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

(damn. OK, I now know how long a post can be....)

(continued)

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. Watchers can be - a hindrance sometimes. How can I help you?"

"It's my best friend who needs the help, not me. I'm fine, she's so very not fine. And she's going to be even more seriously pissed than Giles when she finds- "

"Giles?"

The name came out as a whip-crack. Still on my shoulders, Isis and Anubis went long and low, bristlng.

She looked puzzled. "Yes - Rupert Giles. He's my Watcher. What is it? What's the matter? Do you know him?"

"Do I know him?" I began to shake, and then the shaking became laughter, and the laughter became tears. The tears were catastrophic, or could have been; if you have only one functional eye, you can't afford to drown it. "Biblically, child. Every nook and cranny. Did he happen to mention that I killed his father?"She was staring at me, her mouth slightly open. Something was moving inside me somwehere, something I'd thought buried for good. A floodgate opened, and sharp dark words came tumbling out.

"He didn't think to mention that? Goodness. Yes indeed, Ripper and I had a high old time. Once we even shagged behind a prickly bush in the Woodstock Road, hard by the gates to Oriel College. We were undergrads at the time - Daddy's Little Watcher, and Slayer in Training. His father didn't approve."

Her mouth had thinned out. She took a breath. "What business was it of his father's, anyway?"

"Oh, it was his business, make no mistake. His father was my Watcher. He had a say. He used his say, repeatedly. Eventually, he used it to the Council." Oh, to hell with it. "Very muddy water under many stone bridges, child. And in any case, 'that was in another country and besides, the wench is dead.'" I saw her puzzlement. "Not a literature major? No, I suppose not. Who is this friend of yours, and why does she need help?"

"Her name is Willow. She's a witch, a very powerful one. But something's wrong."

I sipped coffee. "Tell me."

The story that followed was confused, but certainly not boring. A lesbian witch, her lover in trouble, had attempted a rescue out of said trouble by the ill-advised use of a first dip into what this pleasant child kept referring to as "dark magick." I found myself rather exasperated.

"All right. So your friend Willow is a practicing witch. So is her lover. The lover got snatched up by a hellbitch god. Willow took some spells she'd much better have let alone, out of a volume of darkness. Probably the Malleus. Little fool. I sympathise, but really, what a little fool."

"And now the magic has some kind of grip on her, and it won't let go. First, it was headaches. They started coming faster and harder. But now, something's really wrong, and none of us know what to do." Rather shockingly, the Slayer's mouth trembled. A Slayer with friends, with people she loved? I'd had one, someone I'd loved, and look where it had left me. "We - she disappeared for a few seconds. We were sitting at her kitchen table and she just flickered and went out, like an old lightbulb. When she faded back to us, she fainted. That was this morning. I need help, damn it."

I laid the tip of one finger on the Slayer's cheek, surprising myself in the process; I'm not one for touching. "You love this witch and want to help her. And the inimitable Rupert can't find anything, of course."

"Why do you say 'of course' like that?" Her eyes were suddenly angry. "Giles can find stuff almost always. He's an incredible researcher!"

"He can't find anything because this isn't Watcher business, and it isn't Slayer business. It's witchcraft. I know exactly where your friend Willow went. I've been there myself. It's no fun at all. And you're quite right - she needs my help, and very soon, too."

Pensioner, part3

• * *

Let me welcome you to Le Perdu.

Buffy Summers had found my house in the desert hills outside Sunnydale, and this was no small feat. My house is not what it seems; my house is many houses in many places and many times. There are no magic wards to protect me. Wards are the solution and the final resort of the frightened and the amateurish. I am neither, and my sanctuary is called as it is for a reason. The Slayer had, in fact, been lucky in her quest for me, because at any given moment, Le Perdu may not be visible to the eyes of the world, or even in this world.

Le Perdu, my home, my refuge, my quiet floating isle of Gramarye. Here is where I keep my bed, my weaponry, my witch's garden, my music, all my passions and all passion spent. Here is where I keep my damaged flesh and what remains of my angry restless spirit. Here, too, is where I keep spells that no one could touch but me, and books that my ex-lover would kill to get, if killing was his way. Despite the old nickname, Ripper, killing hadn't been his way when I'd known him, except as a last resort.

The Slayer watched me as I meditated. She said nothing at all, merely waiting for me; this was a wise child, if she could regnognise those rare moments when passivity was her ally.

I sighed, knowing what was wrong with the young witch, knowing where she'd gone, knowing what was pulling her back to a place she should never have been in the first place. The help was mine to give, and it would mean a few things that weren't going to make me happy, foremost being a trip into the living world. First, though, I had to confirm what I believed.

I went to the door, the cats watching me with the same blue straight gaze as the Slayer. "Hilde!"

"Madame?" She was outside the library door, and it was obvious she'd been there since leaving the coffee tray. Hilde was never happy when someone new breached the quiet sanctuary of Le Perdu. "What do you need?"

"Tea, Hilde. Black tea, in a wide white dish, a shallow dish. Make sure it's leaves - this isn't for drinking. And some cured catnip, and asphodel, and sweet alyssum - I need it fresh, from the garden. As quickly as you can, please. Also three flowers, white campion. It's the stuff growing near the lavender. Make the tea first, and let it cool while you gather the plants. And hurry - this must happen before the sun is over the yardarm. All right?"

She turned and went. I turned my good eye back to my beloved library, and found the Slayer smiling.

"Wow," she said, with no special emphasis. "You're - decisive."

"I know what I'm doing, you mean? Yes. I do." I sat down in the window seat, letting the last of the afternoon sun touch the ruined tissue on my right jaw and cheekbone. I could still feel warmth, even if I could feel little else. "Hilde will come back with what's needed soon. In the meantime, I need to know where your friend is now."

"Willow? Well, I'm not positive, but she's pretty much always at home with Tara these days. She's too disoriented to deal with much, and Tara needs her anyway." She reached for her purse. "I could call."

"Don't bother; that thing won't work here. It won't even turn on, much less give you a signal. This - this is not an ordinary house. Besides, it isn't needed. I can find her without a phone." I glanced out the window and saw Hilde, carefully putting a sprig of alyssum into her gardening basket. She was almost ready. I took a deep breathe, and faced the Slayer. "Listen to me. I'm going to show you something, and I might as well tell you not to bother trying to do it, or interfere, no matter what you see, or think you see. This is my spell; no one can do it but me. I want a promise you'll only watch, and touch nothing unless I tell you. Anything else could be dangerous. Understood?"

"Yes." I was beginning to admire her; not one unnecessary word, no questions. The simple promise held force. I was beginning to understand some of the deeper strengths Rupert would no doubt have seen and honed. When I had last seen him, he'd held the promise of a superb Watcher in the making.

"Good. Then sit quietly and concentrate on your friend's safety. Just envision her well, and safe, and home. I can't do anything until Hilde comes back."

"I'm here, Madame." And she was, fast and efficient as always, with everything precisely as I had asked.

(continued)

The Slayer came and stood nearby, her arms folded against temptation. "Where do you want me?"

"Exactly where you are." I took the dish of tea and arranged it in the center of the tray. The asphodel and alyssum I left alone, the protective breaths of the spell itself; the catnip I put aside for my familiars. The campion was the heart of the spell. "Can you see the dish?"

She nodded, her eyes fixed. "Good," I told her. "Watch, now. And touch nothing."

I ran my fingers around the edge of the dish. Once, twice, a third time, and a soft plangent note twisted its way free of the dish. "Lumiere cassée," I sang. "Lumiere cassée, Willow domina, lumière cassée, lumière cassée, ombres perdues héritées."

The dish echoed, picked up my pitch, sang back to me. I swirled the leaves of black tea. One crushed campion blossom, two, fell lightly into the brew. "Arrivent, arrivent." I crushed the third, and held it over the dish, and let it fall. "Arrivent!"

The clear liquid grew murky. Light flickered along its planes and edges, and the spherical music sang.

There was a girl in the dish, a young fox-faced girl with campion flowers in her hair. This was my sister, the young witch. I knew her face. She was of my tribe. She was one of mine. And she was in agony.

Fire, moving tendrils of flame. They reached out of blackness behind her, twisted through her red hair, slid into her eyes, turned the blue veins in throat and cheekbone into angry scarlet vines, growing, covering her consciousness like the evil thorns in a fairy story about a cursed sleeping princess...

"Help me." The voice laced the music, a tiny distant wail from a faraway place, from the girl in the dish. "Help me help me oh please, please..."

"Willow? Will!"

But the spell was done, the liquid still, the music silenced. I had seen what I needed to see. it was no more than confirmation of what I'd expected.

I turned to the girl at my shoulder. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip. There were tears pouring down her face, splashing unheeded to my library floor.

"Where is she?" The Slayer could barely speak. "Where - what was that?"

"She's where I thought she would be," I told her. "She crossed over. That was a dimension that exists in an anomaly. She started a spell from the Malleus. The problem is that she never exited properly, and now it's trying to pull her back in permanently."

"Help her." The plea came straight from the heart, and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long while, a kind of empathy with a human being. "Please. Can you help her?"

"Well, yes. I can." I smiled at her. How odd; it was probably my usual half-frozen death rictus, but it felt like a genuine warm smile. It tapered away into a grimace as I briefly contemplated what lay ahead. "I'm going to. But I'm not going to enjoy myself at all."

• * *

It had been a long time since I had left Le Perdu and its surrounding hills for the world of man. Tonight, I had no choice.

A college dormitory seemed an odd haven for two witches, one damaged, the other being eaten alive. Perhaps there was safety in hiding among many, or perhaps they had no place else to go. I didn't ask.

The Slayer led me through crowds of lounging students. I could have gone invisible, had I chosen, but invisibility takes energy, and I was going to need all the energy I could muster. So I kept my eyes on the Slayer and followed where she led, suffering the curious stares, the small undisguised shudders at my ruined profile.

We came to the witches' room, and the Slayer, after two short taps, let herself in.

"Willow?"

"Buffy - there you are."

I froze behind her. I knew that voice. For a long, desperate moment, I wished I had opted for invisibility after all.

(continued)

"Giles! What are you doing here? Did something happen?"

"Willow called me. When I got here, she was sleeping. It's not natural, Buffy. Her eyes are half open and she seems to be fading in and out. She's in the other room, curled up with Tara. I gave Tara a sedative - she was agitated, a bit violent. I thought I should..." The voice I remembered, that had once been an integral part of my emotional landscape, died away. He had seen me.

"Oh, dear god," he said quietly.

"Rupert." The dead side of my face was burning intolerably. It took a second to identify the source, the hot tears leaking, scalding my face. I swallowed hard, and tasted salt. "It's been awhile."

He was staring at me, something I couldn't read painting his face. Loathing, repulsion? Or perhaps nothing more than the unbearable weight of memory? "What are you doing here? How can you possibly be here? Buffy..."

"She asked for my help." Something in my own uncertainty steadied me. I stepped into the room, locking both eyes on Rupert's. Those damned glasses - they were such an effective shield against my reading him, and they always had been. "I can help, and I intend to."

"God, god, god." He shook his head. "You intend to help, do you? How? A nice fire spell?"

The words were cruel as only Rupert Giles knew how to be cruel. The scar tissue that laced the right side of my body bore his name, after all. A thread of white-hot anger warmed me. "This is a witch's business, not a Watcher's," I snapped. "The girl is one of mine. You can search your books but you won't find a damned thing. I know where she's been, and what to do. So why don't you take your animosity and your disgust at what you did to me outside, and let me help the child?"

"Stop it, Giles." The Slayer spoke to Rupert, but now she looked directly at me. She had turned her back on her Watcher. "I'm waiting outside, unless you need me in here?"

"No. Go. And don't worry. I'll bring her back." I kept my eyes on the man I had loved and lost, barely noticing the door closing behind her. "Why are you staying, Rupert? Do you think I'll do that girl some damage? Or are you just so enchanted with what you did to my face that your feet won't work?"

"Still have that hornet's backside for a tongue, I see." He was smiling at me. Something had changed in his face in the last few moments. "Do you know, I find that comforting? We're about to watch the world as we know it die, and you haven't changed one iota. Comforting. Amanda, my darling, my only one, I thought you were dead. Come here, beloved. Come here to me."

He had used the old words, a lover's words. For a moment lasting centuries, I gawked at him.

Then he took off his glasses, and lifted his face, and let me see the love still there. He held out his arms, and I collapsed against him.

"Damnation." Eons later, I was mumbling into his chest, my fingers clutching his sweater. "Hellfire and damnation. I thought you were completely gone, out of my life. I'd put you out of my mind."

"You've never been out of mine." He held me, one cheek against my dead one; we were much of a height. "How could you be? I thought I'd killed you. When I interrupted your spell - I thought you were murdering my father. I didn't know what the interruption would do to you." A remembered anguish colored his voice. "How could I have possibly known?"

"I wasn't trying to murder him, he was tryin to murder me. I was using a fire-spell to repel him. Self-defense; he was trying to kill me. He had the Council's blessing, and one of their nastiest weapons." We had never talked about it, but the memory was never completely out of my head: the angry Watcher, seething with malevolent impotent rage at his own inability to control me or stop the passion between his son and the girl he regarded as his property. He had come for me, armed with a malison from the Council's personal sorcerers. I had wanted to tell Rupert the truth of it for nearly thirty years, and all that time, he had believed me dead. Now he was here, and ready to listen. But this wasn't the time.