Oh, I will.

t thunk

That's the sound of me becoming connie's minion.

Oh, connie, hurt me like that some more. Please.

The falling water from the shower allowed the fiction that the drops on Giles' face were not mostly tears. He let Ethan hold him up for now, abandoning his duty, his mission, his heritage. For now.

And while I'm here, this is the fic Anne and I spent yesterday afternoon pinging each other about. M*A*S*H fan fiction, with my normal slashy edge. Implied (well, specified) Hawkeye/Trapper. A series of drafts for a letter Hawkeye sent to Trapper, having missed him by ten minutes at the airport when he left for home.

I think I've cracked the problem I was having with it.

Various Versions

--- ---

Sheet One

--- ---

This sheet is struck through with a savage cross—tearing the paper in a couple of places—and has the words “Too honest” scrawled across it. Like the others, it is written on plain white paper—probably standard army issue—with the M*A*S*H 4077 APO handwritten at the top.

This, like the next two, was gathered from Hawkeye’s waste paper basket. The letters are therefore ordered for readability rather than the unknown order in which he wrote them.

--- ---

Dear Trapper,

Father Mulcahy tells me that honesty is the best policy, so I’m going to be totally honest with you.

I missed you by ten minutes at the airport. Ten lousy minutes! I keep going over in my mind everything I could have done quicker, even though I know that ifI had arrived in time, you still would have gotten on that plane. Perhaps it’s better this way: watching you leave would have torn me apart.

It’s been tough out here—hell, it still is—but you made it a little easier. You’ve been my best friend, and more. I know the ‘more’ never came to much of anything beyond a few nights of drunken sex when neither of us had managed to pick up a nurse of the totally opposite sex (and that one time when we just wanted to shock Frank). I just thought you should know it did actually mean something—a lot—to me, even if you’d prefer to forget it.

Oh, I know I say that to all of them—you’ve heard me often enough—but for once I actually mean it. Trapper, I’ve loved you over and above the call of friendship, and I’m sorry I never had the guts to tell you in person.

Goodbye, my friend, and good luck.

Yours,

Hawkeye.

--- ---

Sheet Two

--- ---

The whole is struck through by a cross, as before, and seems to have been abandoned before it was completed (see below).

--- ---

Dear John,

No, this isn’t the classic “dear-John-I’m running-off-with-another-guy” letter—somewhat the opposite in fact. The new bunkmate is a wimp, and I miss you already. I miss you in the surgery, helping me deal with Frank; I miss your wit and your laugh; and I miss…

--- ---

Beyond that point the writing is illegible: the next two words are probably ‘your’ and then ‘body’; although it has to be said that ‘baby’ or ‘bust’ are equally likely. There’s then a gap, and something that carries the intent if not the exact meaning of ‘oh, damn this’.

--- ---

Sheet Three

--- ---

The writing on this sheet is considerably more controlled than on the others; while still clearly Hawkeye’s, every letter is firm and clear, and especially the letters with tall stems (d, b, t, h, and in particular the k in his signature) are precise and upright, where normally they have a slight forward slope.

Again, the whole is struck through, and the words “Lying won’t work” have been scrawled across the top in a very much freer hand (although a close inspection of the tail of the ‘y’ reveals it to be Hawkeye’s—these letters haven’t been edited by anyone else).

--- ---

Dear John,

I hope all’s well stateside. The war is nice and deadly, and is missing your presence already. Can you send some more Adam’s Ribs with your next letter? I’ve found a nurse who likes them too—a few would go a long way there.

Klinger says to tell you that the blue skirt with the pink flowers you helped him choose has been a big success.

Sorry this is so short—I have an appointment with a very dry witted martini.

Yours,

Hawkeye.

--- ---

Sheet Four

--- ---

This letter was in excellent condition barring a couple of thumb marks (having been kept in the original envelope) and was generously donated by Dr. McIntyre’s grandson.

--- ---

Dear Trapper,

I’ll miss you.

Hawkeye.

Am, I fear that I don't know enough about M.A.S.H to appreciate this properly from a fanfic point of view, but structurally I like it lots. V. nice work!

Giles actually had his hand out to accept the towel before he remembered who he was with. The second towel, though, was handed to him as Ethan dried his own hair.

Oh, crumbs, Connie - you're so effortlessly good at this. Wow. And Wembley! And Neasden! Yay! Go me with the curry house shout out!

I'm going to put this here because I just found it, and it's SO bloody random. Randomalicious. And I can't imagine it's ever going to be used for anything, so I thought I'd wave it at y'all in the spirit of bemusement. You may want to skip. It's like one of those "Huh. When did I write that? Why did I write that? Did I write that? I did. Huh." moments. I may have been drunk.

* * *

Chrysanthemum Jones arrived at Waterloo with a wriggle and a jiggle and a pocket full of gin.

The wriggle was automatic, and emphasized by the impractically high heels of her boots; the jiggle was inevitable when such an excess of curves were cantilevered up to spill over so plunging a neckline; and the gin - well, the gin was par for the course for Chrysanthemum Jones. Not that she drank much, but she loved the decadent weight of a silver hip flask banging gently against her flesh. Chrysanthemum Chastity Juniper Jones was all about appearances, although her appearance was never the same twice in a row. Today she was sporting a modest afro and a candy orange mini-dress straight out of the swinging sixties. The boots arched her small feet right up onto their tip toes, and did such remarkable things to the curve of her calves and the angle of her arse that heads turned sharply all up and down the platform, and one gentleman walked straight into an empty refreshment trolley.

Chrysanthemum Jones, comfortably oblivious, stalked towards the ticket barriers with her head held high.

Connie: wibble...

Plei: Woo! Lovelovelove that first line!

Fay, in the interests of producing More Stories-- that as a beginning intrigues me. It has the potential to be a very wibble- or gah-making story.

she loved the decadent weight of a silver hip flask banging gently against her flesh.

What's important about that hip flask? Just its weigth, or is there something more behind it? (Apart for her hip, which is obviously also interesting.)

her appearance was never the same twice in a row.

Why not? Choice, or a job? Spy springs to mind, but there are lots of other options.

one gentleman walked straight into an empty refreshment trolley.

Love this line. Just love it.

stalked towards the ticket barriers with her head held high.

Is her head held so high as bahit, or part of the outfit?

Why's she at Waterloo? Where could she be going from there?

Chrysanthemum Chastity Juniper Jones

Is this her real name? If it is, what must her parents have been like?

I can go on, if I'm helping. Or even entertaining you.

Hmmmm. I was steered over here, but I'm not sure how to go about posting mine; it's 63K, damnit.

A link? A PDF link?

Help me, I'm a technomoron.....

Deb, you can link if it's a long piece.

And then again, a lot of us don't link long stuff; we just paste it here, in as many posts as it takes. Easier for people to comment that way.

Consuela suggested the other lit thread, but I'm totally easy.

OK. I'll post the first chunk of "The Pensioner" here. It's an alternate ending to the events leading up to "The Gift."

• * *

THE PENSIONER

(part 1)

I broke some rules recently. And there are some rules you aren't supposed to break.

For instance, you don't turn your back on a vampire. You don't let teeth near your throat, not a lover's teeth, not the teeth of an evil thing. Most importantly, there's the rule I never thought I'd have the opportunity to even bend: you don't sleep with ex-lovers. All of these rules, my rigid adherence to them and my policy of staying uninvolved with a world that has gone out of its way to damage me, have helped me stay alive.

I've spent thirty years cut off from the world, uninvolved. That ended, thanks to that choice I made, those rules I broke.

A few days ago, I came home from a wander in the hills to find my housekeeper lying in wait.

"Madame?" It was breathed, nearly whispered, and I raised an eyebrow. Hilde isn't usually shy; Teutons don't tend that way. "There's a girl in there. To see you, she said."

The second eyebrow joined the first at my hairline. Hilde doesn't usually let strangers into my inner sanctum, either. We see few creatures of any sort, and humans are the rarest visitors of all. "A girl, to see me. Did she give a name?"

"Yes." It came out flat. "But there was no need for it. I knew her; you would know her. She is the Slayer."

I went very still. The ancient feline skill, blending motionlessly into the woodwork before the death strike, was something I would hopefully never lose.

"The Slayer, current version. Buffy Summers, that would be." My own voice sounded thin. "Are you sure?"

"Sure, yes." Hilde was watching me. "She wants you."

"Then she'll have me." I moved for the door, and at the thin edge of my remaining vision, I saw Hilde cringe back. She should have known better; Hilde is vital to my life and my comfort, as well as being my eyes in the world. I could no sooner offer her harm than I could turn back time and heal myself. "It's all right, I'm not angry. Bring some coffee, would you? And a jug of cream."

I opened the door and walked into my library.

Had I found my uninvited guest touching anything, browsing, giving any indication that she thought she had a right to be there, I might well have killed her, or made it necessary for her to kill me. But she was sitting in the window seat, my own favorite place. Her hands were tranquil, folded one over the other in her lap. Her back was straight, her eyes as calm as lake water. Her hearing was phenomenal; I move nearly silently, but her head was turned and her eyes focussed on the left side of my face before I had the door closed.

Moreover, my cats were calm. Had she been out of place, a wrong thing growing in my garden, Isis and Anubis would have driven her out, or given me warning. But the two sealpoint Siamese crouched calmly, flanking her at either side, watching me through blue enigmatic eyes, telling me she was no danger to me. I trusted their instincts. This is what familiars are supposed to do.

"Ms. Summers, I believe." My voice was polite, but not cordial. "A pleasure, though a rather surprising one." She got up, slowly and carefully, keeping a wary eye on my left side. I suppose her Watcher, whoever was Watcher for this unusual model of Slayer, had warned her about me, about the damaged right side, about the brutally fast reflexes, about the scar tissue, about the two small Siamese familiars and why I had a right to call them familiars in the first place. Her Watcher couldn't have told her everything. There were only two men who could have done that, and at least one of them was dead.

"I know. I mean, I'm not surprised you're surprised." She was being careful, but she wasn't intimidated, not by my presence nor, apparently, by my reputation. I spoke softly to Isis and Anubis, and they came to sit, one on each of my shoulders, springing in unison from window seat to me. That surprised a short laugh out the Slayer, the two cats as sleek as seals flying through the air. It broke the ice.

"Ah - here's Hilde with coffee. Thanks." I poured a cup and passed it to the girl. "If you don't mind, I think we'll dispense with the traditional niceties. I'm assuming you need something, since I can't imagine how you would even know about my existence, much less have come this high into the hills to find me. This house - it isn't easy to find, not at any time."

"I came to ask for help." Straight warmly-coloured eyes met mine, wavered, then focussed. I didn't hold that momentary shying away against her: there's something about a frozen wide-open eye that throws the fully sighted, particularly a Slayer. There but for the grace of god...

"You want my help? Interesting." I waved her back towards the window seat. "Sit down, child. Before we go any further, I want to know how you knew about my existence. Not many do, any more. In fact, having spent a few bad minutes being legally dead, I allowed most of the world to believe I'd stayed that way."

She sat, balancing the coffee on one knee. I dipped fingertips into the small jug of heavy cream and let the familiars touch their tongues to me. The silence stretched out, until I judged it time to push a bit. "I'm waiting."

"My Watcher told us about you. Not a lot - just, well, that you existed, and that you'd been powerful." She was suddenly having trouble framing her words. "I wasn't really sure you were real, but - he - well, he doesn't know I'm here. I have the feeling he's going to be seriously pissed off when he finds out. Too damned bad. I need your help."

I threw my head back and laughed, startling the cats; they aren't used to that noise, not coming from me. "Good for you, Ms. Summers. That's a healthy attitude. Watch