milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sharpe emerges from wherever he spent the night, probably a room in the staff quarters, looking slightly the worse for wear.

Without pausing, he heads straight across the room and out through the front door. Ten minutes or so later, he comes back in, dripping - apparently he felt the need to dunk his head in the trough at home.

With a brief stop at the Bar, he makes for a booth. And, slowly and with much crossing-out, he starts to write.

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"....point," Faith admits ruefully.

"Anyway. I'm awake now."

"I prefer coffee for that, myself."

"Cold water's cheaper and easier."

"Cheaper, I get, but easier?"

Faith eyes Bar, pointedly.

He shrugs. "Force of habit?"

"Point taken. Whatcha writin'?"

His writing is pretty close to illegible, when he's not making an effort, but she might make out a few familiar names.

"Sort of a history."

"Of what?"

She sees the names. She's waiting for him to tell her.

"The Chosen Men." He concentrates on the paper. "Not like anyone else's going to remember them, save me and Harper."

"...ah."

Faith nods slightly, understanding.

"Slayers keep diaries, for that kind of thing."

"Fallen friends?" He looks up at her, finally.

"Well...not really. I told you about the Watcher's Council, right?"

"I think you mentioned them, aye."

Not in the best possible terms.

"They used to keep records of Slayers...so we could learn from the girls who came before us, you know? Demons they faced, things like that. So it started with them, but there are a lot more Slayers than there were Watchers, when I left my world, so the Slayers were keeping their own records."

Sharpe nods.

"Makes sense. It's good to have a record."

Faith nods.

"Depressing to read, though."

"...maybe so."

He glances down at his own work, what there is of it so far.

"'Swallowed whole by large worm demon. Cut my way out. Ruined new boots. Swallowed whole by snake. Cut my way out. Ruined new skirt.'" Faith sighs.

Sharpe chuckles. "You get any compensation for that?"

"Nah. Slaying's not a salary gig."

"Should be."

"Yeah. Well, it's not my problem anymore."

"...no, I s'pose it's not, at that." He leans back in the chair. "To retirement, then."

"Yeah." Faith puts her feet up. "And marriage. And not dying horrifically."