were slowly building up their library. The old guard, Quentin Travers’ cronies, had refused to have anything to do with the proceedings, and had gone off by themselves. Those who didn’t mind the change in management had remained.
Nigel didn’t much mind one way or the other.