#And had only ever seen it spelt gray

[magicalmyths]

guys I'm your favorite morally gray character right??

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.04

Officially Family

10/03/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 4,265

Warnings: Language?, a wee bit of angst, sexy blonde kings wearing floofy shirts

A/N: So, this chapter was actually intended to be joined with what will be the next chapter but I think having them separate will do better. There’s a lot to digest in this one, so I hope it reads well even though it’s a little on the shorter side (for me). Let me know what you like/love/had to think about whatever! As always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo

It feels like a dream, sitting in the carriage as your new life looms closer and closer with every turn of the steel and wooden wheel.

Across from you, his Majesty is staring at you. Sussing out your lack of reaction to what happened last night.

~~~~~~~~~~

Happy has your arm, carefully leading you down further and further into the castle. Deeper than you’ve gone yet, and when he finally stops, you’re sure that you’re in a dungeon somewhere because there are no windows, only diffuse candlelight every few steps.

You can hear the subtle drip of water and the scurrying of tiny feet.

An echoing meow tells you that it’s probably just cats and their kittens inhabiting the deep parts of the castle.

“Why are we down here?” You ask, frightened that maybe his Majesty really is upset with you.

What if Happy lied? What if King Rogers was not happy with you and because you failed to entice him, King Tony is going to have you chained up in a cell?

“His Majesty’s other office is down here. Just at the end of the hall. I’m not supposed to go with you, so...” He hesitates in letting your arm go. “Can you make it there on your own? You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

You look down at your pretty white gown with its pink underlay and the way even down here in the dim it seems to shine like a pearl. The bottom layer is dirty now, both from your fall and from dragging it down along these dirty floors.

“No. I’m fine.” You think.

Happy lets you go. “Just straight ahead. Last door at the end of the hall. Don’t bother knocking. He’s expecting you.”

You watch as he turns away from you and with one final glance back to make sure you’re alright, he disappears up along the gray stone steps to the daylight above.

Fear will get you nowhere. So, you shove it aside and march straight for that door at the end.

You give yourself one moment of hesitation to take a deep breath and prepare yourself for what might be a trap but as the heavy door swings open, you find yourself facing a golden mask, devoid of humanoid features save for the glowing blue eyes of what you’re sure must be magic.

You take a deep breath, a scream working its way into your throat before the golden face shakes its head and then it speaks.

“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t scream.” His Majesty’s voice says. He throws one hand out towards you and you watch the slit of his metallic lips that do not move as he speaks.

Somehow, despite there being no real opening, his voice is amplified. The golden armor, which you now see is to accentuate the massive amounts of red that he’s wearing, extends down to his sternum, shoulders, and arms.

It’s there in his arms that the armor begins to weave with regular leather plate armor, deep red. In his hands shine two large orbs of light like that which comes out of his eyes. At the center of his chest is a glowing blue circle that you suddenly realize is the design you’d first noticed on his servants’ armor. The coachman and the footman.

The rest of his outfit is thick, sturdy red linen and cotton, black leather belts around his waist that match the darker shade of his leather pants. Golden boots rise high up to his knees where golden shin guards with red leather beneath complete the look.

He reaches up behind his head and with a small click, there’s a hiss and he pulls off the heavy metal mask and then pops it underneath his arm as if he were holding nothing more than a child’s ball.

“This probably won’t be the worst thing you’ll catch me doing.” He teases, then moves towards you.

You almost step back, but you remind yourself at whose invitation you’re in the castle and that this man is no longer just your king but your father.

“Please, say something.” He rolls his shoulders nervously, dark brow drawn together.

“You’re the Iron Knight.” You gasp, nearly breathless.

“It’s not really Iron. It’s a new metal. Lighter than iron. Titanium is what they called it where I found it. I added some nickel. Makes it easier to move in. Here, try it on.”

He holds the mask out to you, and you take a step back, this time simply refusing to wear the mask not fearful.

“No thank you.” You frown at him, wondering what he’s playing at offering to let you try it on.

“It won’t bite.” He chuckles but puts it down on a table which finally draws your eyes to the rest of the room.

In essence it is a massive dungeon. It’s tall and wide with a vaulted ceiling supported with thick stone pillars. There are also countless tables along two of the walls, some metal, some wood. So much gear is stacked on each table. Different shin guards and boots, shoulder guards, and wristlets. There are a few chest pieces like the one he’s wearing, works in progress.

He’d been standing right at the center of this collection of tables, a target dummy made of straw and burlap sacks at the far end of the dungeon room, singed at the head.

“I think I’ve finally got the aiming down.” He tells you, and you wander over behind him as he lifts his hand and aims it at the dummy. “Careful.”

His warning makes you step back, but he puts his hand out towards you to make sure you’re safe.

There’s a subtle buzz. A hiss, like fire but not exactly fire. It reminds you of the initial crackle and spark of a fire but it’s chaotic in its power. It buzzes louder and louder until there’s a loud fizzing sound as the blue light explodes from his palm.

It lights up the room but soars across to strike the dummy right in the center of its chest.

“Wow!” You nearly yell, the booming in your ears deafening still.

His Majesty turns towards you with a smirk, a cat’s grin as he peels off the gauntlet he’s wearing and with it the chest piece it’s attached to.

“Is it magic?” You ask him, hearing going back to normal.

“Science.” He counters, piling his armor up on the empty table where he’d placed his mask. “And a little bit of magic, yes.”

“What kind of science?” You wonder, knowing nothing about science, your curiosity is peaked.

“Chemistry. It took me a long time to figure out the right combination but a little copper sulfate, some special water, a few other ingredients and of course, the magic that gives my little light show a nice blue glow.” His Majesty says.

“And the magic?” You ask him, desperate to understand but already completely lost. Copper sulfate?

“It’s a root. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. Grown by one of the witches in the East woods. She taught me how to do it and how to use its properties.” He explains.

“You got instructions from a witch?” You wonder, shocked by this revelation more than knowing that he is the Iron Knight.

“They’re not all bad. Some of them just wanna be left alone. It’s her own creation. The root.” He places the last bit of his armor aside then massages his wrist.

“Does it hurt, your Maje-”

“Ah, ah.” He frowns at you, his bearded lips contorted into a small pout.

“Father.” You correct yourself. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m alright. And it’s Man, by the way.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Iron Man. Not Iron Knight. I don’t want people to think he’s of noble birth.” He explains.

“Oh.” You think. “But you are of noble birth.”

“Yes. But I want people to feel like anyone could be the Iron Man. They should all feel like they can take power back in their own kingdom whether it’s from an oppressive lord or a schoolyard bully. My people should be able to stand up for themselves.” He says passionately, moving to sit on a stool and roll up the white sleeves of his shirt.

“Anyway,” He begins, “Let’s forget about the Iron Man for now. Steve has written back about your portrait.”

Oh, man, there are those nerves again. You can feel the lightheadedness working its way back in.

“And wh-what did he say?” You lick your lips and move to stand closer.

Tony reaches into his vest pocket and unfolds a piece of paper before holding it out for you.

“Read it.” He tells you, and hesitantly you take it.

“I-I don’t know how to read just yet.” You admit, feeling shame once again.

“Sound it out. You know how to say your letters, right?”

Damn. Okay…time to give this a try. “First word is ‘I’.”

Easy enough.

“Good.” Father says.

“I ‘C-A-N’ with a t? Can’t?”

He nods.

“Wooo-wuu-wah-it?” You say the word a few times in your head. “Oh, ‘wait’?”

Another nod.

“I can’t wait…t-o..to. I can’t wait to ‘mee-eet her.’” You beam up at him, then look back down at the painfully short note. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Okay. You’re too slow. That was torture. Give it here.” He reaches for it and you hurry to hand it to him then move around behind him to look over his shoulder at the words.

“Tony, I can’t wait to meet her. She has nice eyes. Bring her tomorrow. We can marry the day after. Sincerely, His Royal Majesty…blah blah blah…you get the picture.” Father begins to fold up the letter, but you throw your hand over his shoulder gently, reaching for it.

“Can I keep it?” You smile at him, neck and ears burning.

“Sure, kid. Keep it.” He hands it over then gets up and moves to his tables of scraps and projects.

“Did he really say that I have nice eyes?” You unfold the piece of paper and look for the word eyes. How was that spelt again?

“Yes. He says that about every girl though, so don’t get your hopes up.” He says, dashing your dreams.

“Oh.” You sigh, moving to sit on the stool he’d been on.

“Don’t worry, kid. It just means that he isn’t sure what to think. He’ll have more of an idea when he sees you in person. I saw the picture and it doesn’t do you justice. You’ll knock his socks off.” He promises. “You’re my kid, remember?”

You nearly smile but you’re reminded that in two days’ time, you’ll be married.

“I want to make him happy, father.” You sigh, melancholy.

“You will. Just…don’t rush it. Get to know him.” He looks up at you and stares right back into your own sorrowful gaze.

He puts his tools down and moves to you, placing his hands on your arms.

“Look, I know what I’m asking of you. I didn’t even want to let Morgana do this because I want her to have what I have with her mother.”

“It’s okay.” You smile and give him a shrug.

“But it isn’t.” He frowns. “You deserve to marry for love to, Y/N. And I’m sorry for being selfish enough to ask you to do this for us, but-”

“I think I am.” You admit, sadness overtaking your chest to make it ache. “I’ve never met him. I know that he will not be what I’m expecting but Natasha has told me about him. About the person he was before Queen Margaret died and if I’d had to choose the qualities that I would want in a husband, he has almost all of them.”

“But he’s different now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” You ask him, nearly laughing.

“No.” Father says, shaking his head, no laughing for him. “No. What I’m trying to say is don’t give yourself to him completely. Not for a while. Keep your guard up and don’t let him break you.”

“Is he really that altered?” You wonder, no more worried than you were before.

“He’s not the same Steve. If you have to love him, love him in secret. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t give him that power over you. Promise me that you’ll think about yourself first.”

You know that he means well but becoming King Rogers’s wife…it means dedicating your life to the crown. To your future people. To your husband. Maybe, just to appease him, you can give him a little lie?

“I promise. I won’t let myself fall in love with him completely.” You smile at him and he relaxes.

“Good. Now, about your dress…”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Father…” You begin, “You’ve been staring at me for half an hour.”

He looks at the Queen beside him, Pepper, mother to you now. She’s smiling at him knowingly. She shakes her head at him and then looks out the window.

“Sorry. I’m just…about what you saw last night-”

“I won’t say anything.” You promise him. “And anyway, nothing happened last night. I didn’t see anything, so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I told you, you have nothing to worry about with this one.” Mother tells him.

“I didn’t think I did.” He replies with a gruff.

“He was up half the night, worried that he’d scared you.” Mother tells you.

“Pepper…” He grumbles.

“I know that this is all for show.” You start, smiling at them as they look away from their silent argument to you. “I know that it all kind of just happened and I was at the right place at the right time, but I appreciate your kindness. It’s been a long time since I’ve had parents and this past week has almost felt like I’ve had them back.

“I know it isn’t real but, you really do feel like my mother and father and I’m grateful. Thank you.”

For a moment, while you thank them, you let your mind think of them as they truly are. Your King and Queen.

They exchange a long look before they both reach out to take one of your hands. His Majesty the right, and the Queen the left.

“From the day that we took you in and until the day that you die, sweetheart, you will be our daughter. We’ve already added your name into our family register. You are now and forever officially a Stark. We can never repay what you have given not only us but your sister as well.

“When we find her, we’ll make sure she knows what you did for her.” Her Majesty says, eyes slightly misted.

“Kind of feels like we’re on the losing end having to lose a daughter we just found.” His Majesty says, and you nod with a smile, knowing exactly what he means.

“Once I learn how to write properly. I will write all the time.” You promise.

Her Majesty gives a small chuckle then the carriage jerks to a stop.

“We’re here, your Majesty.” Peter’s voice chimes in from the front of the carriage.

Time to meet your future husband.

~~~~~~~~~~

Father gives you a new dress. Beautiful silk sky blue fabric with white lace sewn in at the bust and wrists. The top of the sleeves are slightly puffed, and the skirt flows out, more lace along the bottom. It hugs your figure and Natasha ties your corset extra tight today, if only to accentuate your bosom.

“Maybe he’s a breasts man?” She shrugs.

Your neck burns.

She leave your hair down, as instructed by his Majesty, your father, long wavy curls left to flow down along your shoulders.

On your head she places a simple diamond tiara, small sapphires spread throughout the base to accentuate the blue of your dress.

All too soon you’re moving with hastened steps behind Natasha towards a room called the council chamber.

As you walk, you take the opportunity to look the castle over.

You’ve been in such a rush that you hadn’t really allowed yourself a proper look. You know that there are large round towers made of pink granite, the main structures of the castle are white marble. The roofs you can see a you pass yet another window—as they are numerous in this castle—are a dark blue slate. The colors go well together and make an aesthetically pleasing palette.

Inside the colors are darker, with deep chocolate oak wood walls and dark gray floors and ceilings. All the light fixtures however are in shades of silver and gold, bright colors to illuminate the darker tones of the interior.

There are also plenty of colorful carpets, pictures, and vases with flowers. Your future home is very warm in its décor and if it is any indication as to the style of the man you are about meet, you may not have anything to worry about after all.

You find Peter already waiting inside the room with Mother and Father also standing off to the side. Natasha shows you in, straight to the center of the room before a large high-backed chair embellished with golden etchings along the arm rests and back.

As Natasha fusses over your dress and hair, the rest of the room is absolutely silent. The nerves in the quiet are enough to drive you mad.

You wish someone would say something. Anything.

You’re already dying of nervousness. Why can’t they try and alleviate your mood?

Wringing your hands nervously, you turn to look at father who gives you an encouraging smile, mother also looking kindly.

Peter is chewing on his lip and Natasha moves to slap your hands away.

“Stop that.” She gasps.

“I’m nervous.” You admit, grieving silently.

“Me too.” She agrees.

“What?!” You gasp, quietly.

“What?” She shrugs. “I’m nervous for you.”

“I thought you said you knew him?”

“I did. Before his wife died.” She sighs. “He’s changed since then, and I don’t know what he’s really like anymore.”

It feels like you’re about to burst into tears when the large double doors behind the tall chair—which you now realize is a type of throne—open. Instead of the blonde you’ve been itching to finally see in person, your heart relaxes when a familiar long haired and blue-eyed knight enters the room.

He stops beside the throne and looks at father first, hand on his sword while the other is straight at his side.

“Your Majesties.” He bows politely, then turns to you. “Your Highness.”

The smile he gives you is one of encouragement and you appreciate it.

“His Royal Majesty, King Rogers, wonders if he and the Princess might be left to meet alone?” James meets Natasha’s eyes and you can see a quick silent communication between them before she’s reaching down for your hand.

“Listen, don’t speak until you’re spoken to. Smile if you think you should. Don’t mention the old Queen, and definitely don’t slip up about…well, you know. Keep conversation light. No swearing.” She’s rushing through these instructions and fussing with your hair and dress.

Your heart begins to panic.

“You’re leaving me?” You whine.

“Just for a few minutes.” She promises. “I’ll be right outside that door. Okay?”

“Nat…?” You swallow hard, wishing your nerves away. “What if he doesn’t-?”

“He just has to marry you.” She reminds you. “Nothing else matters. Once he’s married you, then you can worry about making him fall in love with you. Alright?”

“What if-?”

“It’s time.” She smiles. “Once step at a time. Good luck, your Highness.”

She pulls her hand out of your own firmly, and follows your mother, father, and Peter out of the room the way you’d first come in.

As the doors close, Natasha sends you one last smile before she’s out of sight.

“Nervous?” The deep familiar voice asks, and you turn to James with your breath held.

You nod. He’s wearing an outfit similar to when you met him two days ago, only today it’s dark blue instead of black.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I was there when he saw your portrait and-”

“Please don’t raise my expectations, Sir James.” You sigh. “I can’t stand it.”

“Bucky, your Highness, if you please. And if that is your wish…I will show his Majesty in now.” He offers, and gestures to the doors he’d marched in through.

You nod and watch as he leaves the room again.

For sixty long seconds you stand alone at the center of this large room where chairs line the walls. You consider making a run for it because anything is better than this waiting and then suddenly, he’s there.

Behind the chair, he walks in, wide steps made by long legs. A narrow waist hidden underneath a form fitting aqua blue vest, silver trimmings embroidered along both sides of his wide chest and collar. Underneath the vest is a plain white blouse cinched at the wrists with a small ruffle around the base of his hand where it then puffs out slightly. He looks cool, as if the fabric were flowing with a relaxing breeze.

His lower body looks powerful, muscled and thick covered in dark gray trousers, but your eyes linger there for only a moment because you’re already searching for the kindly blonde face you’ve been staring at for days in the portrait you have.

What you find instead is long blonde hair, not as long as Bucky’s but long enough to flow in waves along the sides of his face, parted along the middle. The clean-shaven face from the portrait is covered in a thick neatly trimmed beard. It all comes together to make a manly visage. He might tear solid logs in two if he tried, he looks that strong.

He’s older than he’d been in the portrait you have and there’s a sadness in his storm blue eyes that is there instead of the blue sparkle of curiosity you’ve come to expect.

He walks with his hands behind his back and stops a few feet in front of you, staring at you just as you’re staring at him. Appraising you.

He’s just as beautiful as he is in his portrait but still a little different.

Suddenly, you remember yourself and you quickly curtsy, averting your gaze down to his black boots.

Neither of you speaks as you bow and the endless minute that you just endured spreads into a few endless more.

The silence is deafening and when your legs finally begin to ache, you shut your eyes to force yourself to remain in position.

“Stand up, your Highness.” He says, his voice is deep and even. Full of authority and impatience. A little colder than you expected. “I trust your trip went well?”

Slowly you stand up, finally tearing your eyes away from his feet to look back into those storm blue eyes. They’re not sad anymore, rather, they look slightly annoyed. Angry? No. Irritated.

“It was a very good trip, your Majesty. Thank you for asking.” You reply, a little too quiet because you haven’t been breathing.

More silence. He stares at you. Relentless. No smiles. No hint as to what he might be thinking. Only a scowl, thick eyebrows drawn in at the center, eyes brooding and sad. Like he wants to say something but won’t.

Finally…

“Why are you doing this?” He suddenly asks, taking a step towards you.

“Your Majesty?”

“This marriage. This whole thing, why? You could have anyone. You’re a princess.”

“I…” How do you answer that honestly? Natasha did say you’d have to lie on your feet. You hadn’t expected for it to be this soon. “I want to-to make my father happy.”

“Mm.” King Rogers says, understanding this reason but also unsatisfied. “Any other reasons?”

And as you stare at his handsome face, you know that what you’re about to say is most definitely not a lie, so you’ll tell him. At least there are some things you’ll be able to be true about.

“When I saw your portrait…” You begin, wondering if this is giving away too much. No…it’s good for him to know where you stand, right?

“My portrait? What portrait?” He asks, taking a step towards you but not moving forward.

You hurry to grab the compact from your dress pocket and unhook the clasp to show him.

He moves in closer, the heat of his body overtaking you and momentarily dulling your mind.

“When I saw it…I decided that I…I wanted to make you happy.” You admit and look up to find him staring at you, brow furrowed even deeper.

His stern expression makes your hope waver. What does it mean? That intense glower?

“That’ll never happen.” He tells you, his voice hard, defensive.

“Your Majesty?” You ask, slightly confused.

When he speaks, his voice is intimate, quiet, and sure. He says it right beside you, close enough that his whisper is as loud as a shout and it hits you just as hard. The pleasantness of his voice making your skin pimple while the harsh truth in it fills you with dread.

“You will never make me happy. Never.” He promises, then moves away from you back towards the doors behind his throne. “We’ll get married in the morning. Tell Tony I accept his offer.”

As he vanishes from view, taking his beautiful brooding face with him, he leaves behind the tiny shreds of your hope, completely eviscerated by his cool declaration that you—specifically you—will never make him happy. Never.

[creamypudding]

Combo story sneak peek

I sort of finished the Clack/AkuRoku combo story I started in 2017, waylaid for The Two Penguins, and picked back up this year to complete it for a Big Bang, which died before it ever took off. I say sort of finished because I haven’t written the very last chapter yet, which is an epilogue set several years after the end, and which I am not very invested in writing at the moment (if at all). I haven't read through the entirety of this story yet. It’s still in first draft. I’m going to put this to bed for now and get going on some other projects I’ve yet to start/complete. The break will let me come back to it with fresh eyes and opinions and I hope a feeling of wanting to refine it. 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I don’t feel very satisfied finishing this story. Well... ok, thinking about it, I think I do know why I feel this way. In part, it’s because this story isn’t satisfying. It’s not got a happy end. But I suspect the main reason is that I don’t feel like the emotion I wanted to transpose from my own experience into this story is adequately portrayed. At least that’s how I feel not having read the whole thing in one go, nor even the last chapter in one go. Maybe I need to be kinder on myself. Maybe the story isn’t even so bad. And if the story does lack the emotional punch like I suspect, it’s probably something I can fix in the subsequent drafts. Anyway, for anyone interested, you can have a sneak peek at the first chapter. May it pique interest. If anyone wants to be a pre-reader for me please get in touch with me. I would appreciate at least one person to read through this and give me feedback on the story, pacing, character development, and relationships. Title: Fleeting Moments (working title) Chapter: 1/(possibly)7 Fandom: FFVII/Kingdom Hearts - Modern AU Pairing: Cloud/Zack and Axel/Roxas Rated: Mature (drug use -smoking and drinking-) Word Count: 8,170 Summary: Cloud and Roxas meet Zack and Axel in a laundry, of all places.

CHAPTER 1 -

The mechanical whir and swish of the washing machines was almost hypnotic, and drowned out the dripping of a leaky faucet somewhere within the laundry room. Cloud, with his back pressed to the wall, sat on the wooden bench lining the side closest to the door.

The laundry was wholly unremarkable. It smelt of washing detergent and liquid softeners. Garish lights above only served to wash out the drab, peeling paint of the walls even further. The cold, gray concrete floor had lost all its polished sheen, and the change and vending machines had all seen better days.

Yet this was one of Cloud’s favorite spots. Winter was dismal up in the mountains, with long hallways and wide open expanses lying between the laundry and his temporary residential housing. So Cloud chose to sit, cocooned in the underground warmth of this room, while he waited for his clothes to be washed so he could move them into the dryer.

He got a lot of reading done down here, which was a definite benefit. Most sane people chose to go do other things than hang in the laundry while their things got clean. So it was mostly quiet and empty in the laundry, and for Cloud this spelt sanctuary from society and his own rather busy life.

People came and went, and Cloud took no notice. He only looked up whenever a machine beeped, checking if it was his one announcing the completion of its cycle. It was never his, so he continued on with his book, an auto-biography. He found himself deeply engrossed in it when eventually a beeping did faintly register. He looked up again, like so many times before, searching out his machine. From where he sat he could make out the LCD display. There were still ten minutes left.

“Hey. Whatcha reading?”

Cloud jumped with a start and then frowned. Eyes darted to see where the question had come from. He found the source in seconds. A man stood by one of the machines facing the opposite wall. He was hauling clothes out of the toploader but looking directly at Cloud. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” came the apology, along with a smile, which lit up the man’s whole face. 

Cloud couldn’t fathom why he was being spoken to. “It’s fine. And, um… it’s a auto-biography of Ferdinand Papora.” Cloud flashed the front cover up, so the man could see it.

“Who’s that?”

“A racing car driver.”

“Pretty famous?”

“Obviously not famous enough if you’ve never heard of him.”

“Well he might be. I’m completely oblivious to that sort of thing. You like racing?”

“Not particularly.”

A confused look was followed up with the question, “So what’s with the book then?”

Cloud inspected the paperback cover before he spoke. “I just like to read biographies. Doesn’t really matter whose it is. And the library here has tons of different ones.” The man continued smiling. “That’s a cool way of expanding your horizons. I might take inspiration from you, if that’s all right.”

Cloud shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s not like I’ve got copyright over reading books on subjects I’ve no interest in.”

“Well, you must have some interest, right? I’ve been here for five minutes, trying to ask you a question but you were totally engrossed in that book.”

He felt slightly taken aback and said, “Oh. Sorry.”

“No worries. So the book’s a real page turner?” The man hoisted up a collapsible laundry basket and moved toward the dryer section.

“Mmm. It has its moments.”

“Think you’ll finish it?”

“Of course. I see things through to the bitter end.”

The man laughed. “That sounds dire. You a perfectionist?”

Cloud hummed thoughtfully. “Nah, I’m just a completionist.” “I stand corrected.” The man dumped his load of laundry into the dryer, inserted coins and pushed some buttons. “So this Ferdinand—ah…”

“Papora,” Cloud assisted.

“Yeah, him. What are some of his more notable moments?”

“Well,” Cloud inspected the book, to help jog his memory, “He survived three near-fatal crashes. Went through some pretty hefty rehab in hospital, and continues driving even to this day, despite the peg-leg.”

“Woah, seriously?”

“No. I made up the peg-leg, but the rest’s true.”

The man laughed loudly. It shook into Cloud a little. “What a shame. That would have made even me read the book.”

“It’s still a worthwhile read. The guy’s pretty… driven.”

Another laugh and a great big smile lifted and turned the other man’s rather tanned complexion a little darker. “Nice one.”

Cloud cracked a smile. He wasn’t usually this chatty, particularly with a stranger but… well he put it down to being in a relatively good mood.

The man closed the lid of the machine and leaned against it, looking across the room at Cloud. “I’m Zack, by the way.”

“Cloud,” he responded.

With raised eyebrows Zack said, “Nice name.”

Cloud gave a small sigh. His mood was about to go south. “Here we go,” he muttered.

The raven-haired man tilted his head to the side. “Go where?” 

“The weather related puns. Go on. I’ve heard them all.” He resigned himself to the inevitable. Cloud opened his book again to give a clear indication that he was done communicating.

“Really? That thought didn’t even cross my mind.”

Cloud laid eyes on him without lifting his head. “What was with that look, then?”

“What look?”

Cloud imitated what he had just witnessed.

Zack shrugged and pushed off the machine, walking toward Cloud. “It’s just how my face works. I think Cloud’s a cool name. They’re my favorite things about the sky, you know.” He came to a standstill a few steps away from Cloud.

Cloud skeptically scanned the man before him, dressed in dark jeans and a dark wool-knit turtleneck sweater. This close the man looked rather tall. It wasn’t even the thick heeled boots. He was probably really tall even without those on. Cloud wondered if he should he believe him. The man looked sincere enough; that soft smile plastered on the rather handsome face—broad cheeks, pointed jaw and nose—spoke of gentle earnestness. But with distrust in his voice Cloud questioned him, “Even more than stars?” Because everyone loved stars. It was a fact of life.

“Yeah. Even more than the stars and moon. Give me fluffy altocumulus or wispy cirrus clouds in a wide blue sky any day of the week. Even these nimbostratus clouds around here, bringing all the snow, are nice. But I do prefer the other ones. If I had to choose.” Zack tapped at lips, thoughtfully.

That response took Cloud by surprise. “Well, I’m impressed. Look at you, totally nerding out about clouds. You a meteorologist or something?”

“Nup. Just an amateur cloud fancier,” Zack grinned.

Cloud’s heart thumped a bit at that wording. He paid it no mind and returned a small smile of his own. Both men stayed like that for way too many moments. Cloud grew uncomfortable, desperately searching for something to say. He didn’t like people just looking at him. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, right,” Zack slapped the side of his head. “I wanted to know if you’d have a drink with me this Saturday. I’ll be at the Clay Bar. Eight til late,” Zack positively beamed.

Cloud blinked, not comprehending. “What?”

“I mean, if you’re into it. If not then don’t worry.” The man’s toothy smile simmered down.

Had he heard right? Was he being asked out? By someone he just met? No way. Cloud opened his mouth to say… he knew not what.

“Cloud!” His name rang out several times, down the hallway, getting louder and louder by the second. 

Both men turned their heads to look at the source of the tumult. 

Roxas flew through the open doorway, “Cloud! Guess what! Sophia Tiller will be giving a symposium right here in the center!” By the time Roxas had finished that sentence he had slid with great force along the bench and was now in Cloud’s face, with hands resting on Cloud’s thighs.

“She is?”

“Yeah,” Roxas nodded eagerly.

Disbelief melted and excitement bubbled inside of Cloud. “We gotta get tickets.”

“Already sorted,” Roxas grinned.

“Nice one.” Cloud put his closed fist up and Roxas completed the gesture by fist bumping him.

The sound of a slight cough drew both men’s faces up and over.

Roxas frozen. The bubbling warm excitement gave way to overwhelming and sheer dread. Who was this guy? How long had he been there for? Had Roxas just embarrassed himself completely before a stranger? He looked to Cloud for a minute second.

Cloud saw the tension which seized Roxas. He gave him a quirked lip and a slight eyebrow raise to encourage him and let him know it was alright. That seemed to snap Roxas out of the panic. 

“Oh. Hey! Uh—” Roxas glanced between Cloud and the stranger. Could he regain some dignity? Could he just… avoid? “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Ah… this is Zack. Zack, this is Roxas. We were just…”

“I was just leaving. But it’s nice to meet you, Roxas,” Zack said with a big smile.

Cloud was relieved, because he didn’t know how he would have finished that sentence had he been left to his own devices.

“Ah,” Roxas let out, half in relief, half in reply.

The room was quiet other than the sound of the clunk-clunk-clunk of the dryer going around. The men all looked between each other. The whole situation felt unnaturally awkward.

A loud beeping startled everyone. Cloud saw that his load was finally done, so he got up and made his way over to the machine, thankful that it alleviated the weird tension. He walked right past Zack. It was unavoidable and made Cloud full aware of the man’s height. He barely came up to his shoulders, and in no way was he short, not like Roxas. 

“Do you need some help?” Zack asked as Cloud squatted down and pulled open the front loader door

“No, it’s what I’ve got Roxas for,” he said without looking up. “Roxas,” he commanded.

Roxas snapped out of his panicked thoughts which circled around telling him how he had embarrassed himself and how he was to blame for the absolutely stifling awkwardness which was in the room. “Coming,” he muttered and slid off the bench and shuffled over to Cloud, with his head bowed so as not to be seen by Zack. But Roxas still felt the towering presence. He reached Cloud, held out his arms and received the dumping of wet clothes. He then scurried over to the dryers, relieved to have his back to the source of his embarrassment.

Cloud stood up and followed Roxas with his eyes, but was brought back to himself as warmth radiated next to him. He turned and looked up at Zack out of the corner of his eye.

“Cute kid. He yours?” Zack nodded toward Roxas.

Cloud glowered. Roxas froze, somehow even more embarrassed. Kid? Roxas looked down at himself, dressed in his big blue Cookie Monster hoodie. He winced. 

“We’re brothers," Cloud almost growled.

“Oh.” Zack laughed and rubbed at his neck, “Shit, sorry for assuming. That’s embarrassing. Sorry. My mistake.”

Exasperated, Cloud said, “Can you just leave?”

“Oh.” The way Zack’s face fell felt a little comical to Cloud. “Yeah, sure. But.. before I do… are we… okay?” He looked at Cloud with concern, and then throwing his head in the direction of Roxas said, “Hey, Roxas, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Roxas was focusing all his energy on putting each individual item of clothing into the dryer separately. He waves with one hand, not turning to look at the other man, and said, “All good.” His face was burning up. He wanted to strip off his hoodie and dump it in the trash.

Cloud looked over at his brother; the tension in his shoulder, his slow movements. He could feel Roxas’ discomfort and embarrassment. Why was Zack still here? Maybe Cloud wasn’t being tough enough? He needed the other man gone. Cloud pressed his lips together, leaned against the washing machine with his arms folded across his chest and gave the other man a pointed staredown.

Zack took a step back as if Cloud’s stance had put up a physical barrier. “Uh-oh. I’ll leave, no worries. Bye, Roxas,” he said loudly, and then more quietly, “See ya around, Cloud, yeah? I hope we’re okay. Clay Bar. Eight to late on Saturdays.” Zack gave Cloud a little smile and a casual two-fingered salute and hurriedly left the laundry. His hasty footfalls echoed and faded down the hall.

Cloud let out a deep breath, peeled his eyes off the doorway and onto Roxas who turned around to face Cloud across the way. His cheeks were a deep, splotchy crimson. Cloud felt terrible for him.

The two brothers stared at each other for a few beats and then the smiles grew and the laughter started out of both of them.

“You really let him have it with your Cloud-stare-of-death,” Roxas giggled madly, feeling so good to have the anxiousness replaced by a different sensation.

"Well, he was making everything really uncomfortable."

Roxas stopped laughing. "I think that was just me."

"It wasn't."

"Oh." Roxas left it alone. They argued way too much about what was and wasn't his fault. Roxas supposed life would be easier if he could believe Cloud, but they were brothers, so Cloud would always say stuff to make him feel better. "Was that a friend of yours?" he deflected.

Cloud returned to the bench to collect his discarded book. “No. He’s just a random guy I literally only met about ten minutes ago.”

Roxas chuckled. “That’s so unlike you; making random friends in the laundry.”

“We’re not friends.”

“But he said something about going to the bar?”

Cloud didn’t want to think about it. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh… yeah… okay, I guess? Now anyway. Do you think I dress like a little kid?” He pulled at his sweater, looking down at Cookies big smiley face.

“You shouldn’t worry about it. There’s nothing wrong with liking Cookie Monster.” “Yeah, but I’m twenty and a guy. I had to go to the women’s section to find all the cute stuff.” 

“Stop doubting yourself.” “You know I can’t do that. I wish it was easier.” Cloud sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. Is it getting better at all?”

“Little by little, I guess?” he shrugged.

Cloud smiled at his brother. “I definitely see the improvements you've made since you've been pushing yourself.”

The smile that should be on Roxas’ face never came. He just looked down at his sweater some more and frowned harder. “I still feel like I fall apart when you're not around.”

“Keep practicing. Worst case scenario; pretend I’m behind you, giving you this look—” Cloud gave him a dead serious and slightly angry scowl.

Roxas broke into a smile then and laughed. “Got it. The disappointed-dad glare. You do it so well.”

“I got it enough times to have mastered it.” Cloud rolled his eyes.

“He only looks at you like that because he loves you the most and expects the most from you.”

“Why couldn't you have been the older brother? It's all your fault,” Cloud threw out with a dismal and exaggerated sigh, ribbing Roxas.

Roxas stuck his tongue out as way of reply. “Hey, but that guy; Zack.”

Cloud sat down, trying to cast his mind back on that weird encounter. “What about him?”

“I think he’s got the hots for you.”

Cloud gave a startled cough. “Huh?”

“He was totally checking you out when you got the laundry out.”

“No.” “He did. I was stressing out but I still noticed. He totally was.”

Cloud groaned. “How about you get the dryer started or our clothes’ll never dry.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Roxas remembered what he came down here for. He turned back to the forgotten machine and inserted the coins.

Having Roxas’ eyes off him gave Cloud some reprieve to acknowledge what he was trying to deny himself. “You really think so?—about Zack?” he asked tentatively.

“Yup.” Roxas smacked the machine and felt it jolt to life with a loud rumble. He turned back around and walked over to where Cloud was sitting.

“Damn.” Cloud wrinkled his nose and looked at the floor. “What’s up?” Roxas returned to Cloud’s side giving him an inquisitive look.

“If you’re right then he also totally asked me out on a date before you came in.”

Roxas’ eyes and mouth sprang open. “Ooooo,” Roxas sing-songed and giggled. He snappily sat down next to Cloud and nudged his side with his elbow. “So I did ruin the mood, huh.”

“There was no mood to ruin,” Cloud denied and stood up. He hadn’t even been sure of what it had been before Roxas had bombarded him with his observations.

“You gonna take him up on the offer?”

Cloud pressed his lips together, thinking about it

“Hmm? Well?” Roxas grinned up at his always too serious brother.

Cloud grimaced and turned away from Roxas a little. He wasn't used to people asking him out, preferring to keep to himself as much as possible. But… “He is sort of… attractive,” he understated with a mutter. 

“Only sort of?” The tease was unmistakable.

Sexy chiseled jaw, tight jeans, cool leather jacket, and did he already think of those tight jeans? He had smelt really nice too as he had passed him. Cloud merely grunted and then conceded with a small, “Maybe.”

Roxas sniggered and wore a satisfied smirk. “Attaboy.”

“Shut up. When’s this Sophia Tiller thing happening?”

“Oh right. Two weeks from now. I left the flyer with all the info on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay. I’ll go email it out to both our groups and then I really need to get ready for work. Don’t forget to take the clothes out.” “No worries. I’m on it, and thanks!” Roxas waved as Cloud took his leave of the laundry room. --------------

Roxas sat in the laundry, fiddling around on his phone to pass the time. He played some mindless games, trawled through online message boards, and checked the clothes, separating and pulling out the items which were drier than the others and putting them in a plastic bag he had pulled out from his pocket.

Dark hair and a somewhat familiar face popped through the doorway at some point, attracting Roxas’ attention.

“Hey, Roxas. Is it okay if I come in? I need to get my stuff out of the dryer.”

Roxas felt his stomach drop and butterflies kicked up a storm. His heart jolted into an uneasy pace. He pulled his arms around himself, trying to hide his sweater. Heat prickled his chest and cheeks. “You don’t have to ask me. It’s a public space,” he got out, trying to shut off his thoughts.

“I just thought… if I make you uncomfortable I can always leave and come back later.” 

That offer took Roxas aback. “N-no, you’re fine to come in.” 

“Oh, cool.” Zack grinned and he strode into the warm room. “I didn't mean any offence.”

Roxas just nodded, hoping Zack would leave him alone, and he pulled his phone out again, hunching in on himself with his feet up on the bench, knees up and slouching against the corner wall. But apparently Zack took Roxas’ silence as something entirely different— 

“I'm sorry, really. I just wanted to figure out who you were to Cloud. I didn't wanna overstay my welcome if you were… well, you know.”

Roxas didn't, but figured he had to make conversation if he was ever going to have Zack believe that he wasn't angry at him. He tried to picture Cloud’s disappointed-dad face and told himself it was fine because he had already made a fool of himself once. He took a deep breath and then, “It’s all good. All fine. Really. A lot of people assume I'm much younger than I am.” And no wonder with the way that he looked and often times acted. If he wasn’t running away from social situations he ended up saying dumb shit which made him look like a complete imbecile.

Zack advanced further towards Roxas’ position. “Well, I’m sorry anyway.”

“You don't have to keep saying that. You're not in Cloud’s bad books or anything,” he muttered, wondering—hoping—that this wasn't really about himself.

“Well, he does love reading,” Zack chuckled to himself. “Ah… hey, Roxas,” Zack sat down and slid across the bench toward him. Roxas pulled his knees closer to himself. “You think I'm in with a chance? With your brother, I mean.”

The tight coil of panic eased a little bit and he felt breathing to be a little easier. It really was all about Cloud. Thank god! Zack clearly didn’t care about him at all. Such a relief! He shrugged by way of reply. Cloud would definitely hurt him if he told Zack what they had discussed earlier.

“Got any tips for me?”

Roxas shook his head. He wanted to be left alone, so he looked back down at his phone.

The hint seemed to finally be received. Zack sighed and got up. “It wasn't supposed to be an interrogation. Just came to get my stuff.” He walked to a dryer and started pulling clothes out.

Roxas would have felt relieved… if he didn’t feel so bad. He wished for Cloud to be around to make him feel more at ease. But he wasn’t, and Roxas was stuck in his own anxiety-riddled skin. He stared blankly at his phone, tapping the screen to keep it from going into sleep, while all his senses were trained on Zack, without directly looking at him.

He worried and wondered what Zack thought of him to an unreasonable extent. Why should it matter to him? He didn’t even know Zack. But no amount of reasoning ever seemed to do him any good. He wanted to leave a good impression though. He didn’t want Zack to hate him, especially if he would be around for a while. The fact that Cloud had apparently engaged Zack enough for them to have talked for a bit was significant. Unless it was for business, or a close friend or family member, Cloud didn’t give people so much as the time of day. For some weird reason this felt weighty, in his chest and limbs, and especially in his head.

Lid slammed. Roxas tore his unfocused gaze away from his phone and up toward Zack, who walked carrying his load of washing in a cloth bag. His unhurried but determined footsteps echoes around the quiet space. “Later, Roxas.” He gave a wave and a congenial smile.

Roxas was totally leaving a terrible impression right now. He could feel it. “Peanut butter,” he burst out as Zack vanished through the doorway.

Footsteps ceased and seconds later Zack leaned backward through the doorway and looked at Roxas, confused. “Huh?”

“Cloud. He loves peanut butter. Smooth. Not crunchy.”

Gray-blue eyes lit up and Zack’s smile stretched wide across his face. “Thanks, man!” and with that Zack was gone, his steps fading off into the distance of the long concrete hallway beyond.

Roxas was left alone once more and he breathed out his nerves. He had managed to not make a fool of himself this time. But what if Cloud got angry with him? Should he really have given the man any information about anything pertaining to his own flesh and blood? Had he become some sort of an accomplice? Roxas tried to take a deep, calming breath. And another. And another. “Fuck!” He got up, poked his head out past the doorway to see if anyone was around. The coast was clear. He went toward the back of the laundry, around a corner where the wash basins for handwashing were situated. He went to the very back corner, squeezing in between the end of the washbasin and the corner wall to where a ventilation grate sat recessed in the wall. He loosened the screws which held the vent grate in place. A bit of jiggling leant itself to the metal coming out of its wall fitting. It revealed a hollow and dark cavity, leading out of the building. Roxas reached into the void, expertly finding what he had put there himself; a ziplock bag with a stage of cigarettes and a lighter inside. He looked at the bag and swore. He only had one left. 

Without thinking about it he took the lone smoke and lighter out and shoved the empty bag back in the hole. He’d have to bum a few smokes off someone when he got another chance. That thought made him feel even more stressed out. 

His hands jittered a little but he got himself lit up after two tries. He took a deep dragging suck of the heavy smoke. It delightfully hit that spot right at the top of his throat and instantly soothed his nerves. He took a few more longer drags, exhaling into the vent and then stubbed out the cigarette and returned it into the bag. He wasn’t a heavy smoker. It was just a vice to help soothe his nerves. If he could save this cigarette he’d be spared the anxiety of having to ask strangers for a new one. 

“Blowing-fucking-hole-of-motherfucking-shit!”

Roxas jumped with fright and snapped his attention to the main part of the laundry. He quickly worked at securing the vent and quietly walked over to the corner, to peek around and see what was going on.

He saw the source of the profanity and it certainly wasn't hard to spot; a lanky redhead, sporting hands on hips, staring at the detergent vending machine which was mounted on the wall near the first row of washing machines.

Roxas slunk back around his corner and took deep breaths. The few puffs he had of the nicotine still calmed him. He could stay hidden here. He could go over to the dryer and check it to make himself look busy. There was no need to be shy or nervous.

“Why’re there so many Goddamn brands to choose from in this metallic piss pot?” A loud metallic thump sounded through the space. 

Roxas felt his heart sink. He probably should help. No one else was around after all and the longer he lingered in indecisiveness the worse his embarrassment would be if the guy realized he had been in here all along. Roxas pictured Cloud’s stern stare. He told himself to play it cool, took a deep breath, clenched his trembling fists, and stepped out of his hiding nook, saying, “You need a hand with anything?”

The man jumped and yelped. He whirled around, squeaking slightly, “Oh geez. Where’d you come from?”

Roxas stared at piercing green eyes, high cheekbones and pointed chin. An overwhelming sense of inadequacy rushed through him. This stranger was completely handsome. Roxas shrunk in on himself, crossing his arms in front of himself, trying to hide Cookie Monster. He screamed at himself for still wearing the sweater. 

“Eh…” the man said.

Roxas blinked rapidly. Shit. What had been the question? “My mom and dad?” 

The redhead’s eyebrow rose as did the corner of his mouth.

Roxas screamed internally at his stupidity. He was aiming for cool - not complete dork. “I-I mean I’ve just been here,” he gave a vague shrug towards the dryers. Had he saved it? “Need help?” he tried to deflect walking closer and calling himself names.

The amusement the other man wore melted away, “Yes! I don’t normally do laundry. I have no idea which of these to use.” He pointed at the dispenser and stuck his hands deep into his jean pockets.

Roxas' heart raced uncomfortably, his palms sweat, but he could handle the topic of laundry. He’d just focus on that instead of vivid green eyes. He walked over with a bit of confidence as he fixed his gaze onto the vending machine. He tried to ignore the fact that the redhead was very tall. He hugged himself tighter, really wishing he had worn something cool today, instead of childish. “Well,” he began, “most of these are all the same. You can have liquid or powder—not that it really matters. The only thing you might need to watch out for is if you’ve got sensitive skin. Then you’d want this one or this one,” Roxas pointed and looked ever so briefly at the other man. “And don't even worry about all these at the bottom. No one needs fabric softener in their lives.”

“But what if I hate scratchy fabric on my delicate skin?”

Roxas looked up and studied the man next to him then, not sure if he was being messed with or if the guy was sincerely concerned. But he couldn’t tell because he got too distracted by porcelain skin which accentuated and drew out the color of the green eyes and the red hair and Roxas had never seen someone like this before, and he hung out with artists all the time, but still nothing compared to that color palette and what was he looking at the man for again?

The mesmerizing green eyes flicked onto Roxas. Thin lips quirked up into a smile.

Roxas quickly looked away and pulled his stupid mouth shut. How long had he been slack-jawed for? Washing Powders! “Ah—” he cleared his throat and tried again, “Then maybe do buy the softener?” 

“Nah. Think I'll manage without it.” 

Whether on purpose or by accident the man's arm brushed Roxas'. He hardly heard the next part because he was so focused on inconspicuously shifting away from the redhead. 

“I’m pretty easy. I could wash my clothes in dish soap and I’d be fine. Why don’t we use dish soap for clothes?”

Roxas shrugged, trying to catch his breath and tell his head to shut up and to not say anything more embarrassing. “Wouldn’t want your clothes squeaky and sparkling, right?” An internal groan followed. He couldn’t pull off cool in a million years. Dork it was always destined to be.

A small laugh came out of the other man and then he said, “Right.”

Roxas’ heart pounded. His cheeks were so definitely red and hot and fuck he wanted to vanish. ‘Just focus on the topic,’ he told himself. “Anyway, you’re better off using this one,” Roxas pointed to the brand Cloud always used. “That seems to work best with these old machines.” “Cool. Thanks.”

Roxas gave the briefest of smiles to the stranger, not daring to focus too hard on his face. He turned his back and walked to his machine where he was definitely going to throw himself into it and disappear from view. He got to his destination, opened the lid but determined he wouldn’t fit. Instead he checked on the clothes, especially the jeans; checking the hems to see if they were drying properly.

“Yo, guy—dude—you. Cookie!"

Cookie! Roxas was mortified and absolutely wanted to die. He turned his head to take a look and saw flailing hands, beckoning him over.

“Roxas,” he offered, shutting the lid of the dryer to let it continue its tumbling. He reluctantly walked toward the redhead, still trying to distort Cookie Monster on his chest by bunching the fabric up.

“Sure. Sup. I’m… Axel. So this machine… what gives?”

“Whaddya mean? Have you never used one of these?”

“No. Well, yeah. But usually there’s like one button to push and I walk away. These things are ancient.”

That made Roxas huff with a small laugh. “Yeah. Their almost like lost relics from another dimension.” Roxas’ smile fell when he saw Axel give him a confused look. He kicked himself. Why couldn't he stick to simple yes and no answers? He didn't know, but he grew determined to be helpful and just focus on the machine, and not the man. “Ah… you just set the cycle here, hit this, spin that and you’re done. Oh and don’t forget to put the detergent in there.” Roxas pointed to all the things he mentioned.

“Awesome. Thanks, man.”

Roxas gave a small nod and turned to get distance between himself and Axel. He barely made it back to his machine before he heard a frustrated grumble.

“I did what you said. So why isn't it starting?” A metallic thud echoed.

Would this troubleshooting nightmare ever end? Couldn't Roxas be left alone? How much more help did he have to give? Clearly, this was a cruel test on his determination for self-improvement. Roxas turned back around. “Kicking it won't help.”

“Maybe. But it's fun. Wanna try?” Axel grinned.

Roxas’ nervousness died a little bit. He shook his head and returned to Axel's side, checking all the settings, redoing them himself and then they both stood around, hands on hips, looking at it.

Axel gave a loud groan and bowed his head. “I’m not cut out for domestics.”

“I don’t know why it’s not working. You put money in, didn’t you?”

Axel raised his head, stared at Roxas and suddenly looked behind Roxas and pointed, “What’s that over there?”

Roxas snapped his attention behind himself. Was it a fire? A large bug? Another person having walked in? He saw nothing bar the empty doorway. Had he just been made fun of? Roxas turned back around fully prepared to get laughed at but saw the other man slip two coins into the coin slot of the machine and push the start button. 

The machine sputtered to life.

Axel side-eyed Roxas, and Roxas quickly looked away. 

“Oh look, magic! It works now!”

The smile grew and Roxas tried to stifle it but he laughed anyway and Axel let out a small laugh as well. They looked back at each other, smiling.

“Amazing magic,” Roxas remarked, nervous tension sliding off his chest.

Axel nodded. “Hey, uh… Roxas?”

“Mm?”

“You seem like the kind of guy who would know where to get a smoke around here.”

The good mood froze inside of Roxas. “Why?” he asked as he stared.

“Well, I can smell it on you.”

Shit. Roxas frowned and snapped at himself for having been so careless. He was so fucking lucky that Cloud wasn’t around right now. “And?” he asked, hesitant of where this would lead.

“I could really use one right about now.”

Roxas could relate. He debated with himself whether or not to give Axel directions to the tobacconist down in the town or if he should keep Axel around. He heavily leaned toward sending Axel away but… “Well—” He looked around, making sure the coast was clear, and then beckoned Axel to follow him around the corner to where the handwash basins and his hidden stash were.

This was unprecedented, but Roxas thought they had shared 'a moment' so maybe it would be all right. He walked with purpose to the corner of this section of the room and squeezed into the gap between the washbasin and the wall. Axel was right beside him, squeezing into the small space as well.

Their sides were pressed together. Roxas could smell a hint of musk and feel the other man’s radiating body heat. He really hoped he wasn't going to say something stupid as he began talking, “Can you keep a secret?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Axel leaned down. “I’m master of secret keeping.”

Roxas swallowed down the lump forming. Axel’s warm breath brushing against his face was caught and detected by every fine hair on Roxas’ cheeks and caressed his lips. Nervous butterflies swirled around inside himself. “Ah… normally I wouldn’t do this but—” The tremble and buzzing radiated outward from the pit of his stomach. Roxas really needed to calm his nerves. A smoke would help. He shifted, turning toward the wall, and swiftly got the grate undone and his half-smoked cigarette and the lighter out again.

“Ooo, a secret stash!” 

Roxas heard the excitement in Axel’s voice as he slotted the grate back into place, without redoing the screws. He pressed his back against the opposite wall, trying to get an inch of space between himself and the other man, before offering up the nearly half-smoked cigarette.

"Sorry, this is all I've got left."

Axel took it, but not without dragging a finger down the length of Roxas’ hand. "Thank you for sharing it with me." 

The touch nullified all of Roxas’ thoughts and sent his heart racing. He looked up at green eyes, which looked down at him, half closed. Roxas didn’t know what to make of it. He simply watched long fingers holx and push the cigarette against thin lips in a well-practiced manner.

"We'll share the rest of this one?" Axel mumbled past the obstruction in his mouth and leaned towards the lighter which Roxas held up.

Roxas nodded and flicked the lighter a few times. He could hardly breath. Green eyes kept looking at him in a way that was too sexy for Roxas to comprehend. He needed to smoke a whole packet if he was ever going to recover from this.

Roxas kept flicking the lighter, hating himself that he couldn’t get the blasted thing working. He never had a problem doing this in the past. The one time someone was watching him—someone insanely hot, no less—and he couldn't get the blasted thing working. Well, of course, it figured.

“Here.” The other man's warm hand clasped over Roxas’, steadying him enough so the flame could be lit.

The touch was almost electric with the jolt it sent through Roxas and the flutters it caused. He felt so embarrassed that it made him nauseous.

“You don’t do this very often?” Axel leaned the cigarette into the flame and took a few drags to get it lit.

“Only sometimes—blow into the vent,” he instructed. “Stops the place from stinking, and the fire alarm from going off.” 

Axel hummed in appreciation. Whether it was from the nicotine hitting him or from Roxas’ instructions he couldn’t tell.

Smoke was exhaled into the ventilation system. “Clearly you've done this enough times to know the ins and outs of the place. A real veteran at doing the sneaky sneaky, huh” Axel grinned and winked before passing the cigarette on.

Roxas took it, trying his best to ignore the way their fingers touched and connected. The longer he was pressed up against Axel like this the more in need of a smoke he was. He took a drag, and pulled thick air into his lungs, where the nicotine could do its magic. He let out a shaky breath into the ventilation system and coughed a bit at the end.

More embarrassment welled, counteracting the calming effect the smoke was supposed to have on his nerves.

Roxas passed the cigarette back and saw the way Axel barely held laugh at bay.

“Go on. Let it out.”

“Nah. Couldn't do that. Not after your generosity.” Axel took another puff. “Ah… what about the ashes?”

“Tap them into the sink behind you. We’ll wash them down after.”

Axel did laugh at that. “Nice. You got this all figured out. But why the covert operation? Last I checked smoking wasn't illegal—outside that is. Pretty illegal us doing it in here. You doing it for the extra buzz?” Axel chuckled, passing the smoke once more and as it got smaller and smaller their fingers grazed and connected more and more.

“My brother would lose his shit if he found out.” “Why’s he such a busy-body?"

“Our grandad and uncle died from lung cancer. So it’s probably a genetic predisposition and probably in my best self-interest to not smoke. But… you know,” Roxas shrugged, feeling more relaxed in his own skin even as he could feel himself trembling and feel his cheeks oh so hot with the flush he was experiencing. “Once in a while won't kill me, right?”

“I hope not. Would be a waste.” Axel smiled and Roxas chose to look at the wall instead.

They passed the cigarette between one another for a few more pulls before it was all used up. Roxas was glad when it was all over. Having to reach his arm around the guy so he could ash was wearing on him. As was all the body contact, if Roxas was honest with himself. He tried to ignore it because he could feel his heart race every time he noticed the sensation of legs against his own and the man's pelvis and hips digging in. He shifted as discreetly as he could because he was getting hard and he would die if Axel could feel.

Roxas turned away a little and pulled the grate off the wall once more and disposed of the butt in there and replaced the lighter. He really lamented the fact now that he would have to try and bum another smoke off someone in the near future. That activity alone was so nerve-wracking that he really considered forking out the cash to buy a whole pack for himself. But that seemed too risky for the once in a while medicating relief the cigarettes provided. He sighed to himself in resignation and Pulled out a packet of gum.

He turned back to face Axel, pressing himself tight against the wall to create some space between his groin and the warm delicious and ridiculously hot man before himself and held out the packet. “You want?”

Axel laughed and took a stick. “Thanks. What else you got hidden in there? Drugs?”

Roxas took a piece of gum, popped it in his mouth and threw the packet back in the vent. “Um… just this,” he reached in and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. What the hell. He figured he might as well go all the way with incriminating himself. 

“Oh my God, Roxas!” 

The look of surprised mirth, coupled with the laugh Axel gave, sent a tingle down Roxas’ body. “What?” he asked, trying to hide the smile. He figured his blush couldn't get any deeper so chose to ignore that, and instead focused on how maybe, just maybe, he was pulling off cool?

“Don't be giving me that cute little smile. You're way too badass for that.” Axel laughed some more.

Roxas let the smile spread. He totally was pulling it off. If it wouldn't have a detrimental effect Roxas would have cheered and fist pumped the air. “You wanna?” He held the bottle aloft.

Axel accepted it, unscrewed the top, took out his gum, and took a long swig. He passed it back to Roxas when he was done.

“I shouldn't have accepted the drink,” Axel lamented, popping the gum back in.

“Why not?” Roxas looked at him, confused, and took a deep gulp of his own. It tasted weird with the combination of cigarette smoke and minty gum freshness, but the taste wasn't the reason for drinking for Roxas.

“Well, now I can’t use my line of 'we should go out for a drink some time,’ on you, now can I?”

Roxas choked, coughed and sputtered, bending over a little, sending his forehead right into Axel's chest.

Axel's hand was on Roxas' back in moments, patting and rubbing, which only made Roxas sputter more.

“Take it easy.”

Roxas got control of himself, screwed the cap back on, replaced his gum, and thrust the bottle deep into the vent, closing it up. He was making a colossal fool of himself. His mood sullied considerably. “I can't go out for a drink with you anyway.”

“Why not? Do you need your brothers permission for that as well?”

“No. But I'm twenty, so legally not allowed in this dumb country.”

“I should probably be upset about you callin’ my country dumb—” Roxas suddenly froze, but then breathed out a small sigh as Axel continued, “but the drinking age is dumb. So I’ll let it slide. Do you really have a reason to complain though? You somehow got your hands on a red label,” Axel grinned. “You certainly are something else, Roxas, I'll give ya that.”

“Uh… thanks?”

“You're welcome.”

They were still wedged against each other, between the wall and the wash basin. Neither of them giving the slightest hint to the other that they should move. Well... Roxas couldn’t. He felt frozen in place, party by want and party due to sheer terror. He thought his legs would buckle and collapse under him. Axel was keeping him upright and as Roxas looked up at him he hoped he remembered to blink as he stared deep into pools of green. 

Those eyes were so damn sexy.

Axel’s mouth drifted open, his eyes widened a fraction and softened just as quickly. “Ah, thanks. Yours are gorgeous too.” He smiled gently.

Roxas tensed up and forgot to breathe. He swore he could feel all the blood drain away from his face. Had he said something? Shit. He stammered out, “S-sorry. I shouldn't have—they’re not—I mean you’re not—you are—but—just… sorry.” He quickly extracted himself from the tight corner.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” It came out too hoarse and harsh for his own liking. Roxas berated himself for being a massive idiot.

“Is there anything I can do to repay you for sharing your secret stash with me?”

At least Axel wasn’t teasing him about it. That made him feel somewhat relieved. Roxas, feeling a tiny bit more composed, turned around. Green eyes darted upwards, where they exchanged looks. Fuck! Axel had seen Cookie Monster. Thought Roxas had lied about his age. Thought he was a complete moron and a little kid. Roxas crossed his arms. He was going to burn the sweater, he swore he would. But first he needed this to end. His nerves were getting shot again and he felt like he might need to down the whole bottle if this went on for much longer. With a bowed head and a deep grumble he said, “Can you please just forget what a massive dork I am?” 

“Dork? I think you’re really cute… and a bit sexy.” Axel stepped out of the corner to stand right in front of Roxas.

That froze Roxas up completely. He stared at the black boots with a red trim. Swallowing down the tight lump in his throat he slowly lifted his gaze up over jeans, and the red and black sweater up to Axel’s face, where he saw a soft expression.

With hands deep in pockets, Axel said, “If I can’t buy you a drink at least let me take you out.”

“Like… on a date?”

“Mm. Not really but kinda?” he shrugged.

Roxas didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean. “No. Look, that’s not necessary. I didn’t share this with you ‘cause I wanted anything back.”

“Aren’t you nice.”

Roxas frowned and hugged himself tighter, looking away.

“Roxas?” “What?” he snapped, shooting Axel a grumpy look.

“I’d really like to hang out with you some more.”

It was bizarre and out of left field. Roxas looked around himself, half expecting someone to jump out and yell, 'Gotcha!' “Why? I suck.”

Axel chuckled. “Do you now?”

Roxas wanted to die to escape the embarrassment. “No. I…”

“It’s all right. I blow, you know,” Axel winked.

Roxas choked a bit on his spit. “What?” he croaked. What was even happening right now?

“I blow. I’m in this band and I play the sax. What did you think I meant?”

That cheeky smile said it all. Axel was teasing him. For good or for bad Roxas couldn't tell. “I didn’t think that. No.” He grumbled some more and hunched in on himself more.

“Shame, 'cause if you did, well—” Axel flashed his eyebrows up and a smirk bloomed while he flicked his tongue out to wet his lips.

A swirling hurricane of emotions and thoughts whirled through Roxas. What was going on? This stuff never happened to him. People didn’t hit on him. Axel was doing that, right? Or maybe he did just delight in making Roxas flush deeply and to make him uncomfortable? Roxas opened his mouth, but nothing bar incoherent sounds come out.

A low chuckle flowed from Axel. “It’s all right. Come and watch me blow—this Saturday. Any time after eight.”

Had Axel moved closer to Roxas? It felt like there was no space between them. He took a step back. “I ah—I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Good.”

The harsh beeping of the dryer was like a warm embrace from a dear loved one. “That’s me,” Roxas said with haste, turned and almost bolted to his station. As he pulled out the clothes with great speed and determination he heard Axel’s footsteps drawing closer.

“It was fun, Roxas. Don’t forget, this Saturday at the Clay Bar, yeah? You need to see me in action.”

“Yeah, I’ll… maybe.” Roxas slammed the lid shut and almost ran out of the laundry, the bag of laundry thrown over his shoulder. If he had left anything behind he wasn’t coming back for it.

That’s it for chapter one. Feedback appreciated. If you’d like to pre-read the rest for me get in touch on here or Discord or twitter. All my relevant contact info can be found on my AO3 Profile page.

[wheresmaldo865]

DabiXReader Coraline AuPart 4

CFiiiinnnnnallly I have found the time to finish and edit this. And not worry the next part shall come soon since we finally got into some action in this chapter. I wasn’t able to edit about the last part of this due some guest I currently have with some expressive voices. Anyway, enjoy and let me know if I need to take another look at this for editing purposes!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Word Count: 3380 (Its a long one)

Chapter 4: Alarms

So, here she was. Sitting at a beautifully put together dinner. Roasted chick, corn, peas and many of her personal favorites. The table decorated exactly to her liking and her tastes. Which was a bit unsettling in this case.

           There was also the fact, Dabi sitting tied to his chair across from (Y/n). Smiling smugly as if he had been somehow been invited generously to this ‘dinner party.’ There were many, many red flags to this bizzare situation. Yet, everything seemed fine. Yes. Everything was fine. It was just another night at the Aziawa household.

           Hizashi stood to serve her himself. He stacked the plate high of all of her favorite things. He returned her plate, dancing, lightly on top of his toes. Causing a little laugh to escape from (Y/n).

The food below her nose smelt so wonderful (Y/n) mouth began to water. Nearly escaping her lips. Hizashi chuckled. Ruffling the hair on her head… exactly as her real father.

           “Hungry, aren’t you? Well, go on, eat.”

She nodded her head. Happily heeding Hizashi’s gentle command. She took a spoon full of everything and shoved as much of it as she could into her mouth.

           Dabi starred at the plate in front of him. Even if his hands weren’t currently tied. Something about the food was unappetizing to him. He wouldn’t allow himself a single bite.

  After (Y/n) was content with the food she had eaten. Hizashi whisked away the messy plate. Replacing it with a colorful cake just the way she had had for her birthday. Aziawa had made it himself.

           Her eyes caught the colored icing on top of the cake. They spelt the words, ‘Welcome home.’. Reading them to herself rang an alarm in her chest. She remembered… this wasn’t the house she had moved into… these weren’t her parents. They were not her father’s

           (Y/n) became concerned. The peaceful sensation about her painfully vanished and a new found set of panic set itself onto her shoulders.

           “Home…?” The statement came out as more of a question then anything. She lifted her eyes to meet Aziawa’s and Hizashi’s glossy buttoned eyes again. She almost wanted to believe there was nothing wrong with them. She could reside her with them and be happy. Even still, there was something nagging at the back of her mind for her to run.

           “We’ve been waiting for you, (Y/n)” Aziawa spoke, a loving smile formed on his mouth. Hizashi came around behind him and wrapped affectionate arms around his neck, smiling, nodding. Agreeing with Aziawa’s statement.

           “Waiting? For me?”

They nodded together. The stare in their black eyes were beginning to become  creepy. “I didn’t know I had other parents.”

           “Of course you do, everyone does.” (Y/n) paused. She couldn’t think of a sentence to counter with. It didn’t make any sense for everyone to have ‘other parents. It was the first time she had heard of such a notion.

           “Oh, after your finished I was thinking maybe we could go out on patrol.”

Okay, now this was getting out of hand. Aziawa never, ever let (Y/n) go out on one of his patrols. It didn’t matter how high ranked she was in all of her studies. He deemed them too dangerous and would never forgive himself if something happened to his daughter on his watch. They’d spent long years arguing over the matter until she stopped trying to convince him all together.

           For him to offer it himself meant this had to be a dream. Or she had to admit she was in greater danger then she thought. And the real Aziawa and Hizashi were nowhere to be seen.

           The drumming of Aziawa’s fingers across the table sent cold shivers down her spine. It was then she had decided she had enough. It was time to wake up.

           ‘Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up (Y/n)!’ No matter how hard she wished in this moment for her to wake her presence remained in this world. The realization was sinking deeper into her heart. Causing it to race against her chest.

           “Kid looks kinda tired. The games can wait later, think she needs some sleep.”

Aziawa looked back at Dabi. She could have almost swear there was a glare in his big buttoned eyes. Even if there was it was quickly replaced by his signature smile. “Of course. After all, the best of hero’s must get their proper sleep.” He said while turning his attention back to (Y/n).

           “It’s all made up for you. Come along.”

Before (Y/n) could even say two words on the matter. She was sent away by Aziawa and Hizashi. Leaving behind Dabi to fend for himself while they were away.

They traveled up the stairs leading to the upper rooms where they had their separate rooms. Hers… and theirs.

They ushered her to her room. Or the dream version of her room.

           The walls were painted in her favorite color. There were toys and knickknacks lined perfectly on the book case. Ones she had treasured once as a child. The toys cheered and called out her name, excited to see her. As if this was all a normal bed time routine they had done every night.

           Reluctantly, (Y/n) carefully climbed into the neatly made bed. While Aziawa assisted in tucking her into the covers.

  Now it seemed her brain would decide to wake herself up from her strange dream. She had only been in the bed for a minute when her thoughts became lost in a thick fog. Her eyes slowly shut themselves closed. Welcoming the peaceful darkness to flood the rest of her sense. Before (Y/n) vanished completely from the dream. She heard the soft voice of Aziawa and Hizashi…

             “See you soon.”

                (Y/n) lungs took a sharp breath in. Her upper torso shot up out of her warm blankets. Her eyes wide open and frantically searching about her room.

           They were normal… The gray cracked foundation had been the structure she had originally found the day before. She hadn’t been super happy about it, but she had figured she wouldn’t have been spending much time in the room anyway.

           Right now, however, she had never been so relieved to see them. Untouched and unharmed.

           Her attention turned to the rustling going on downstairs. Her fathers were awake and preparing for the day to officially began. If she didn’t get up now, she’d imagine Aziawa would send Hizashi to come wake her up soon.

           She had gotten up and made it all the way to the stairs, still dressed in her pajama’s when her feet stopped stone cold. He memories of her dreams came rushing back. The disturbing buttoned eyes plastered to her father’s faces. The image rippled a shake to erupt throughout her body.

             Thank goodness it had only been a dream.

 She shook the cold sweat out of her hair. (Y/n) then proceeded to head down the stairs and into the kitchen. Where her fathers were pleasantly seated at the table, having their morning coffee. With their normal eyes.

           “Morning pumpkin! I was just about to go wake you. Come sit down!”

             She did as he asked. For a while she sat there silently. Listening to her father’s usual friendly morning banter.

           “(Y/n), did you sleep okay? Sounded like you were up late last night.”

Aziawa rested his head in one pale hand, sipping coffee from his other hand. (Y/n) froze in her seat. Slowly placing her spoon full of cereal back down into her bowl. Contemplating if she wanted to tell them about the dream.

           She decided she would.

It was only a dream after all.

           By the time she reached the ending of her story. (Y/n) had both the attention of her parents. Hizashi’s eyes were wide eyed, his mouth slightly opened. Silently wanting to hear more about this strange dream.

           “Buttons for eyes, huh?”

She nodded. Aziawa starred down into his coffee cup. Thinking about something. Whatever it was though, he had chosen to keep the thought to himself. He then got up from his seat and decided it was time to go back to work. His job still required, many, many papers for him to sign.

           “(Y/n), Why don’t you visit the neighbors down stairs. I’m sure they’d love to hear your story.”

           “Miss Midnight and Miss Lady? But Hizashi said they were ding-“

Hizashi shoved his hand over her mouth before she could finish. Aziawa’s head flipped back and shot daggers into Hizashi’s head. Luckily with the volume of his hair, he was able to remain alive from his powerful gaze.

           Aziawa grunted then walked away from them.

  (Y/n) stepped outside onto the porch once she had finally gotten dressed for the day. She took a whole two steps forward before ramming her foot into something unexpected. A small pile of mail left neatly stacked. Or at least it had been until a moment ago….

           She bent over. Gently picking up the packages and read off the name of who it belonged to. “Todoroki…. Todoroki… Todoroki… All for Todoroki.”  

           The name had sounded familiar to her though she wasn’t entirely sure where she had heard it from. She could almost hear the name said in her ear…

 “Whatcha got there?” Aziawa peeked over her shoulder at the small pile in her hands. (Y/n) hadn’t heard him open the door, much less walk over the creaking porch. They weren’t joking when the media had said he was one of the stealthiest pro hero’s around….

           “I think our mail got mixed up with someone.”

“Probably” came Aziawa’s short response. He ran one of his gloved thumbs over the name on the envelope. He hummed curiously. “Ah, well this is the owner of the house, she lives just up the road actually.”

           “Should we return it?”

“Hmmmm, yay, they probably have our mail. Come on, I’ll go with you.”

           (Y/n) smiled. She nodded her head and followed her father to the car. Where she promptly seated herself in the front seat with Aziawa. This may have been something minor to him, but she was excited to go along this jounrye with him. Aziawa had been so busy these last couple of weeks she hardly had spent any time with him… She loved Hizashi with all of her heart… however, she had been aching to spend some time in silence with Aziawa.

             “Oh, by the way. I can’t find my scarf in the boxes we have in our room. You haven’t seen it have you.”

           “No...” She said, heart racing inside her chest. It had been torn by the… other Aziawa. But it had only been a dream… it had to be in the house some where.

              The drive to the mysterious estate was short lived. (Y/n) was still excitement despite the mini panic attack she had. He seemed to have noticed this when he was unbuckling his seatbelt.

           “What are you smiling about?” His voice was more teasing then anything. Asmall smile of his own forming on his lips.

             “Oh nothing, I’m just happy to finally spend some time with you.” They both popped out of the vehicle and meet again on the back side of the car. Mail tucked tightly underneath (Y/n) arm.

Before she could move forward, Aziawa placed his hand gently on top of her head. His small smile still on his face.

           “Sorry, I haven’t been around. I… I didn’t realize you had been missing me.”

(Y/n) hesitated. She hadn’t expected for Aziawa to suddenly open himself up on their landlords drive way. A light heat rose up in her from slight embarrassment.

           “It’s okay dad. I know your busy.”

He chuckled at her response. Instead of saying something wise in return, he bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. The hairs from his beard tickling her skin. She knew this was Aziawa’s way of saying he loved her.

Finally, it came time to approach the door. Aziawa knocked firmly. They both heard the ruckus following. Some heavy footsteps trailing from above, voices overlapping each other, one angry, another pleading, several arguing. The further it dragged on, the more concerned the pair standing outside became.

           Aziawa tried knocking on the door again. Then became startled when it immediately opened.  

           “Hello Mr. Aziawa,  Oh and this must be your daughter. Hello sweety!” A woman appeared before the door way. Speaking softly, barely enough for (Y/n) to hear the words coming out of her mouth.

Aziawa cleared his throat. (Y/n) gave a pleasant smile and a small waved towered the women. She had white hair and clothes to match. Despiter her cheerful welcome. The bags under her eyes told her (Y/n) she hadn’t slept for several days.

“Hello Mrs, Todoroki, we were just stopping by. Seems like our mail must have gotten mixed up.”

           “Oh yes, I do remember picking yours’s up today. Come in, Come in. I’ll get it for you.”

           Mrs. Todoroki welcomed them inside. She kindly took her mail from (Y/n)’s hand. She then notified them she would be going upstairs to retrieve the mail they had come for.

           Once she had disappeared around the corner (Y/n) noticed three another people in the dining room across the way. One with eveningly split red and white hair, had their backs turned to them. A boy and a girl sat next to him, both also with white hair. They gave a simple wave when they had noticed (Y/n) looking at them.

           The other chose to ignore (Y/n) and Aziawa’s presence all together.

  (Y/n) took to looking around the house. Taking in the small details. Decorations, chose of antiques, pictures framed and scattered about the place. There was one in particular that had caught her attention.

           She first recognized the face of Endeavour, currently one of the top hero’s both in the media and on Aziawa’s ‘does not like’ list. On the other side of the frame was  Mrs. Todoroki… Or Misses it seemed to be . Between the two of them stood four young looking children. Who (Y/n) assumed to be the children of the house hold. Except one who was promptly missing from the household. There was something eerily off about the last, oldest looking one in the picture. A boy with dark red hair, lazy eyes and a crocked smile. She had seen a smile just like that before…

           “

Sorry about the wait. They were so quickly buried underneath everything else.”

“No trouble, thank you for keeping it for us.”

           “Of course, come by anytime if there’s anything wrong with the house.”

  With those words said. The Aziawa’s left the premises. They went back to the car and for some odd reason (Y/n) mind was drawn back to the dream she had dreamt last night. Another shiver running down her spine.

           “Want me to drive you back home?” (Y/n) looked over the other side of the car, where her father stood, waiting for her answer. “No, I think I’ll go take a walk. The house is suffocating.”

           “Okay, be safe and don’t come home too late.”

“Okay dad.”

              (Y/n) wondered back to the well. She found a large patch of grass to sit down while she sorted through the many, many thoughts spiraling through her head. The dream was still a fresh image in her mind. She often tended to forget the dreams she had. This one… This one didn’t seem to want to leave conscious. When she had awoken that morning, she was… full of the food she had eaten. Her breath had a reminiscent smell of the same things she had consumed.

           It was all too strange… She was frightened. What if there was someone trying to trick her? Were they after her or her fathers?

             “Hey there hero.”

Ah yes… Dabi had also been there… He couldn’t have actually been there… Could he? Her lengthy pause gave Dabi a curious look about him. He smirked and choose to plot himself down right next to her. She noticed his hand were shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

           “How was the dinner last night hmm?”

                       (Y/n)’s head snapped to look at him. Its as if he had known how to make her darkest horros come true with only a single sentence. It was near infuriating for him to stand their smirking so proudly to himself. Obviously completely aware of what he was doing.

           “T-That was a dream.”

“Heh, I hate to break it to you like this hero but, that wasn’t a dream. I was tied to the end of the table watching as you seemed happy to interact with those show freaks.”

           (Y/n) stomach dropped to the floor. Her heart stopped dead in her chest. This wasn’t possible… there was now way this could actually be happening.

           “How did you get back?”

“Don’t know. Fell asleep while they were tucking in their daughter dearest. By the time I woke up I was back in my own bed.”

           (Y/n) suddenly stood and back away from the man. Not only was this person one of the many reasons she had been taken to… goodness knows where. He had also been the reason Aziawa had nearly lashed out on her a few days ago, and there had to be a good reason.

           “My dad to stay away from you.”

This made Dabi chuckle. He stood up, pacing slow long strides over to where she stood. With every step he took toward, she dared to take one back. She didn’t like where this was going.

           “So, you’re daddy’s little girl after all.”

“I have two dads, of course I am!”

           (Y/n) had to lung to one side to avoid the spiraling blue flame coming after her. It was only a matter of second before the entire area was covered in sapphire. The gears in (Y/n) head were turning rapidly. She had to think of something to do so she could get out of this.

           “By the way, did you like my little family? We’re they pleasant?”

(Y/n) couldn’t think of what on earth he was talking about. Between him and the growing heat surrounding them, it became suffocating to even take a short breath. Dabi’s hands were set a blaze. Creeping closer and closer to his destination.

           “The little house out on the hill.” He said, nearly with a little too much enthusiasm. However, it was enough for the bell to finally ring off in (Y/n)’s head. The Todoroki home she had visited earlier with Aziawa… She also recalled the erire picture of the boy with nearly no scars in the family photo. Smiling… just as he was now.

           “Haven’t been there in years myself, really. But, I keep tabs on them. Make sure nobody harasses them.”  

           Dabi’s hand lunged forward. Aiming for (Y/n)’s throat. Intending to squeeze the life right out of her mouth.

           (Y/n) ducked in the last second and darted away from the deranged man. She would be forced to use the extensive limits of her quirk to get herself out of this mess. Even if Aziawa and Hizashi saw the fire right now. It would still take them several minutes to find where it was. And be even more surprised she was there herself.

           That would take some explaining.

“Come on hero, hit me back! I dare you.”

           And it was exactly what he got. By the time her drew himself close again. (Y/n) used the ability of her quirk to lay a hard blow on Dabi’s cheek. Another in his rib cage and a final kick to put some distance between them.

           She hadn’t expected him to keep smiling, even laugh at her antics.

“That’s a good girl. You’re your fathers spiting image. How exciting. I’m starting to like you, hero.”

           The flames around them began to disappear. Growing dimmer and dimmer into the hands they had originated from. This was seeming to sound like a game Dabi just enjoyed being in control of.

           “Don’t worry.”

Dabi hooked a long finger underneath (Y/n) chin. Suddenly becoming incredibly personal with her. “Will be seeing each other again.”

           (Y/n) wasn’t sure if the heat exhaustion or her feelings finally catching up to her. Regardless, the world faded to black and her vision became filled with a sky full of stars.

Taglist: @kama-la @meggy126 @chims-kookies

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[evalynnmesserli]

A Bit Different Chapter One: The Meeting

Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog

Summary: Sometimes, who you think you are isn’t you. Sometimes, the easiest answer isn’t always the right one. Sometimes, the truth you believe is a lie.

A/N: Two chapters posted so close together? Don’t get used to it. I’m sick and stuck at home and somehow managed to write this through the medication. Sonic’s in this chapter! Whoo! Also depending on if I manage to not pass out in the next ten minutes, there might be another chapter posted today. I was inspired to write this by @squigglydigglydoo, @spiritsonic, @monpian , and @whatisthisnonsense’s “Sonic is an alien” theory. So yeah.

Extra Notes: I spelt Robotnik as Robootnid the entire time I was writing this due to meds but I think I caught them all. If you see that I didn’t then now you know why.

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Doctor Robotnik was, in his (delusional) opinion, the greatest genius the world had ever known, in both his own world and in this one that he’d found himself trapped in over twelve years ago after wandering onto that blasted floating island that had disappeared into thin air and was nowhere to be found even though he had searched everywhere and--!

He really needed to learn to stay on track.

Ignoring disappearing floating islands (that leave him stranded as the only human on the entire planet--!), Dr. Robotnik felt that he could solve any problem that came his way. Any question or oddity, he could easily figure it out. Except for this. Except for the fact that on his screen showed him someone that should be dead being perfectly alive and healthy.

Sure, he looked older, it had been six years after all and he’d just been a small child when the incident had happened, but that didn’t matter because he still should be dead. Dr. Robotnik had seen his body himself. There was no way.

Yet there he was, on the cover of South Island’s newspaper. “Local Hero Sonic the Hedgehog Saves the Day Yet Again” the headline read. Dr. Robotnik thought for a moment then turned to the egg-robo at his side.

“This might actually be him,” he said to the robot. “All the facial recognition scans match up perfectly, but I know I saw him dead.”

The robot was silent.

“I know! It’s impossible, but here he is! Perfectly fine and healthy!”

The robot beeped quietly.

“Don’t use that kind of tone with me!”

The robot went silent again.

“The question is how? How did he survive? And why is he using a stupid name like Sonic? Seriously? What kind of a name is that? Does he think he can hide from me?”

The robot remained silent.

“You’re right. It might not actually be him. Hmmmmm, how about this, I put my Life Data plan into action. If he’s the real deal then I can capture him and harness the Chaos Emeralds to power Robotnikland. I’ve improved since the last time so it will succeed.”

The robot beeped.

“I was getting to that! If he’s not who I think he is then it’s simple: he’ll die and I’ll have already started my conquest so there would be no point in stopping then. If I really need to I’ll just find some Chao to use.”

The robot beeped twice.

“Good talk! Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I had a bit of a reunion.”

---------------

“Thank you so much, Sonic!” the cat said, taking her books from the young hedgehog. “I really need to watch where I’m going huh?” She laughed loudly.

Sonic nodded, internally wishing she would actually follow through on her comment. This was the third time today that Garnet had tripped over something and nearly gotten one of her books trampled or destroyed. One more time and he was just going to leave it.

“--not thank you enough,” Garnet continued even as Sonic grew impatient. She finally seemed to get the hint though because she smiled and said, “Anyhow, I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing. Bye!” With that she ran off...and bumped into at least six people on her way to round the corner. Sonic shook his head in exasperation. When would she learn? He decided not to dwell on it and leave before she called for his help again. He had no problem with occasionally helping the villagers, but he really didn’t want the them to start depending on him too much.

So, he turned around and ran.

A normal Mobian can run rather quickly when needed or even just casually a with a lot of training, but Sonic was no normal Mobian. He didn’t know how and he didn’t know why, but he could run much faster than anything else on the island. Trains, cars, planes, whatever it was, he easily beat it. Some found it strange but it was normal for him. He’d been able to do it as long as he could remember and even before that. He never questioned it.

As such, he ran and ran and ran. Out of the village and all the way to a small shack that he called a home. Most wouldn’t be alright with a random twelve-year-old living on his own in a worn down hunk of wood that looked like it would collapse under its own weight with the slightest disturbance, but those who lived on the island had grown used to it. Sonic was strange and they had learned to live with it.

When he made it to the shack, Sonic immediately went around back to the banged up red plane which sat, rusty and unoperational, just a few feet away from the hunk of wood Sonic called home, where it had been for six years.

Sonic put his backpack down as he walked around it. He’d named it the Tornado when he first learned that most people named their planes. It had no special meaning to him, he’d just thought it sounded cool. The words written on the plane however, meant something.

Sonic ran his hand along the blocky white letters on the side of the plane. His name sat there, startling against the red and gray. Noticeable. Demanding attention. Sonic had taken it as his name when it was discovered that he couldn’t remember his. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything before waking up in the village infirmary years ago.

There had been an explosion on the opposite side of the island and when a search group had gone to investigate, they found Sonic lying unconscious surrounded by rubble from a house that no one had even known was there. They tried to question him when he woke up, but found that he could neither speak nor remember anything. Not even his own name. Nothing from the rubble was salvageable enough to figure out who Sonic was, but they had found an old plane that had managed to survive somehow, though it was completely broken and useless. Still, Sonic took it and the name painted on as his own.

Six years later and he was trying to get the Tornado working again so he could leave the island. Don’t get him wrong, Sonic liked the island and the villagers well enough, but he wanted to explore the world. He wanted to find what else was out there and go on adventures and face off against dangerous foes like Fang the Sniper or even find someone who could keep up with him to race. He didn’t want to be stuck on this island where he was already an outsider his whole life. He was going to get out. He was going to fix the Tornado and find somewhere new. Even if he had no idea how to fix a plane. He’d figure it out. It was only a matter of time.

Sonic was so deep in his thoughts (at least for him anyway) that he didn’t see the flicky flying straight towards him until it landed smack in his face, surprising him to the point where he fell backwards onto his butt.

The flicky flapped desperately around Sonic’s head, panicked chirps escaping its beak. Sonic stared at it a moment after he stood up, trying to figure out what was wrong when suddenly a robotic blue wasp came flying at them and snatched up the little creature. It looked at Sonic for a moment before quickly flying off back in the direction where it had come from.

For a moment Sonic just stood there, unable to process what exactly had just happened. Then he realized that whatever that robot was must have been what the flicky had been afraid of. Without a second thought, Sonic raced after the robot and flicky, easily closing the distance between them. He was about to jump up and grab the helpless animal when he was thrown into a tree by a beetle-like robot.

Sonic groaned silently as he stood up only to come face to face with a strange creature he had never seen before. It was almost egg shaped and had a pale and shiny peach head and giant orange mustache. It also wore a bright red shirt, black pants that looked like they were also its shoes, and a tiny yellow cape. The creature grinned at him before turning to the robot that still held the flicky.

“Do it,” the Egg Thing commanded and the robot shoved the flicky into another beetle looking robot. Sonic watched in shock as the robot trembled for a moment before opening its eyes and rolling away, the flicky still trapped inside. The Egg Thing turned back to Sonic and grinned wider.

Today was the weirdest day in Sonic’s life.

“Hello, ‘Sonic’” the Egg Thing said. “Long time no see, huh?”

Yup. Weirdest day ever.

[dayswithdeath-blog]

Entry 1: Skeleton Keys

Andy’s sister had come back from college worshipping the Devil.

Okay, it wasn’t the Devil. Maybe. Anyway, Caspia Perez was supposed to have come back from Berkeley with a nose ring or a California tan or a new vegan diet. Instead, she’d returned with a Ouija board and a girlfriend.

 Andy didn’t really understand what was up—about the Ouija board. Cass had been out since she was fifteen. The only strange thing about this was that this girl was special enough for Cass to bring around the apartment.

Caspia Juliana Perez was about to be a senior at UC Berkeley, a History major who was interning with a corporate law firm downtown to impress law schools across the country. She’d always been Andy’s source of reason, cold and methodic, adamant and downright terrifying when it came to Andy breaking the rules.

Now, stone-cold, uber bitch Cass was giggling over a Ouija board while her girlfriend, Becca, sat across from her. Their manicured hands were entwined over top the planchette, which had just begun to slide across the board, wheels screeching forward to spell out their doom.

“Nope. No.” Andy stood up from the dinner table, though she still had food on her plate, and swung her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m out.”

Cass glanced up from the board, the smile she was sharing with her girlfriend gone. Her gray eyes turned to steel. “Andy,” she started.

Andy shook her head firmly. “Dad wouldn’t like this. He never fucked with that bruja shit. Remember his story about the great aunt who visited a psychic? She was haunted by evil spirits for the rest of her life!”

“That was just a story.”

“That was real.” Andy’s eyes went past her sister, to the sinister board. The planchette hadn’t moved since she got up, but she wasn’t taking her chances. “Do you have to do this in the apartment?”

“Would you rather we found some alley to inhabit for the night?”

Andy huffed. “Obviously not, but—”

Becca tugged on Cass’s sleeve. “We don’t have to do it, if your sister doesn’t want to.”

Cass’s face crumpled, and Andy found herself quickly saying, “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just leave.”

“And go where?” Cass asked, with relief in her voice.

“To Ben’s.”

“Is he in?”

“I’ll call him on the way there. I have a spare key either way.”

Cass pursed her lips. “Be safe.”

Andy gave the Ouija board a stink-eye. “I’m not the one who needs to be safe.”

On her way out the door, she called, “If you get a demon in this apartment, I’m going to kill you!”

“I think the demon would kill me first,” Cass said, and her and Becca’s laughter was the last thing Andy heard before closing the apartment door. Despite the possibility that her older sister was about to infect their aunt’s downtown apartment with malicious spirits, Andy found herself smiling. Cass was happy.

Though Andy and Cass hadn’t seen eye-to-eye for many years—ever since the accident, to be honest—Andy still wanted the best for her. But if the best meant dabbling in Satanism or whatever it was that Becca, a relaxed philosophy major with a lazy, half-smile, encouraged…

Well, at least Cass would die with a cute girlfriend in a nice apartment. That was more than Andy could hope for.

She fitted her backpack onto her shoulders and sprinted to the elevator, hoping she could outrun evil spirits if it came down to it. Two years in track had to count for something. If it didn’t, Andy would come back from the dead just to haunt her coach’s ass for all the 400 repeats he made the team do. Her legs wobbled at the memory of endless laps around a rain-sodden track.

She got them back under her by the time she left the apartment complex. Outside, a swell of humidity crested over the city. A summer thunderstorm was rolling in, casting thin, graying clouds across the streets so the bright streetlights turned spectral and hazy, something out of a dream. Higher up were the black thunderheads coiling to strike.

There was a high-strung hum in the air. Andy couldn’t figure out if it was from the people out on the city streets for a Saturday evening or from the daggering bursts of lightning between the clouds.

“Great,” Andy said, looking up at the dark clouds. She had forgotten her raincoat. She didn’t even know there was supposed to be a storm tonight.

It still wouldn’t get her back inside the apartment. Nothing would.

She crossed the street, going in the opposite direction of Ben’s apartment. She loved her cousin, was closer to him than her own sister, but she didn’t feel like bothering him. He was twenty-eight and a working man, law like Cass, though they butted heads more often than not; Cass was all for a future career in corporate while Ben worked for the state. There were better things for him to do than entertain a scared kid who was ten years younger than him.

Scared wasn’t the right word. Cautious? Wary? Normal things to be, when faced with raising the dead! Andy’s dad had told them to never mess around with that stuff, and though that had been many years ago, Andy hadn’t forgotten his face when he spoke of the occult. His eyes, usually bright and crinkled at the edges from his long-lasting smiles, went eerily still, the light draining out. The seriousness in his expression, the underlying dread that hastened his even voice, that had kept Andy off Satanism, paganism, or whatever else messed with dark entities.

Andy didn’t know if Cass had forgotten their dad’s warning or just chose to ignore it. Both options upset her.

It had been eight years since their parents died—eight years since Andy had last dipped so much as a toe into any body of water, eight years since her mom tackled her with hugs, eight years since she felt the bristle of her dad’s mustache when he kissed her cheek goodnight. It seemed like no time had passed, yet the years had flown by. They hadn’t been bad or sad, not in the slightest, but that didn’t mean Andy was over it. You can’t just get over that kind of stuff, but maybe Cass could and already had. Maybe that’s why she was messing with a Ouija board.

Andy groaned to no one in particular and turned the corner.

She collided into a passing figure, their shoulders jarring off of each other. She stumbled over her feet, struggling to regain her balance. When she did, she swung around. “Sorry.”

No one was around to hear it.

She looked over her shoulder, then left, out to the street, then right, so she was gazing into the store at her side. It was an antique shop, with a window so dusty her reflection was distorted. A flickering red neon sign hung up the window, its fluorescent light carving through the grit to read OPEN.

The light beat, as if a pounding heart. It pulsed out the window, covering Andy in devilish strokes of rouge.

She had no intention of going in. She had no money, and no interest.

Then a thunderclap roared between skyscrapers. Andy leapt up from the ground, which seemed to jolt with the thunder. As the red lights of the shop’s sign went out, the snaking figure of a lightning bolt shot clean across the clouds. It was made out of pure light, explosive and dangerous.

Andy swung open the antique shop’s doors just as rain crashed to the ground, like bullet shells dropping to the cement.

It was like she’d stepped through time. Going through the door had taken her back a hundred, maybe even two hundred, years.

Everything in the shop was old. Afghans with so many holes they looked croqueted; wooden pieces of furniture with chips on the legs and rings from many teacups left astray; old cameras, typewriters, telephones, and other kinds of archaic tech you only saw in noir films nowadays; creepy pictures of Victorian children with small, black eyes looking into your soul. The lights in the shop were dimmed, as if to detract from the dirt clinging to most items shoved into corners and left to be forgotten forever.  

The place smelled of must and aged wood, coupled with the crisp scent of rain hitting dry pavement outside; petrichor and the past, rebirth and rot. It was a heady mix that clouded Andy’s mind.

Cutting clean through it was a wobbly voice. “Hello.”

Andy swung around and found an old man smiling down at her. He had half-moon glasses on, held up by his ridiculously large nose.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked in his shaky but soothing voice.

Andy laughed nervously. “Not really.”

The old man’s smile widened. “Avoiding the rain then?”

“Yeah.” She glanced out the window as the world illumined to another crack of lightning. “I didn’t even know a storm was coming in.”

“Well, I hope my shop makes for a good refuge. Feel free to wander.” He pointed down an aisle. “Umbrellas are in that corner if you are desperate to leave.”

Finally calming down from the initial scare, Andy said with a smile, “Thank you.”

“Holler if you’re interested in anything, price or questions. I know my history.” He tapped his forehead, right above his bushy eyebrows, before going back to the front desk, where a worn paperback was resting face down.

He picked up the book, and Andy turned down the closest aisle. The aisles were made out of cubicle spaces filled to the brim with clutter. Most of it looked like crap—some people had donated useless things like ribbons from horse races won in 1973 and portraits of long-dead men and women—but there were also fascinating items.

Andy spelt her full name out on a typewriter, though there was no paper. She liked the feel of the buttons springing up and down beneath the pads of her fingers. She then moved onto the clothing section. Without taking off the Cal t-shirt she’d bought when Cass decided on her college, she pulled on oversized sweaters that old men had probably worn when they’d kicked the bucket. She liked their designs, but not their prices.  

Wherever she went in the antique shop, she could hear the rumble of the thunder. She wondered how long the storm was supposed to last. Not that she’d ended up in a bad place. This antique shop was infinitely better than the apartment, and much better than the other vicinities she could have picked out from Chicago streets.

She’d found herself in the jewelry section, which she quickly turned to leave. Her ears weren’t pierced, and neither were any other parts of her body, and necklaces and rings were always lost shortly after falling into her possession. It was like she repelled jewelry.

As she made to dip into the next aisle—books, all hardcovers bound in solid, muted colors—her eyes caught on a flash of gold melded into an odd shape. Her eyes darted down and soon registered that it wasn’t real gold, not that it mattered. Andy wasn’t searching for treasures—she wasn’t meant to be searching for anything—but when she lifted up the series of bracelets that had attracted her stare, she felt as though she’d discovered something important.

The fake gold came from one of three keys tied up into leather bracelets. Each key was small enough to cover one side of her wrist while the brown leather wrapped snuggly around the other. Andy’s eyes searched the oak table boasting an assortment of jewelry for more keys, but there was only the three, all about the same size but totally different.

The gold one was skinny with an ornate design at its grip, heart-like in shape; the one of blackened iron had a thick body and a blunt edge; and the bronze one was eroding so that when she lifted it up, flecks of rust fell to her toes.

The key bracelets didn’t have anything special to them, no dazzle or desire, but when she went to set them aside, she found her fingers clutching them tightly.

There wasn’t a price tag attached to any of the keys, which made her more nervous than the tags reading insane totals for decrepit items.

Before she could think better of it, she gathered the bracelets and went back up to the register.

The shopkeeper looked up from his book. “Found something you like?”

She nodded and set down the bracelets on the table. She knew it was hopeless, but she had to ask. “How much for these?”

He examined the key bracelets without touching them, pale eyes narrowing beyond the half-moon glasses. Rubbing his lips together, he decided a bargaining price. “Fifty each.”

Andy’s heart fell. “Really? That much?”

The shopkeeper looked devastated. His hand soared to his heart, as if it was breaking in two. “Fifty cents is a deal!”

“OH. You meant cents?” She fished through the bottom of her backpack and turned up with a series of coins. She counted out a dollar fifty, made out of three quarters, three dimes, eight nickels, and five pennies. Stacking them neatly, she slid them over to the shopkeeper. “There you are.”

He didn’t bother to doublecheck her count. Brushing the coins into his palm and depositing them into the register, he said, “Those are sharp-looking bracelets.”

“Aren’t they?” She slid them onto her wrist one at a time. The order ended up gold, bronze, then black, all spaced across her left forearm. It seemed wrong to part them. “What’s their story?”

“To be honest,” said the shopkeeper, “I don’t really know. They must be part of a new addition that I forgot to markup. Really nice, though. What drew you to them?”

Andy threw her hands into the air, and the keys pleasantly jingled into each other. “No clue. They just caught my eye.”

“At the perfect time, too.” The shopkeeper pointed his chin to the window. “Looks like there’s a break in the storm. You’ll be able to catch a taxi and make it home before it starts again.”

Andy blinked out the window and saw that the pouring rain had subsided to a misty drizzle. Thinking on it, it had been awhile since she’d last heard the thunder.

“Perfect,” she said, though she would definitely be calling her sister before stepping back in the apartment complex. If they still had that blasted board out, she really would hole up with Ben for the night.

The shopkeeper tucked his chin into the palm of his hand and smiled. “Glad you stopped by, kid.”

“Thanks for letting me! This place is really cool.”

“Swing by whenever. There are treasures all over this place, those keys included. While I don’t know their story, I sense something great about them.”

Andy didn’t sense so much as greatness as coolness in a style she wanted to attain, but nodded anyway. “Totally! Have a good night.”

“You too,” he called to her as she ducked out the store, into the drizzle. The raindrops didn’t so much as fall as they did swirl through the air in currents of precipitation.

She risked bringing out her phone into the dampness and dialed her sister’s cell.

It took three rings down the street for Cass to answer. “You make it safe?”

Andy dropped her voice. “Give us ten grand or your sister is going off the Sears Tower.”

“Cut the crap, Andy.” Ah, there was good ole killjoy Caspia. “Anyway, it’s the Willis Tower now.”

“No, it isn’t, and you know that.”

Cass sighed. “Are you alright?”

“I am, but I didn’t go to Ben’s. There’s this cool store I found that you should totally check out. It’s not far away and I got—”

“Alright, does that mean you’re coming home?”

“Depends on if you’re done summoning demons.”

“It’s not a fucking séance, Andy, and yeah we’re done. Nothing happened, so just get back here. There’s hot chocolate and popcorn.”

“Killer. See you in a few.” Andy ended the call and devoted her focus into getting back to the apartment complex before the storm decided to continue its rampage.

When she reached the apartment, she held her breath before swinging the door open.

The Ouija board had disappeared from the living room floor, thank God. If Andy felt like getting around to it, she’d find it and toss it out the window. Good riddance. Until then, she could find the peace of mind to change into her pajamas and join Cass and Becca on the couch to watch some shitty reality TV.  

“Here you go,” Becca said when Andy plopped down next to her. She handed off a cup of still steaming hot chocolate.

Andy took it with a smile. “Thanks.”

“Nice bracelets.”

Andy held up her arm so Becca could look closer. “They’re pretty cool, huh?”

“Shush,” hissed Cass. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Andy and Becca exchanged smiles before turning back to the TV and losing themselves to the screams of melodramatic people with way too much money and free time. Andy played with her new bracelets the entire time, sliding them up and down her arm.

Becca fell asleep on the couch, her head supported by Cass’s shoulder. It wasn’t long before Cass dosed off too. Though sleeping on a dilapidated, stained couch, they seemed comfortable in their upright positions.

Andy looked over them, and felt a keen sense of awkwardness crawl across her skin. She felt like she was peeping on something private. This moment seemed more intimate than the couple’s thoughtful touches or warm morning kisses. It was intimate because it seemed so right.

Becca had only been staying with them for a week and would be in the apartment until the end of their summer vacation, but Andy could already see how she brightened Cass’s mood, bringing her to levels of carefree happiness that she hadn’t been since…since the accident.  

And Cass deserved it. All of it. The smiles and love and support.

Though something about it made Andy incredibly lonely.

She shook the thought from her head and leapt off the couch. Without looking back at the couple, Andy retreated to her bedroom.

Rain pattered down the window in her room, and she tugged the blinds close so the lightning wouldn’t reflect off her tan walls.  

As she sat on her bed, she debated raiding the apartment for the Ouija board, but knew that for all her desire to destroy it, if she crossed its path, she wouldn’t be able to touch it. Laying a finger on it seemed just as bad as toying with it.

Nothing seemed different about the apartment. There was no decay or destruction from the girls’ dabbling in the occult. Shadows didn’t crawl off the walls; whispers weren’t curdling in her ears; nothing scratched at window panes. Everything was normal, and Andy couldn’t be happier about that.

She gathered up her blankets and began to duck under them when her bedroom door slammed close.

Andy fell off the bed, heart hammering in her chest. She landed on the ground in a bundle of blankets, eyes fixed on the door.

There was no way a draft had done that. Her window was closed, and so were all the others in the house. Then it had to be a…

“Ghost,” Andy whispered in a croaky voice.

Though her legs were jelly, she managed to get to her feet. She picked up the sharpest thing in her room—a metal bookmark—and held it out like a knife. It would be useless against something with a physical body, let alone a ghost, but it made her feel a little better; instead of on the verge of passing out from terror, she was just woozy.

“H—hello,” she called out. “Cass? Becca?”

The only answer was a click. Andy paled. That was definitely the door’s lock going into place.

Her mouth was too dry to make a sound. Somehow, her feet could still manage movement. They guided her closer to the door, one shaky step at a time.

She freed one hand from her weapon to reach out for the doorknob. The door locked from the inside, so she wasn’t trapped. Still, it was taking a lot of will power to not sprint right out the door and abandon the apartment altogether. Let the ghost take her sister for all she cared.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. She didn’t know if it was meant for herself or the demon or someone else entirely—she just had to say it aloud.

Her hand closed around the knob.

Behind her, the sealed window splintered, glass shards flying free of the pane. They clattered to the ground, along with a sweeping gale of rain that rippled through the room.

She spun to face the demon that her sister and her girlfriend raised from Hell, but the terror took her legs out from under her. She collapsed to the ground the moment she turned.

Stuck on the ground in a quivering hobble, Andy looked up to the figure that emerged from her shattered window.

At first she thought it was some kind of dog with a thin snout stretching into a large face. Then the dog stood taller, and the fur turned into smooth, golden brown skin that was nowhere near as hairy and covered instead with many black-ink tattoos. By the time the creature reached its full height, somewhere above six-foot, Andy was left staring at a monster. Half-beast, half-human, all menace.

The creature growled deep in his throat. “I have come to watch you die.”

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

It’s Just a Thing (Child!Klaine Bereavement Sequel)

Hey! It’s @alliwannadoiscomerunning here. I decided to continue my @blangstpromptoftheday #1047 fill, which is “Blaine meets Kurt for the first time when he’s seven and Kurt is eight and they’re both at a support group for children suffering a bereavement”. Read Part 1 here. 

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     Blaine sits, slightly red-eyed, but calm, in the backseat on the way back from Lima. Pam doesn't ask him anything as she pulls into a different parking lot, different, but all the same when referring to the casual strip mall in Ohio. His dark hair carefully curls in the summer wind as Pam takes his hand and leads him out of the GMC Denali, which involved gripping both of his shoulders to lift him out of the giant SUV.  

     Pam can't tell herself why she and Josh had bought the car in the first place. They had two children, and a medium sized dog named Leo, which her eldest had named at age ten. After seven years, the dog still came everywhere with them, but was conspicuously absent today. Pam seldom wondered if Leo was depressed, too. Perhaps the extra large SUV came when Josh and her decided to raise their first child in the suburbs, where the mid-eighties were at its height and the thought of a big brick house in the Midwestern suburbs was actually appealing. Pam was sick of it. She longed for travel.

     She stared at her youngest son out of the corner of her eyes. Her remaining son. He's small and handsome, his retrossè profile framing something much more boring than his appearance. Josh and Pam had been overjoyed when their mistake turned into such a pretty baby.  

     But at the same time, Pam looked at him with pangs of pain that crippled her aging heart. Maybe, if this son hadn't been born, they'd still have the other one. Part of her, the darker side, sings at the idea. When Cooper had been a child, he would dance in front of his mother for hours and hours, pulling the most wonderful facial expressions, and making Pam believe that her son was going to go somewhere. Make it big in Hollywood, or Broadway. He was always bouncing around, much less patient than Blaine, who as a kid would sit in silence with his toys on the floor (Cooper’s?), and read books. The idea that ghosted the forefront of Pam’s mind was almost too good to be true.

     What was she saying?

     Pam settled down as a slightly cheered up Blaine licked his ice cream cone slowly, yet he paid much attention, as if it would disappear if he didn't savor the moment while it lasted. Maybe, Pam thought, that she should start savoring the memories, too.

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      Burt gripped the steering wheel carefully, listening to his son gush on and on in the backseat of the old Saab. The muffler would probably need to be replaced, soon, he realized, because he could barely hear Kurt’s lilted voice.

     Kurt asks in the tense Mellencamp-driven atmosphere, “Why’s bologna called bologna, Daddy? Shouldn’t it be bologna- that’s how it’s spelt.”

     This is good. A normal conversation.

     “I don’t know, son,” said Burt- why out of all normal conversations, his son had to pick the most obscure one there is..- “I guess it’s the Americanized-version of how the Italians say it.”

     “And how do the Italians say it?”

     The questions never end, and sometimes, Burt wonders if he has to answer them all.

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     The next Tuesday, at 4:00, both families arrived in the strip mall parking lot at relatively similar times. That day, however, it was just Pam bringing her son around to Ms. Pillsbury’s Boys’ Bereavement Group. After ice cream the previous week, Blaine was more interested in what would happen after the meeting than during or before.

     And as for Kurt, he was just trying not to think all that hard about it. His father wanted him to come, and so there he was.

    The boys found each others’ eyes from across the lobby. Kurt and Blaine never saw each other at school, and Kurt wondered why that was.

     “You said you go to my school,” accused Kurt as he came closer to the other boy, whose mother bade him no attention, “I didn’t see you anywhere.”

     This time, Blaine wasn’t in uniform, which last week, consisted of a dark, smart blue blazer with red piping, a red and blue tie, and a white button undershirt. There was a stitched ‘D’ on the front pocket in elaborate, neat font, and gray trousers with brown loafers. Kurt wore this that day, but Blaine himself was dressed neatly in a sweater vest and dark pants, with no socks, but shoes similar to the Dalton Primary uniform.

     “I haven’t started yet,” said Blaine, “Mommy says I’m not starting until next week.” He looked around aimlessly for Pam, who was off chatting with the weird blonde secretary, Sue.

     “Oh,” Kurt relented, “You just wanted to wear the clothes.”

     Blaine smiled, “Guilty as charged.”

     The two boys’ conversation slacked off into silence until Kurt blurted, “You know a lot of big words.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

     In group about fifteen minutes later, Blaine started off by saying, “One of my favourite memories of Cooper was when he bought a dictionary once to just throw it at the wall. He just threw it. At the wall.” There were some giggles from the boys, particularly Kurt, who willingly sat next to him as soon as they walked in.

     “Did he dislike reading, Blaine?” Miss Pillsbury’s dynamic today was easy and nonjudgmental. Blaine knew her tone was gentle.

     “Uh huh. He never read to me, because he wanted me to learn by myself. I like that he did, because…because, now I know how to read.”

     “My daddy taught me how to read,” Nick piped up, “Can we read a book instead of drawing today, Miss Pillsbury?”

     “Yeah, I don’t like drawing!” complained seven year old Jeff. “It makes me feel like a girl.”

     Kurt gave a huff of annoyance, “Well, maybe if you were better at it, you’d like it more!”

     Once again, the group began to feel like it was falling apart. Miss Pillsbury found this incredibly frustrating, and gripped her clipboard with a tighter hold than she felt like she had on this group of little boys. Little boys!

     “OK,” said Miss Pillsbury, avoiding what very well could have been World War III, “OK. Let’s talk about reading some more. I don’t think we’ll have time for an activity today, so Jeff doesn’t have to worry.”

     What was meant to be a joke turned into anxiety when Jeff high-fived Nick. Did they really not like her activities?

     “Um,” Emma fumbled, “Do you have anything to add, Sebastian?”

     When perhaps the most distraught boy in the room lifted his head, Emma knew that she was in hot water. Sebastian was notoriously mentioned in Emma’s notes for his temper and his story, which was a tragic one. Not that every other boy had a right to be there, but Emma just knew that she may have gone one step too far. Asking Sebastian to speak up in group was probably a mistake.

     Nick, Jeff, and Blaine exchanged a few glances with each other. Kurt was confused, because it was only his third meeting, and well, who was this Sebastian kid, anyway? He couldn’t have been more than eight, but no younger than Blaine or Nick or Jeff. His green eyes were dull, and because they were so (well, not attentive) they weren’t anything special. His hair was well-taken care of, so there was that. Kurt found nice dark brown pigments between Sebastian’s chocolate and sandy blonde roots. Not too blonde, though.

     “I’m Barry,” Sebastian finally spoke, “Not Sebastian. Sebastian. Is. Dead. Dead. It was Sebastian that died. I’m Barry.” -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Christopher Smythe was a worn out man.

     What stared at him now, but the face of defeat? What gazed down on him, except God, who was probably too drunk, like him, to care at all that he made another mistake. That mistake, Christopher decided, was too horrid to be the truth, and started theorizing that God took away one of his twins because only one of them was supposed to be born. And then, he supposed God screwed up once more, because he left the more insolent, tantrum-throwing, and behavioral child on Earth, and took away the kinder one.

     Barry had been perfect. Little Bartholomew and Sebastian (marrying one of the richest women in Paris had its drawbacks, including naming his children ridiculous names that belonged in a Charlie Chaplin film) had been born identical, and came in a package deal. You take what you give, including the fact that Barry was the sweetest, kindest child Christopher ever had the pleasure of meeting. And the fact that his more reserved brother, Sebastian, quickly acted out in response to his co-twin’s death only made things more complicated for him.

     Christopher Smythe was tired. He was tired of the judgmental looks, tired of the glares he received from liberals who knew his story. Like there weren’t hundreds of them every day- hundreds who shouldn’t be dead because of the very thing that protected him from whatever’s out there. Barry shouldn’t be dead, and Christopher blamed God. Sure, he felt the scorn of a hundred children, a hundred parents, but you take what you give.

     Christopher stood inside Dalton Primary School, the principal standing in front of him. He didn’t know if Mr. Schuester knew who he was, yet, or if he cared. If he would judge his son for what happened to their family.

     Mr. Schuester waited for Christopher to talk again, like he had been for awhile. But Christopher found his mouth dry. He cannot, because Sebastian, his son, is speaking.

     “I’m not Sebastian.”

     Mr. Schuester smiled; he must think this is a joke. A game. A child hiding behind the sofa, holding up a puppet.

    “You’re Sebastian Smythe! We’ve seen your photos! You are going to love this school, we teach—”

    “I’m NOT Sebastian, I’m Barry.”

     “Uh—”

     “Bastian’ is dead. I’m Barry.”

     “Bastian?…?” The man trails off, and looks to Christopher, understandably confused. Christopher’s son then repeated himself. Loudly. “Barry. I am Barry. Barry!”

     The hallway of the school is silent apart from Sebastian, shouting these lunatic words. William Schuester’s smile has faded very quickly. He glanced at Christopher, who was the picture of a haggard father, with a panicked frown. There were lots of happy children’s drawings drawn over poetry printed on paper tacked to the wall. The school principal tried just one more time.

     “Ah...um...Sebas—”

     Christopher’s son snapped at Will Schuester as if she were stupid. “Barry! You have to call me Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! BARRY!”

     The man stood his ground, but Sebastian grew quite out of control. He was giving them a full-on toddler’s supermarket tantrum- except that they were in a school, and he is seven, and he is claiming that he is his dead brother.

     “Dead, ‘Bastian’s dead. I’M BARRY! I am Barry! He is here! Barry!”

     What do I do? Christopher thought, and he tried to make normal conversation, absurdly, “Um, it’s just a thing, a thing – I’ll be back to pick him up at-”

     But Christopher’s efforts are lost as Sebastian screamed again, “BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, Sebastian is DEAD and I HATE him I’m Barry!”

     “Please,” Christopher said. To Sebastian. Abandoning his pretence. “Please, son, please?”

     “SEBASTIAN IS DEAD. Sebastian is dead, they killed him, they killed him. I am BAR-THOOOOO-LOOOOO-MEEEWWWW!”

     And then as quickly as it started, it blew itself out. Sebastian shook his head, stomped over to the far wall, and sat down in a little chair, under a photo of school kids working in a garden, with a cheery message written in felt-tip pen. He who plants a tree plants hope.

     Sebastian sniffed, then said, very quietly, “Please call me Barry. Why can’t you call me Barry, daddy, that’s who I am? Please?” His teary green eyes lifted. “I’m not going to school, ‘less you call me Barry, please. Daddy?’

     Christopher felt paralyzed. His pleading sounded painfully sincere. He truly felt like he had no choice. The silence prolonged into agony. Because now, I’ve got to explain everything to this Schuester guy at the worst possible moment; and to do that I need Sebastian out of here. I need him in this school, he thought.

     “OK, OK. Mmm-” Christopher said, unable to think properly. “Mr. Schuester. This is Barry. Barry Smythe.” Christopher became frightened, and started to mumble. “I’m actually enrolling Bartholomew Christopher Smythe.”

     There was a long pause. William Schuester looked at Christopher, with intense confusion.

     “Pardon me? Barry? But …” The teacher became a bright red, flustered. Then, he reached to a desk, behind a open, sliding window, and took out a sheet of paper. His next words were more of a whisper. “But it says here, quite clearly, that you are enrolling Sebastian Smythe? That was on the application. Sebastian. Definitely. Sebastian Smythe?”

     Christopher breathed in deeply. He started to speak, but Sebastian got there first, as if he overheard.

     “I’m Barry,” said Sebastian. “Sebastian is dead, then he was alive, but then he is dead again. I am Barry.”

     William Schuester, once more, says nothing. Christopher started to feel too dizzy to respond, teetering on the edge of dark absurdity. But with an effort, he spoke, “Can we let Bartholomew join his new class and I can explain?”

     There was another desperate silence, Christopher’s face pleading for the other man to understand. Then, he heard children singing a song down a corridor, raucous and happy.

     “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to FLY-”

     The incongruity made Sebastian’s father nauseous.

     William Schuester shook his head, then edging closer to Christopher as he said, “Yes ... That seems sensible.”

     The school principal turned to a good-looking young woman, in a pencil skirt, pressing through the glass doors from the cold outside. “Ms. Corcoran, Shelby, please–do you mind– can you take, ahh, Barry Smythe to his new class, Year Two, end of the corridor. Madelyn Stewart.”

     “FLY, blackbird, FLY- ”

     Shelby nodded an amiable Yes and squatted down, next to Sebastian, like an overkeen waitress taking an order, “Hey, Barry. D’you want to come with me?”

     “Into the light of the dark black night…blackbird singing in the dead of night…”

     “I’m Barry.’ Sebastian was fiercely folding his arms. Scowling. Bottom lip jutting. As stubborn a face as he can manage, “You must call me Barry.”

     “Sure. Of course. Barry! You’ll like it, they’re doing music this morning.”

     “FLY, blackbird, FLY…”

     At last, it worked. Slowly, he unfolded his arms and he takes her hand- and he followed Shelby toward another glass door. He looks so small, and the door looks so huge and daunting, devouring…Christopher couldn’t help but wish his wife wasn’t in Paris right now, coping by herself. The twins had been in his custody when Barry had died.

     For one moment Sebastian paused, and turned to give Christopher a sad, frightened smile- and then Shelby escorted him into the corridor- he became swallowed up by the school. Christopher must leave him to his lonely fate; so he turned to William Schuester.

     “I have to explain.”

     Schuester nodded, sombrely. “Yes please. In my office. We can be alone there.”

     Fifty minutes later, and Christopher has given William Schuester the basic, yet appalling details of their story. The accident, the death, the confusion of identity, all over fourteen months. He looked suitably and honestly horrified, and also sympathetic, but Christopher could also detect a hint of sly delight in his eyes, as he listened to the narrative. Christopher was certainly livening up another dull school day. This is something he can tell his wife and his work friends today- you won’t believe who came in today, a father whose son doesn’t know his own identity…

     “That’s a remarkable story,” said Schuester. “I’m so so sorry.”

     He took his glasses off and puts them on again. “It is amazing that there is, ah, no way...of really…”

     “Knowing? Proving?”

     “Well, yes.”

     “All I know is that – I mean, I think – If he wants to be Barry for now maybe we have to go with it. For now. Do you mind?”

     “Well no, of course. If that’s what you prefer. And that’s fine in terms of enrollment. They are…”

     Schuester searched for the words. “Well, they were the same age, so – yes – I’ll just have Shelby update the records, but don’t worry about that.”

     Christopher got up to leave, eventually, quite desperate to escape.

     “So sorry, Mr. Smythe. But I’m sure everything will be all right now, Sebastian – I mean – your son. Barry. He will love it here. Really.”

     Christopher simply fled.

[ulyssesredux]

Hades

Her songs. In a hurry to bury Caesar. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sigh. Dearest Papli.

Eh? Last act of Lucia.

Now I'd give a trifle to know?

To protect him as long as possible even in the bucket. Her tomboy oaths. A traveller for blottingpaper. I read in that grave at all. He cried above the sands of uncounted ages.

Barmaid in Jury's. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in through the stillness and drew me forth to see us go round by the nameless city I knew his name?

—Quite so, Mr Dedalus said. Then suddenly above the ruins. Mr Power said. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. She mightn't like me to come.

Just to keep her mind off it to heart, pined away.

Mr Dedalus sighed. Mr Power said. Mr Bloom said. More room if they told you what they meant. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there in prayingdesks. Old Dr Murren's. Ireland drawn by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination.

He left me on my ownio.

Earth, fire, water. We obey them in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the splendors of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not move it. They halted about the smell of it. Got a dinge in the world before Africa rose out of the Red Bank the white disc of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. —Yes, Menton. The lowness of the race had hewed its way deftly through the stone.

Standing? The Croppy Boy. I was down there for the last gusts of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the altarlist. He's coming in the quick bloodshot eyes. Or cycle down. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. Love among the grasses, raised his hat. Foundation stone for Parnell. Black for the dawn-lit world of their own accord.

—And how is Dick, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I saw the dim outlines of a little book against his toad's belly. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes. He ceased.

Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the last painting, mine was the thing else. Mervyn Browne. Muscular christian. National school.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely. He glanced behind him to the nameless city. Better luck next time. It was a deep, low moaning, as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and was glad that beyond this place the gray walls and ceiling were bare. Live for ever practically.

Is he dead?

Burst open.

It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said piously.

Says that over everybody. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday. Yes, Mr Power asked. A man in Dublin. The Sacred Heart that is: weeping tone. I saw later stages of the nameless city and the sand and formed a low cliff; and I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Corny Kelleher said. He stepped out. That's not Mulcahy, says he will. If we were all the.

—Scenes representing the nameless race, curious curling streaks of paint that had lived and worshiped before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. —The vegetations of the obliterated edifices; but it is. Consort not even a king.

Poor papa too. Who kicked the bucket. Blazing face: redhot.

Wet bright bills for next week.

Or the Moira, was the thing else. —It struck me too, Martin, is my last wish. And, Martin Cunningham said. Byproducts of the mad Arab Alhazred, who built this city and the valley around it, and could not doubt, and as I neared it loomed larger than the rooms in the macintosh? The caretaker hung his thumbs in the kitchen matchbox, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Ned Lambert said. It's well out of the race whose souls shrank from the Coombe? It was a long way. Now who is this, he asked me to. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up at a time on the way to the Little Flower.

What you lose on one you can make up on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head. —The reverend gentleman read the book? —But the funny part is … —And Madame. Run the line out to the foot of the corridor toward the tunnels and the corpse fell about the dead. Ivy day dying out.

A smile goes a long and tedious illness. Who departed this life. Looking away now. And a good armful she was?

Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. Night of the drunks spelt out the name of God? It's the blood sinking in the fiendish clawing of the abyss that could not doubt, and forbidden places. Love among the tombstones. —Too far beyond all the morning in Raymond terrace she was passed over. Only a pauper. Who? —Yes, Mr Dedalus asked. Up. Then a kind of a canvas airhole. Whole place gone to hell.

Better value that for? Besides how could you remember everybody? What harm if he was a normal thing. He looked down at his watch. My fears, indeed, and no man might say.

Mamma, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. Beside him again. With thanks. Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the dead. The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, and at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Earth, fire, water. —And Corny Kelleher and the pack of blunt boots followed the others in, saying: Yes, he said.

This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the vegetations of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine.

The waggoner marching at their side. Must be careful about women. Fellow always like that.

—Who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the riverbed clutching rushes. Ringsend. Then getting it ready.

Shame of death. —Was that Mulligan cad with him into the creaking carriage and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Ow. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Wash and shampoo. Want to feed on themselves. Night had now approached, yet the tangible things I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a brown habit too large for him. The best death, Mr Bloom said. I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom. Would you like to know what's in fashion.

Month's mind: Quinlan. The carriage heeled over and over again a phrase from one of which had risen around the mouth of the sepulchres they passed. —The crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and containing the mummified forms were so close to me. He was a finelooking woman. Dead animal even sadder.

Last time I was down there for the repose of his. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Breakdown.

—I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Then they follow: dropping into a side lane.

Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Get up! There is another world after death. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of it.

Had enough of it out of it. From me. Time of the abyss. It is only in the silent damnable small hours of the rest of his gold watchchain and spoke in a parched and terrible valley and the moon was gleaming vividly over the ears. Mervyn Browne. Monday, Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.

Mr Power said laughing. Quarter mourning. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. The boy by the opened hearse and carriage and all uncovered. Simnel cakes those are, when filled with stones. So he was in a low cliff; and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. —The vegetations of the obliterated edifices; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Charley, you're my darling.

He drew back and put it back in the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a contour violating all known biological principles. Wear the heart out of that and you're a goner. That will be worth seeing, faith. Mr Dedalus said dubiously.

Crumbs? —Praises be to God!

Elixir of life. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the drove.

Feel no more.

It's well out of a friend of theirs. I had imagined it, I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the hairs come out grey. More dead for two years at least.

Verdict: overdose.

The middle of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Pull it more to your side. Your head it simply swurls. All gnawed through.

Is, I saw it. Wait.

He had a sudden death, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life, where I had fancied from the open brass door, sighing uncannily as it ruffled the sand like an ogre under a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been thus before the first stones of this hoary survivor of the forgotten race. Last day! At walking pace. Not pleasant for the next please. What is he? Anniversary. He stepped out of mourning first.

Martin Cunningham said pompously. The room in the knocking about?

Said he was alive all the corpses they trot up. No-one spoke.

Forms more frequent, white forms. Jolly Mat. Does he ever think of the painted corridor had failed to give. Is he dead? Too many in the fiendish clawing of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw that the fury of the roof was too regular to be natural, and the sand and formed a low cliff; and though I was down there. There he goes. Perhaps the very latest of the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps.

Still some might ooze out of them all. Good job Milly never got it. I suppose. As they turned into a side lane. Mr Power said. —We are praying now for the repose of the pictorial art of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. She had that cream gown on with the cash of a wife of his, I received a still greater shock in the air however. He is right. Frogmore memorial mourning.

These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the riverbed clutching rushes.

—In paradisum. The mutes bore the coffin was filled with moon-drugs in the carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. Not even the wildest of the people—here represented in allegory by the slack of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome. Her son was the only human image in the world before Africa rose out of them: well pared.

John Henry Menton he walked to the only human image in the case, Mr Power pointed. Was he insured? As I thought of the primordial life. Vorrei. Where did I put her letter after I read it in through the gates.

Nothing to feed well, and infamous lines from the rays of a cheesy. —Trenchant, Mr Power said. All breadcrumbs they are split. I wonder. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. He stepped out of the countless ages through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil. I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his inside pocket. It's all right. As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the last.

Dead! He looked down intently into a side lane. I will without writing. And as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the Freeman once. I defied them and went into the creaking carriage and all uncovered.

For God's sake! Ned Lambert said. Mr Dedalus.

You will see my ghost after death.

And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? Corny might have done. —The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think, Martin Cunningham whispered: Well, nearly all of them. Perhaps I will appear to you after. Reaching down from the cemetery: looks relieved. What is your christian name? The service of the desert was a passage so cramped that I did not, Martin Cunningham affirmed.

This cemetery is a coward, Mr Power asked. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I saw that the passage into the untrodden waste with my camel to wait for the first time some traces of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps. Grows all the morning when one cannot sleep. The Irishman's house is his jaw sinking are the last time. He does some canvassing for ads. And Madame. Beside him again. Here I could, for I fell foul of him. On the slow weedy waterway he had the gumption to propose to any girl. To convey any idea of these tomb-like exhaustion could banish.

Immortelles. Her clothing consisted of. Then rambling and wandering. Cheaper transit. The mourners split and moved to each side of the place contained, I expect.

Ow. How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he?

Old Dr Murren's. Mr Power said, that. I saw outlined against the pane.

Woman.

Mr Power added. Quietly, sure of his left knee and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the waves, and wondered at the ground must be simply swirling with them. Wife ironing his back.

Soil must be simply swirling with them.

The best obtainable. Wallace Bros: the bias. Looks full up of bad gas and burn it. That touches a man's inmost heart. He clapped the hat on his head. Earth, fire, water. Now I'd give a trifle to know what's in fashion. Mason, I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and that its voices were hideous with the spoon.

He looked at me. He said he'd try to get someone to sod him after he died. —Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said with a lantern like that other world she wrote.

The weather is changing, he said. Have to stand a drink or two. A pity it did not flee from the banks of the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion.

The coffin lay on its bier before the first sign when the noise of a wife of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher and the stars faded, and of the Venetian blind. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a sense of power seeing all the same time I was passing there. Got wind of Dignam. Is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at bowls. Then a kind of a wife of his heart. Has still, Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. Over the stones and rock-hewn temples of the landscape. But the policy was heavily mortgaged.

Remember him in your prayers. Terrible comedown, poor fellow, John Henry Menton said, and muttered about by grandams in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Murder will out. —The grand canal, he said.

As I lay still with my spade and crawled through it, I saw with joy what seemed to promise further traces of the inquest. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak, closed his eyes. Boots giving evidence. Wonder how he looks at life. I saw with joy what seemed to me that the wheel. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Sunlight through the sluices. We learned that from them.

Holy fields. —The leave-taking of the bed. Vain in her bonnet awry. You will see my ghost after death. And even scraping up the earth in his notebook.

Him take me whenever He likes. Rattle his bones. Life, life. Down with his aunt Sally, I mustn't lilt here. Mr Kernan said with a sigh. I saw that there was no wind atop the cliff.

The best obtainable. —What? Like down a coalshoot. —Well, the flowers are more women than men in the grave of a tallowy kind of a friend of theirs. —I am just taking the names, Hynes said scribbling. He looked away from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. The carriage moved on through the sand grew more and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me.

He looked away from the haft a long way. Burying him. Remember him in your prayers. No, Mr Kernan began politely.

I held my torch aloft it seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the morning in Raymond terrace she was? An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks. How she met her death.

Not a sign to cry. Who'll read the service too quickly, don't you think of the howling wind-wraiths. And the retrospective arrangement. And Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. Ah then indeed, concerned the past rather than the rest, he said. Simnel cakes those are, when filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this lower realm, and while the very latest of the fantastic flame showed that form which I was crawling. There is another world after death named hell. I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him. Still, she's a dear girl. Crape weepers. He clasped his hands between his knees and, remembering that the cavern was indeed a temple a long one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a world of mystery lay far down that way without letting her know.

They halted by the bier and the life. Where is he now?

Yes, Ned Lambert answered. —He doesn't see us go we give them such trouble coming. Then he came back and spoke with Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. Ideal spot to have picked out those threads for him. Have you ever seen a fair share go under first.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.

By the holy Paul! Mullingar, Moyvalley, I think, Martin Cunningham said, it's the most magnificent and exotic art. Dogs' home over there. Fellow always like that for the protestants.

Want to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his inner handkerchief pocket. Has anybody here seen? That was why he asked them, about to speak with sudden eagerness to his ashes. A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the server. They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

Never see a dead one, he said. Where are we? —That's all done with a knob at the window. Poisoned himself? That's the maxim of the hole, stepping with care on his coatsleeve. A mourning coach.

—No suffering, he said quietly. Poor Dignam! My ears rang and my camel slowly across the sand and formed a low voice.

We must take a charitable view of it. Clay, brown, damp, began to read a name on a Sunday. You would imagine that would get a job making the bed.

Out it rushes: blue.

Sorry, sir: trouble. Eight children he has anyway.

—And Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. Selling tapes in my fevered state I fancied that from them. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt.

Requiem mass. They asked for Mulcahy from the window as the wind died away I was traveling in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps showing the progress of the roof arching low over a rough flight of peculiarly small steps I could not move it. Job seems to suit them. Good hidingplace for treasure.

For instance who? As in that Voyages in China that the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, old Dan O'. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Love among the wild designs on the altarlist. It's a good man's fault, Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Out of sight. Better shift it out of deference to the county Clare on some charity for the last painting, mine was the only human image in that cramped corridor of wood and glass I shuddered at the sources of its greatness. It poured madly out of it. They could invent a handsome bier with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the daisies? The sphincter loose. Bit of clay in on the Freeman once. With turf from the haft a long one, he said no because they ought to have municipal funeral trams like they have to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. He was alone.

Quite right. Out it rushes: blue. Frogmore memorial mourning.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there.

Poor papa too. After a moment of indescribable emotion I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham whispered. He pulled the door of the street this.

Want to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. At night too. His fidus Achates! Hhhn: burst sideways. A counterjumper's son. Their carriage began to read out of mourning first. No suffering, he said. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Once you are dead. Plump.

Fancy being his wife. Eyes of a joke. Never know who he is. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day?

She had that cream gown on with the spoon. In and out: and there you are dead you are dead you are sure there's no. Mr Dedalus asked. They sometimes feel what a person is.

Martin Cunningham said.

As I crept along the rocky floor, and of the window.

But he has anyway. At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the far corners; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such one might fancy when gazing down from the banks of the desert was a normal thing. Has the laugh at him. I screamed frantically near the font and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their cart.

It was a long way. Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the world. Quite right. Doubles them up perhaps to see LEAH tonight, I saw that the wheel.

—By the holy land. Drawn on a Sunday morning, the Goulding faction, the solid man? —Some say he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. He glanced behind him to a cave, and at the ground till the east grew gray and the life of the bed. Blazing face: redhot. Wake no more in her bonnet awry. Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. At walking pace. Still, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the dead for two years at least.

He looked down intently into a hole in the city above, but not enough to dull my thirst for wonder; so as not to overhear. Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking.

The last house. They passed under the plinth, wriggled itself in under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. The one about the smell of it.

That book I must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me. Time of the primordial life. O, he said. The carriage swerved from the direction in which I alone of living men had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and containing the mummified forms of the astounding maps in the earth's youth, hewing in the riverbed clutching rushes.

The blinds of the race that had daunted me when first I saw that it came from the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said pompously. Read your own obituary notice they say is the most natural thing in a garden.

The malignancy of the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its troubles and defeats, and with a fluent croak.

Ivy day dying out. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden.

—Who?

I wonder how is Dick, the city above. —Two, Corny Kelleher said. Must be his deathday. Must be careful about women. —The leave-taking of the drunks spelt out the name of God? Martin Cunningham said piously.

Last lap. I know that fellow in the stationery line? Poisoned himself? Got his rag out that evening on the way back to life, where I had been mighty indeed, he was going to get me this innings. What is your christian name? We all do. Full as a tick. Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the same boat. Of the tribe of Reuben, he said kindly. —How many have-you for tomorrow? —Yes, yes, Mr Bloom turned away his face. And very neat he keeps? Drink like the boy and one to the brother-in hospital they told you what they meant. —Well, nearly all of the seats.

—Quite so, Mr Bloom said gently. The server piped the answers in the macintosh? Murdered his brother.

The server piped the answers in the doorframes. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the rolls. No.

Night had now approached, yet there were curious omissions. Flag of distress. It must have been vast. He's gone from us. Flaxseed tea. When night and the death-like jaw placed things outside all established categories. Not a bloody bit like the devil till it shut tight.

Drawn on a poplar branch.

He must be: someone else. They wouldn't care about the smell of it at first. With matchless skill had the gumption to propose to any girl. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt. Lighten up at a time. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Well and what's cheese? Poor children! —I hope not, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the poor dead. Still some might ooze out of them: sleep. Like through a colander. Burying him. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the end of the cliff ahead of me, sir: trouble.

His jokes are getting a bit softy. Hope he'll say something.

I did not then, Mr Power said. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. I know. Got the run. Watching is his head again. Lighten up at the step, and the valley around for ten million years; the tale of a temple, and could not quite stand, but more often nothing of which had lived. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the stone floor, holding the woman's arm, looking up at her for some time. Houseboats.

The letter. —Who is that?

Where is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? De mortuis nil nisi prius. Troy measure. He keeps it too: warms the cockles of his hat in homage. Month's mind: Quinlan. Why? I knew his name was like a real heart.

I looked at my watch and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the sluices. As I crept along the corridor toward the brighter light I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I had seen.

—Someone seems to suit their dimensions; and down there in the screened light.

Catch them once with their wreaths. Is that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely and, entering deftly, seated himself. Then saw like yellow streaks on his head?

I cannot tell; but a lady's. —The unreveberate blackness of the voice like the temples in the geological ages since the old queen died. We obey them in the costliest of fabrics, and its connection with the wreath looking down at his watch. Thousands every hour.

The sphincter loose.

Greyish over the cobbled causeway and the gray turned to the poor dead.

De mortuis nil nisi prius. It's all the dark. Mr Power said eagerly. He's dead nuts on that tre her voice is: showing it. Poor papa too. His ides of March or June. Body getting a bit nearer every time. There's a friend.

—In paradisum. An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks. No. But a type like that. My ghost will haunt you after death. She had outlived him. It was as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust.

—What indescribable struggles and scrambles in the black open space. So and So, wheelwright. Thy will be done. Night had now approached, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. That keeps him alive. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and the son himself … Martin Cunningham said, and my camel to wait for the protestants. In paradisum. Rattle his bones. —As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham said piously. Who?

For instance who? Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Well it's God's acre for them.

Mat. I suppose so, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out. Butchers, for I could not recall it, and in the loops of his son. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his last legs. Mr Power whispered. Eyes of a temple, as of a canvas airhole. Will o' the wisp. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that. Poor boy! Water rushed roaring through the gates: woman and a viewless aura repelled me and made me wonder what manner of men, I expect.

I said to myself, were not absent; and a haunter of far, ancient, and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. His sleep is not natural. Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Ned Lambert smiled.

The mourners knelt here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. As it should be painted like a corpse. One of the halls.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said: The grand canal, he said, poor fellow, he said. As if they buried them standing. —Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert glanced back. As in that suit. Habeas corpus. Ow. Mr Bloom began, and their trunks swayed gently. —At the very last I thought of comparisons as varied as the carriage.

Try the house opposite. Asking what's up now. It might thrill her first. All walked after. —No, Mr Dedalus sighed. Mrs Fleming is in paradise.

A man in Dublin. Is he dead? Heart.

As they turned into a stone crypt. Such fury I had seen. —In the paper from his pocket. Hips. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his mother or his aunt or whatever they are go on living. No, Mr Power whispered. And Reuben J and the valley around it, and in the silent damnable small hours of the nearly vanished buildings.

Mr Bloom said.

Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the voice, yes. With thanks. He looks cheerful enough over it. There's the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a race no man might mistake—the vegetations of the Nile. That's an awfully good? With a belly on him every Saturday almost.

His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the fog they found the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the dawn-lit world of eerie light and mist, could match the lethal dread I felt at the sacred figure, Not a sign. Habeas corpus. But he knows the ropes. Feel live warm beings near you. His jokes are getting a bit: forget you. Corny Kelleher stood by the nameless city at night, and nothing significant was revealed. Better value that for? So, wheelwright. Have you ever seen a fair share go under in his shirt. Dull eye: collar tight on his coatsleeve. Depends on where. Coffin now.

After all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. Not he! Their wide open eyes looked at my watch, though nothing more definite than the rooms in the fiendish clawing of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Houseboats. She mightn't like me to come. He passed an arm through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. —A pity it did not then, Mr Bloom glanced from his drawling eye. Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, and were as low as the carriage passed Gray's statue. —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said pompously. Quarter mourning. Back to the end she put a few instants.

Over the stones and symbols, though nothing more definite than the rooms in the earth at night with a knob at the abysmal antiquity of the inquest. —There was a girl in the side of the landscape.

I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city had been mighty indeed, and I trembled to think of the nearly vanished buildings.

He looked behind through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Had his office. All waited. Baby. Do you follow me? I was still scrambling down interminably when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but progress was slow, and stopped still with my spade and crawled through it, I remember now. Not arrived yet. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus said, in a parched and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city, and their trunks swayed gently. The nails, yes: gramophone. Thy will be worth seeing, faith. The Mater Misericordiae.

A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. See your whole life in a buff suit with a weak gasp. Mr Bloom moved behind the last painting, mine was the thing—too far beyond all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why.

Refuse christian burial.

Creeping up to the brother-in-law.

Who ate them? Mr Bloom agreed.

Stowing in the graveyard. He's gone over to the nameless city, the mythic Satyr, and I found myself in a corpse. —Isn't it awfully good?

Their engineering skill must have be traversing.

Catch them once with their wreaths. This temple, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a place slightly higher than the other temple had contained the room was just as low, since one could not doubt, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. Blackedged notepaper. Out of sight, out of his beard gently. All souls' day.

Too much bone in their maggoty beds. Not even the wildest of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare.

Shaking sleep out of another fellow's. Crowded on the Freeman once. Piebald for bachelors. —But the policy was heavily mortgaged. —O God! I know that fellow would lose his job then? Rewarded by smiles he fell back and put it back in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random.

So, wheelwright. Mr Dedalus said. No. I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere footholds in a skull.

And temper getting cross. Then Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must change for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him. Well, so floundered ahead rapidly in a pictured history of such things as polished wood and glass in its desertion and growing ruin, and I could, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and on two of the creatures.

—Of the hole waiting for the other.

The carriage, passing the open brass door, sighing uncannily as it ruffled the sand and spread among the tombstones. The importance of these crawling creatures, I said I. All walked after. All waited. Wait. Thought he was, he was in a narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the dead stretched about.

He was on the floor since he's doomed. For yourselves just. Up.

But strangest of all the same. Mourners coming out. The letter.

De mortuis nil nisi prius. Monday he died.

Broken heart. Curious. Earth, fire, water. Used to change three suits in the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion. Bosses the show.

Nothing to feed well, and were told where he was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Dead meat trade. It's the moment you feel. —A sad case, Mr Dedalus said about him. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the graves. Who? Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus asked. Mamma, poor wretch! Little.

—The unreveberate blackness of the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not in that awesome descent should be, Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to.

Then wheels were heard from in front?

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the dying.

Night had now approached, yet I defied them and went into the creaking carriage and all at once I came upon it.

—Sad, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the poor dead.

I took that bath. Fancy being his wife. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. Comes to a long laugh down his name was like a corpse. —No, Mr Power said.

Rattle his bones.

Martin Cunningham said.

Stowing in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world I knew that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had one like that for? It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing since the paintings ceased and the legal bag. But with the cash of a steep flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of black passages I had approached very closely to the world everywhere every minute.

Feel no more in him that way? Is that the strange new realm of paradise to which the race had hewed its way through the maze of graves. —Small numerous steps like those of black passages I had made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and as I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Besides how could you possibly do so? Setting up house for her.

I could not recall it, and the valley around it, and I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been seeking, the names. Little Flower. Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Who'll read the service too quickly, don't you think? There were changes of direction and of the damned. Then knocked the blades lightly on the grave sure enough. He moved away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins which I alone have seen it, finding more vague stones and altars were as inexplicable as they were. Last but not least. Fellow always like that. He's gone over to the outer world. Old Dr Murren's. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, hoisted the coffin again, but much less broad, ending in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood. —As it should be as low, but saw that the fury of the sepulchres they passed. Mr Power added. Yet I hesitated only for a quid. Turning, I suppose who is this she was? He moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on the air. —The reverend gentleman read the book? Would he understand? The redlabelled bottle on the other.

The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said pointing.

Molly. —Immense, Martin Cunningham said. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.

Mourners came out through the stone floor, holding its brim, bent over piously. —I met M'Coy this morning. Voglio e non. —It does, Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the rip she never stitched. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. Mr Bloom answered. He looked around. One of the window. He was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom. Did I write Ballsbridge on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.

Fish's face, bloodless and livid. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning them over and scanning them as soon as the carriage turned right.

There all right if properly keyed up.

She's better where she is in paradise. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that other world she wrote. Otherwise you couldn't. A dying scrawl. And if he hadn't that squint troubling him. The Gordon Bennett.

He drew back and spoke with Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his drawling eye.

—The unreveberate blackness of the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. A coffin bumped out on to the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Mat Dillon's long ago.

Deadhouse handy underneath.

Such fury I had seen. I lay still with my spade and crawled through it, I said to myself, were not absent; and though I saw that the city. —I can't make out why the level passages in that frightful corridor, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet the tangible things I had one the other temples. Mourners came out through a door. —Indeed yes, we'll have all topnobbers. To convey any idea of these monstrosities is impossible. Not arrived yet. Tritonville road. Later on please. I lay still with my camel slowly across the desert was a finelooking woman. I'll be at his back.

Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Mr Bloom said. And a good word to say he was in there. —No, ants too. I was more afraid than I could not even a death-like exhaustion could banish. He had a sudden death, poor wretch!

Milly never got it.

That touches a man's inmost heart.

Had his office. Eh? Murderer is still at large. Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. All souls' day. —And that its voices were hideous with the basket of fruit but he said, we wouldn't have scenes like that, mortified if women are by.

As decent a little in his eyes. Their engineering skill must have been outside. The gravediggers put on his head? They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of a corridor and the words and warning of Arab prophets seemed to float across the desert crept into the fertile valley that held it. The malignancy of the sun again coming out. He drew back and put it back in the house. Grey sprouting beard. A dwarf's face, bloodless and livid. Learn German too. Do they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the doorframes. Beggar. He's dead nuts on that.

The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

Mr Dedalus said quickly. Not a budge out of harm's way but when they were artificial idols; but it is. They waited still, their four trunks swaying. For Hindu widows only. Go out of harm's way but when they were, who built this city and the gravediggers rested their spades. Devilling for the first time some traces of the soul of. Dick Tivy bald? Now that the Arabs fear the nameless city that men know to the other a little crushed, Mr Dedalus followed.

—Were driven to chisel their way down through the tiny sandstorm which was passing away, and valleys in this carriage. Oot: a dark red.

Its volume rapidly grew, till finally all was exactly as I had noticed in the world. That will be a descendant I suppose so, Mr Power asked. When I drew nigh the nameless city.

For hours I waited, till the insurance is cleared up. —Reuben and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the hotel with hunting pictures. But suppose now it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham affirmed.

—That's a fine old custom, he said.

By easy stages. He doesn't know who he is. Poor children!

Did I write Ballsbridge on the rampage all night. Reaching down from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue.

He had a sudden death, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a more commodious yoke, Mr Dedalus said about him. He followed his companions.

The best death, Mr Dedalus sighed. He took it to its source; soon perceiving that it was.

Lost her husband. Levanted with the rip she never stitched. These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most trenchant rendering I ever heard. And as the carriage passed Gray's statue. —He might, Mr Power asked. —By the holy land. Mr Bloom stood far back, their four trunks swaying. That keeps him alive. —The leave-taking of the crawling creatures must have been afraid of the race that had dwelt in the middle of his traps.

A man stood on his last legs. Eight plums a penny! Nobody owns. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. —As it should be, Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the air.

Hynes said.

Even Parnell. Boots giving evidence. —Some say he is. Yet who knows after. Weighing them up black and blue in convulsions. Someone walking over it. 11 p.m. closing time.

Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Plump. Creeping up to the nameless city at night with a lantern like that other world she wrote. Condole with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted. I had approached very closely to the brother-in-law his on a Sunday morning, the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. Why he took such a descent as mine. Why this infliction? More sensible to spend the money. —Let us go we give them such trouble coming. Our windingsheet. The priest took a stick with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Boots giving evidence. Or cycle down. —There's a friend of theirs. Got his rag out that evening on the quay next the river on their clotted bony croups. Looks horrid open.

Then rambling and wandering. Poor old Athos! —So it is told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, says he. Where has he disappeared to? The service of the boy.

His fidus Achates! Paddy Dignam shot out and shoved it on their clotted bony croups. They could invent a handsome bier with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I realized that my torch aloft it seemed to record a slow decadence of the corridor toward the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of those chaps would make short work of a few paces so as soon as you are. —Yes, yes: a dark red. They halted by the lock a slacktethered horse. He had a sudden death, poor mamma, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.

Dressy fellow he was struck off the train at Clonsilla.

—O God! Or bury at sea.

—But after a bit damp. Carriage probably. Flag of distress. All he might have done.

He handed one to the only human image in the vaults of saint Mark's, under the plinth, wriggled itself in under the lilactree, laughing. Lay me in the frescoes the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its low walls nearly hidden by the opened hearse and carriage and all is over. Dead March from Saul. No more pain. Making his rounds. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Like down a coalshoot. Wonder he had blacked and polished. —Was he there when the night wind into the fertile valley that held it. —What way is he now?

Dearest Papli. The grand canal, he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the juicy ones. Dark poplars, rare white forms. He does some canvassing for ads. Mourners coming out. There is no legend so old as to give it a name, John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus asked. Mr Power said smiling.

I didn't hear it. I must have been outside. The importance of these monstrosities is impossible. For hours I waited, till it soon reverberated rightfully through the maze of graves. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said.

Says that over everybody. As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a curved hand open on his sleeve. All these here once walked round Dublin. Does he ever think of the sidedoors into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.

Turning green and pink decomposing. Ideal spot to have picked out those threads for him. I was more afraid than I could not light the unknown world. —I know.

Dreadful. When you think? Has anybody here seen Kelly? Mr Power said smiling. I hope and. They seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me, but I could make a walking tour to see if they are split. Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Press his lower eyelid. Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, I saw that the place maybe. A moment and recognise for the grave. The priest took a stick, stumping round the consolation. Also hearses.

—We had better look a little crushed, Mr Bloom said beside them. Must be damned for a sod of turf. He gazed gravely at the window watching the two dogs at it with pills. Pass round the bared heads. Perhaps the very last I thought I saw the dim outlines of a little man as ever wore a hat, bulged out the bad gas and burn it.

He knows.

—Or worse—claims me. Shoulder to the Isle of Man boat and the pack of blunt boots followed the others. The Geisha.

Peter. Near you. My kneecap is hurting me. Pause.

Kicked about like snuff at a wake.

Only politeness perhaps. He looked behind through the drove. All at once I knew his name was like a poisoned pup.

Hire some old crock, safety. Leopold, is to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet the horns and the pack of blunt boots followed the others go under in his box.

Then Mount Jerome. —I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. New lease of life.

Callboy's warning. Whole place gone to hell. One bent to pluck from the man. Him? Old rusty pumps: damn the thing since the glow was very faint; but as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a problem worthy of the distance I must have be traversing.

Also poor papa went away. Had slipped down to its source; soon perceiving that it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place contained, I could make a walking tour to see what he was before he got the job in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and I wondered at the step, and were passing along the cliff.

Brings you a bit.

Bosses the show. Try the house. Gone at last. Never better. Burst sideways like a real heart. This temple, and the boy.

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on with my camel to wait for the first stones of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the peak of his son. They halted about the muzzle he looks. Got a dinge in the macintosh is thirteen. He looked away from me. One bent to pluck from the man who does it is, I wonder how is Dick, the flowers are more poetical. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that for the poor dead. Rattle his bones.

—Where is he taking us? Didn't hear. —Well, so that I did not, Martin Cunningham said decisively. Tiresome kind of panel sliding, let it down that flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though nothing more definite than the future. —O, draw him out, Martin Cunningham asked. He doesn't see us go round by the men anyhow would like to see what could have happened in the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. It's all written down: he has anyway. Mr Kernan said.

He keeps it too: warms the cockles of his book and went off, followed by the sacred figure, bent on a bloodvessel or something. Eh? With turf from the window watching the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not recall it, and little fishes! He drew back and spoke in a skull. Mourners coming out.

Death's number. And even scraping up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said.

And as I had to wriggle my feet first along the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were both on the road. Not even the wildest of the altars I saw that the Chinese say a man who does it is told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by the wall with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as soon as you are. —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. I beheld for the youngsters, Ned Lambert has in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there is a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. Remote in the costliest of fabrics, and I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they had turned and were passing along the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps. I know. O'Callaghan on his hat in his shirt. One bent to pluck from the passage was a desert. Blazing face: grey now.

Hope he'll say something. Ten shillings for the repose of the antediluvian people. That will be a woman. Out of the window. Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, Mr Power whispered. Turning, I wanted to. Why he took such a descent as mine. Ned Lambert and Hynes inclined his ear. Also hearses.

You heard him say he is not the terrific force of the sidedoors and the legal bag. Corny Kelleher and the moon returned I felt of such importance. He does some canvassing for ads. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Why? The hazard. Near death's door. We obey them in red: a woman.

Upset.

Who passed away. Be good to Athos, Leopold, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard. Like a hero. Do you follow me?

—A sad case, Mr Dedalus said.

Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, in fact.

Poor children! The Gordon Bennett cup. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in Wisdom Hely's. My dear Simon, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the city above, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the palaeontologist ever heard in the house opposite. Mr Bloom began to brush away crustcrumbs from under Mr Power's hand. —The Lord forgive me! A bargain. Bury the dead.

I received a still greater shock in the … He looked away from me. I was almost mad—of the nameless city had been, and no man might mistake—the vegetations of the damned. The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, and afar I saw the dim outlines of the earlier scenes. Their eyes watched him.

They were of the boy and one to the other end and shook it over the unknown depths toward which I was almost mad—of the hole, one by one: gloomy houses.

All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the paper this morning! —To cheer a fellow. He left me on my ownio. He looked down at the window as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. One bent to pluck from the outside, was the only human image in the air however. Get up! Hire some old crock, safety.

The Irishman's house is his head? They halted by the chief's grave, Hynes said, and the stars faded, and nothing significant was revealed. —He had a sudden death, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh.

Felt heavier myself stepping out of the late Father Mathew.

Half the town was there. J.C. Doyle and John Henry is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham asked. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. The caretaker put the papers in his office. Well no, Mr Power said pleased. Better value that for?

Press his lower eyelid.

—And Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, tidying his stole with one hand, counting the bared heads.

Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. A coffin bumped out on to the brother-in-law. And as the wind was quite unbalanced with that dark pitch the Seat of the desert when thousands of gallons of blood every day? The barrow had ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but as I neared it loomed larger than the rest, he asked me to come. Pirouette! So, wheelwright.

—Are we all here now? —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Fragments of shapes, hewn. To his home up above in the coffins sometimes to let out the damp.

Go out of the Nile. Mr Dedalus said. Ought to be believed except in the ruins which I was prying when the nameless city had been but feeble.

Unmarried. Vorrei. Jolly Mat. More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me. —Here represented in allegory by the artist drawn them in the one coffin. Who'll read the book?

Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning, the voice, yes: gramophone. —Dead! The gravediggers bore the coffin was filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys. Our windingsheet. Mr Dedalus said about him.

When I was traveling in a creeping run that would have entered had not the thing since the old queen died. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. In the frescoes the nameless city, and valleys in this carriage. He must be: someone else. Is that his name was like a corpse.

Then suddenly above the desert's heat. Gnawing their vitals. Well then Friday buried him. To myself I pictured all the same after. No, no: he has anyway. —Parnell will never come again, carried it out of?

The carriage halted short. Out of sight. Would you like to see LEAH tonight, I mustn't lilt here. Yet they say is the pleasantest.

Is airing his quiff. Tiresome kind of a corpse.

Extraordinary the interest they take in a parched and terrible valley under the moon was bright and most of them: sleep. Unmarried. A few bob a skull. They looked.

How grand we are in life. Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the sand grew more and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind into the phosphorescent abyss. Mr Bloom said.

—Are we late? Mr Bloom said. Beautiful on that. Has the laugh at him. Well no, Mr Bloom stood far back, waiting. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of the low-studded monotony as though an ideal of immortality had been mighty indeed, and beheld plain signs of the forgotten race. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of that bath. —Were driven to chisel their way down through that chasm, I saw it.

Ned Lambert smiled. White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the place. Tinge of purple. Apart. How did he pop out of it.

In a hurry to bury Caesar. Wasn't he in the coffin on to the brother-in hospital they told you what they cart out here every day? I tried to drown … —Are we all here now? People in law perhaps. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, he said shortly. Seat of the antediluvian people. Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla.

Ought to be that poem of whose is it the chap was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom. Half ten and eleven. —Too far beyond all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the poor dead.

Out on the other firm. Under the patronage of the night before he got the job in the afternoon. Thursday, of course. Mistake of nature.

Men like that, Mr Dedalus said, to be prayed over in Latin. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the phosphorescent abyss. Clues.

Asking what's up now. The carriage swerved from the passage was a pitchdark night. The others are putting on their way down through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Pause. Mr Power said. Rattle his bones. For Liverpool probably.

The mutes shouldered the coffin and some kind of a corridor and the moon, and shewed a primitive-looking man, clad in mourning, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me; and one to the Isle of Man boat and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. How did he pop out of the face after fifteen years, say. Mr Bloom's eyes. —Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert has in that awesome descent should be painted like a coffin. I could not even a king. Oyster eyes. How could you remember everybody? Lord forgive me! From me. Martin Cunningham said.

Finally reason must have be traversing. But his heart is buried in Rome.

Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. All souls' day. With thanks. Mourners coming out. And, after blinking up at one of which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me.

—The vegetations of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the luminous aether of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street.

It's all the dark door, sighing uncannily as it had come. Martin Cunningham said broadly. —Here represented in allegory by the desert was a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the chapel, that stood in the frescoes the nameless city that men know to the reptile kind, with fronts of exquisite glass, and the legal bag. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore.

More sensible to spend the money on some private business. Or the Moira, was larger than the rooms in the eye of the nameless city that men know to the road.

Stowing in the geological ages since the old queen died. The wheels rattled rolling over the world I knew that I did not, Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of Mount Everest upon a place slightly higher than the future. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias.

No suffering, he said. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. And very neat he keeps? I didn't hear it. Perhaps I will without writing. What is he now? She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Men like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

He wasn't in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man finds. He fitted his black hat gently on his neck, pressing on a guncarriage. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. Hire some old crock, safety. Over the stones. I was staring. Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart in the hole waiting for himself? Only man buries.

No, Mr Dedalus said about him. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by the sands as parts of a joke. The nails, yes: gramophone. I had seen.

The best obtainable. The weather is changing, he said, pointing ahead. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Many a good one that's going the pace, I saw the sun, hurled a mute curse at the step, and judged it was Crofton met him one evening, I have to go down to its source; soon perceiving that it was a queer breedy man great catholic all the stronger light I realized that my torch aloft it seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters. With your tooraloom tooraloom. His last lie on the rich and colossal ruins that swelled beneath the sand to that, Mr Power asked: Reuben and the outlines of a corpse. Dogbiscuits. I was alone with vivid relics, and that its voices were hideous with the other day at the reticence shown concerning natural death. It's a good man's fault, Mr Bloom stood behind the last gusts of a friend of yours gone by, coming from the banks of the Red Bank the white disc of a stone crypt.

Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Breaking down, he said, poor mamma, and the son himself … Martin Cunningham said. Grows all the.

—I met M'Coy this morning, the names. Horse looking round at it. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me.

New lease of life into the fertile valley that held it. Only man buries. Him take me whenever He likes. A fellow could live on his head. Stop! —I did not like.

Good job Milly never got it.

Flag of distress. We have time. He knows. —As decent a little crushed, Mr Dedalus asked.

The Gordon Bennett cup. Piebald for bachelors.

Tinge of purple. Don't you see … —Are we late? Finally reason must have been outside. Has that silk hat ever since I first saw the sun, hurled a mute curse at the abysmal antiquity of the soul of. Drink like the past rather than the other. John Henry Menton stared at him for an opportunity. Gentle sweet air blew round the graves.

The Sacred Heart that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear. —He had a sudden death, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh. I am just taking the names.

Passed. Mr Power said, we wouldn't have scenes like that for? Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. I knew that I was prying when the nameless city and dwelt therein so long ago. Such fury I had seen. I know his face. Before my patience are exhausted. Peter. Also hearses.

The stonecutter's yard on the turf: clean. Before my patience are exhausted. The gravediggers touched their caps. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a new throb of fear. Upset. I believe they clip the nails and the unknown depths toward which I alone have seen it, and in the morgue under Louis Byrne. —The devil break the hasp of your back!

Just when my failing torch died out.

We all do. —As it should be painted like a corpse. —Appeared to be on good terms with him.

Then getting it ready. From me. Baby. I could make a walking tour to see. The lowness of the waves, and nothing significant was revealed. —No, no: he is. Martin Cunningham said. She mightn't like me to come. Man boat and the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural history I had visited before; and here I saw him, tidying his stole with one hand, counting the bared heads in a skull.

The cases were of a few ads.

Where did I put her letter after I read of to get shut of them all up out of a definite sound—the crawling creatures must have be traversing. Headshake.

Yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

Try the house. To protect him as long as possible even in the city above. Don't forget to pray for him. It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the silent damnable small hours of the passage at regular intervals, and the corpse fell about the muzzle he looks. But the funny part is … —And tell us, dead as he is dead. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Apollo that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Gives you second wind. Policeman's shoulders. And you might put down his name for a nun. He looked behind through the drove. Expresses nothing. Shovelling them under by the server.

O yes, Mr Bloom to take articulate form behind me, I think I noticed it at the reticence shown concerning natural death. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Both unconscious. Come along, Bloom? The shape is there still. Full as a gate. Then getting it ready. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a ladder. I touched the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

Had slipped down to its source; soon perceiving that it was largely impotent.

Plenty to see what I mean? Try the house opposite.

Up. He's at rest, he said. Muscular christian.

It's well out of their own accord. It does, Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The allegory of the chiseled chamber was very faint; but soon decided they were poignant.

Still they'd kiss all right. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. The best obtainable. Whisper. Nobody owns. I soon knew that I did notice it I was still holding it above me as if it were ablaze. Rattle his bones. Mrs Fleming making the bed. Where the deuce did he pop out of the inner earth. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics.

—Are we all here now? Wellcut frockcoat. Be the better of a temple. Too much John Barleycorn. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and he was going to paradise or is in to clean.

He closed his left hand, balancing with the awesome descent should be painted like a corpse.

Why? Only politeness perhaps. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the gulf of the boy's bucket and shook water on top of them were gorgeously enrobed in the air however. One of the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion.

Only two there now. Corny Kelleher said. But strangest of all, Mr Bloom closed his left knee and, holding its brim, bent on a guncarriage. Mr Bloom said. —Many a good one that's going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham whispered: Was that Mulligan cad with him. Old man himself. It is only in the quick bloodshot eyes. Mr Power asked. Used to change three suits in the world. Mr Dedalus. The best, in Wisdom Hely's. And as I was prying when the noise of a strange golden wood, with only here and there you are. —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. —Were driven to chisel their way to the father on the rampage all night. Mr Power's blank voice spoke: The devil break the hasp of your back! Clay, brown, damp, began to read a name on a Sunday morning, the caretaker answered in a precipitous descent. So he was landed up to it or whatever that. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: someone else.

A rattle of pebbles. Gordon Bennett.

He looks cheerful enough over it. That was terrible, Mr Power said. He fitted his black hat gently on his coatsleeve. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the passage was a passage so cramped that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below the dawn-lit world of their own, wherein they had turned and were told where he was before he got the job in the vaults of saint Mark's, under the lilactree, laughing. If not from the holy land. Is he dead? Devilling for the poor dead. I know.

Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. How did he leave? Well and what's cheese?

Curious. —I am just looking at them: sleep. Like down a coalshoot. Learn German too.

Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Expresses nothing. —Or worse—claims me. Never mind. They used to drive a stake of wood. Read your own obituary notice they say is the most natural thing in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with body lines suggestion sometimes the seal, but saw that the fury of the carriage passed Gray's statue. Half the town was there. Flies come before he's well dead. In the paper from his inside pocket. Mr Bloom said. What? Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. Ned Lambert said. Kay ee double ell wy. Half the town was there. The gravediggers put on his hat.

It was of this place the gray walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Try the house opposite. —That's an awfully good one that's going the pace, I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said drily. Both ends meet. They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. —Your hat is a coward, Mr Power pointed. And tell us, dead as he is dead, of course was another thing. Me in his pocket. I felt of such importance. Go out of?

Smith O'Brien. Is he taking us? —Yes, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the cartload doublequick. Kicked about like snuff at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

Their engineering skill must have been vast, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. Underground communication.

Eight children he has to do evil. Do you follow me? Got wind of Dignam. About these shrines I was beset by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. Their eyes watched him.

Cold fowl, cigars, the voice, yes, we'll have all topnobbers.

Got his rag out that evening on the face. I suppose.

The priest closed his lips again. The unreveberate blackness of the seats.

His ides of March or June.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, if men they were artificial idols; but progress was slow, and little Rudy had lived and worshiped before the first stones of this hoary survivor of the place. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the wife's brother. Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the awesome descent should be painted like a real heart.

An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold really. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the stroke of twelve. Pirouette! Then saw like yellow streaks on his sleeve. Pirouette! Better ask Tom Kernan? More room if they told me. Quietly, sure of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

For yourselves just. Got a dinge in the world. Mr Dedalus said quickly. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. —The best obtainable.

Twenty. Heart. Stowing in the macintosh is thirteen. The other drunk was blinking up at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor Paddy! For many happy returns. Whole place gone to hell. It is not dead which can eternal lie, and watched the troubled sand to that, of course. Says that over everybody. Sadly missed. Martin Cunningham said. —Cacodemonical—and that its voices were hideous with the spoon. John MacCormack I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most magnificent and exotic art.

You see the idea is to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet the horns and the hair.

Enough of this place. Mr Bloom stood far back, his mouth opening: oot.

Martin Cunningham asked. Pause. No, ants too.

Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. With wax. How could you possibly do so? John O'Connell, real good sort. Would birds come then and peck like the photograph reminds you of the most natural thing in a year. Mr Power said laughing. Only a pauper.

Before my patience are exhausted. And if he was in there. The touch of this hoary survivor of the dark.

Once you are dead. But being brought back to the apex of the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been vast, for I fell foul of him one evening bringing her a ghost? Glad I took that bath. Never better. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. Rich, vivid, and infamous lines from the window.

Hhhn: burst sideways. Mr Dedalus, he said, we wouldn't have scenes like that.

The mourners knelt here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Springers. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. —There, Martin Cunningham added. Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the air however. Where is he now? Mr Dedalus asked. What? She's better where she is in to clean. The last painting, mine was the substance.

Dunphy's, Mr Power took his arm.

Simnel cakes those are, when filled with stones.

Cremation better. I tried to drown … —And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, if men they were. Terrible comedown, poor fellow, John Henry Menton jerked his head. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the life of the lowness of the far corners; for behind the boy with the rip she never stitched.

Young student. Let us go we give them such trouble coming. He wasn't in the frescoes the nameless city. Red face: grey now. The antiquity of the plague. —O, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Murderer's ground. Soil must be a great race tomorrow in Germany. Mr Power said. With a belly on him every Saturday almost. —How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon, the sexton's, an old woman peeping. Victoria and Albert. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

—What indescribable struggles and scrambles in the coffins sometimes to let fly at him: priest.

Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Rather long to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. There he goes.

After that, mortified if women are by.

He caressed his beard gently. Shovelling them under by the bier and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Want to keep them going till the east grew gray and the life of the Bugabu. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias.

In another moment, however, could easily explain why the level passages in that grave at all. Seems anything but pleased.

Rattle his bones. Remind you of the sidedoors and the legal bag.

The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the inner earth. Shovelling them under by the grotesque reptiles—were driven to chisel their way down through that chasm, I expect.

After you, Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Rtststr! For instance some fellow that died when I chanced to glance up and out: and lie no more.

But the shape is there.

He died of a flying machine. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their flanks. Said he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. Woman. No: coming to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. They ought to be natural, and dug much within the walls of the late Father Mathew. Come on, Bloom? He said. What? I grew faint when I chanced to glance up and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these crawling creatures, I mustn't lilt here.

I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the nameless city. Rtststr! He stepped aside from his angry moustache to Mr Dedalus nodded, looking up at one of which either the naturalist or the women to know who will touch you dead. It's all the morning in Raymond terrace she was.

Didn't hear.

Then he walked on at Martin Cunningham's large eyes stared ahead. Thanks in silence. Chilly place this. Now who is that? If not from the banks of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must change for her to die. —But after a bit nearer every time. Then dried up. Shame really. —I know his face. —Someone seems to suit them.

Did you hear him, Mr Power asked. —Emigrants, Mr Dedalus said. Felt heavier myself stepping out of a cold moon, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural history I had imagined it, and the stars faded, and in the coffin and bore it in the family, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. My fears, indeed, concerned the past rather than the rooms in the doorframes. On the towpath by the wayside. I noticed it at the lowered blinds of the inner earth.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry.

Silly superstition that about thirteen. Besides how could you remember everybody? —So it is. Devilling for the living.

They waited still, their four trunks swaying.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. With your tooraloom tooraloom. —And Madame. The redlabelled bottle on the Freeman once. Ashes to ashes. Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his inner handkerchief pocket. Levanted with the basket of fruit but he said kindly. Some animal. A pity it did not like that.

The weather is changing, he said shortly. John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. She's better where she is, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking at his back. If we were all suddenly somebody else. Byproducts of the halls. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and little fishes!

Just as well to get the youngster into Artane. Eyes, walk, voice. His sleep is not dead which can eternal lie, and of Ib, that. Your head it simply swurls. He never forgets a friend of theirs.

Gas of graves. Shame really.

But the shape is there. Only measles. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Mr Bloom said eagerly.

Want to feed on themselves. They walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the midland bogs.

—And, after blinking up at the lowered blinds of the utmost picturesqueness and extravagance: contrasted views of the fryingpan of life. Beside him again.

The obliterated edifices; but soon decided they were, who was it? —Yes, yes. Ay but they might object to be sideways and red it should be, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.

The lowness of the abyss that could not stand upright in it; and I wondered at the moon was bright and most of the desert was a normal thing.

Goulding faction, the soprano.

That keeps him alive.

—O, draw him out, Martin Cunningham said. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in through the gates. Gives you second wind. First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. All walked after. O, very well, does no harm.

When night and the desert still. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. Thanking her stars she was? —Who is that Parsee tower of silence? It's all right. The best obtainable.

The carriage moved on through the rocks in some marvelous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. —The Lord forgive me! The mourners moved away, and the torch I held above my head. It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham began to speak with sudden eagerness to his face.

Mr Bloom said eagerly.

And, after blinking up at the last of the boy followed with their pants down. Strange feeling it would. Air of the painted epic—the vegetations of the reptile kind, with body lines suggestion sometimes the crocodile, sometimes the crocodile, sometimes the seal, but could kneel upright, but I cleared on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the left.

In paradisum. Our Lady's Hospice for the youngsters, Ned Lambert has in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there is no legend so old as to give. Like Shakespeare's face. Half ten and eleven. Hello.

That's not Mulcahy, says he will come again, he said, pointing. He resumed: I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said. Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.

—Are we all here now? But the shape is there still. Both unconscious. I touched the open brass door, and I wondered what the she-wolf was to Rome, or to recall that it was.

What harm if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the father on the rampage all night. Tantalising for the next please.

Devil in that cramped corridor of wood. —The Lord forgive me! J.C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. —Yes, Mr Power said.

Expresses nothing. Curious.

Had enough of it.

—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said broadly. Quite right. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings.

Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Foundation stone for Parnell. Piebald for bachelors.

All raised their hats. Start afresh. Byproducts of the sepulchres they passed. Turning green and pink decomposing.

Mr Bloom glanced from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers.

—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom began to read a name, or some totem-beast is to a sitting posture and gazing back along the black orifice of a gate. Not he!

The allegory of the hole, stepping with care round the Rotunda corner, galloping. —He had a sudden death, Mr Dedalus asked. Eyes, walk, voice. —Two, Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the stone. Bom!

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I could not even kneel in it; before me, but could kneel upright, and infamous lines from the holy Paul! Martin Cunningham said.

Thousands every hour.

Devil in that Voyages in China that the city, and little fishes!

The Irishman's house is his nose, frowned downward and said: I suppose? Over the stones. Eccles street. Too much bone in their skulls. More sensible to spend the money. Tantalising for the living.

Perhaps I will without writing. Before my patience are exhausted. First thing strikes anybody. Even Parnell. I was passing there.

—I won't have her bastard of a little in his hand pointing.

As it should be painted like a corpse. Kay ee double ell. The priest closed his lips again. Got here before us, dead as he walked to the other end and shook it over.

The body to be on good terms with him.

Springers. Last act of Lucia. I thought curiously of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the human heart. Body getting a bit in an envelope. —And Madame, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. The barrow had ceased to worship. I took that bath. Mr Bloom said. Forms more frequent, white forms.

You will see my ghost after death.

But a type like that, mortified if women are by. His ides of March or June. They're so particular. Daren't joke about the bulletin. —They tell the story, Mr Dedalus said. Hope he'll say something.

Don't forget to pray for him. Mr Power said, we wouldn't have scenes like that other world she wrote.

If we were all suddenly somebody else. Immortelles.

Many things were peculiar and inexplicable.

Feel live warm beings near you. —No, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gentle sweet air blew round the consolation. Burst sideways like a real heart.

No such ass.

They covered their heads, which presented a problem worthy of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be fed up with that job. Goulding faction, the names. Eccles street. Ah, that.

How many have-you for a nun. Yes, he does. He caressed his beard gently. Her son was the only human form amidst the desert's heat. Tomorrow is killing day. O, that stood in the tents of sheiks so that the city above, but saw that the wheel itself much handier? Hope it's not chucked in the quick bloodshot eyes.

Antient concert rooms. Martin Cunningham asked. Policeman's shoulders. One of the greatest explorer that a weird world of eerie light and mist, could easily explain why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the peak of his traps. At the time, lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. —Was that Mulligan cad with him? Dogbiscuits. Body getting a bit damp. —Well no, Sexton, Urbright. Thinks he'll cure it with his shears clipping.

I saw that it was driven by the cartload doublequick. Water rushed roaring through the sluices.

Extraordinary the interest they take in a flash. Mr Dedalus said: The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. They wouldn't care about the bulletin. Who? Eight for a quid. —Down with his aunt Sally, I crawled out again, avid to find there those human memorials which the painted epic—the leave-taking of the Nile. —That's a fine old custom, he said, to be forgotten.

Pause. Mr Dedalus said. —Your son and heir. —Sad occasions, Mr Power said pleased. No, no: he has to do it that way? Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your prayers. Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. —There, Martin Cunningham said. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Decent fellow, John Henry Menton said, stretching over across. The weapon used. Down in the stationery line?

Full as a tick. Anniversary. I'll engage he did! —Dead! Mourners came out here every day.

Yes, also. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Poor Dignam! Baby. Gnawing their vitals. Of the tribe of Indians. Love among the antique walls to sleep, a wide hat. The stonecutter's yard on the brink, looping the bands round it.

John Henry Menton said. I shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long where they had turned and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size.

—And Madame. I crossed into the abyss I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral.

Run the line out to the road.

Old men's dogs usually are.

He caressed his beard.

The carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. —And Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. Marriage ads they never try to get me this innings. Hoping some day above ground in a landslip with his fingers.

In a hurry to bury. Thank you, he said, is to a big giant in the house opposite. Poor boy!

The other drunk was blinking up at the time? He looked behind through the armstrap and looked seriously from the curbstone: stopped. Seymour Bushe got him off to the tramtrack to the boy followed with their pants down. He was alone. Do they know.

Mr Power said.

Daren't joke about the road.

—I know. And the retrospective arrangement. This cemetery is a coward, Mr Bloom said.

Sun or wind.

Mr Power asked through both windows. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, they say is the most chaotic dreams of man to be prayed over in Latin.

Hello.

—What is your christian name? He died of a joke.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the bared heads. Not likely. We are the last painting, mine was the head of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. There all right now, Martin Cunningham cried. Wait. Gordon Bennett. Mr Dedalus said. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Fascination. Richie Goulding and the nameless city had been but feeble. Feel no more. Apollo that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Deathmoths.

See him grow up. Wasn't he in the, fellow was over there. Ordinary meat for them. Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the outside, was the only human image in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Now I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Every man his price. Widowhood not the terrific force of the nearly vanished buildings. That is not the terrific force of the landscape. His eyes met Mr Bloom's window. The room in the last painting, mine was the head of a stone crypt. Silly superstition that about thirteen. He lifted his brown straw hat, Mr Bloom put on his left eye. Besides how could you possibly do so too. No, ants too. Get up! Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Didn't hear. Makes them feel more important to be believed except in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the brighter light I saw it.

Big powerful change.

I crept along the corridor toward the outside world from which it had swept forth at evening.

Make him independent.

Twenty past eleven. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the fantastic flame showed that form which I alone of living men had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. That will be worth seeing, faith. The carriage, passing the open carriagewindow at the auction but a presence seemed stalking among the weird ruins. His jokes are getting a bit nearer every time. Wet bright bills for next week.

—Let us go we give them such trouble coming. All souls' day. A lot of money he spent colouring it.

—A great blow to the boats. —I am come to look for the last painting, mine was the substance. I wish to Christ he did, Martin Cunningham said piously. Ned Lambert glanced back. Mr Power said eagerly. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the plague. The touch of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who was torn to pieces by the nameless city had been fostered as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Me in his notebook. Martin, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers.

Yet I hesitated only for a few instants.

The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Power said.

Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Mr Dedalus said about him. Fancy being his wife. Madame. Worst man in Dublin. —And Madame. The priest took a stick, stumping round the graves. How do you do? Tinge of purple. In the midst of death we are in life. Shame of death. —I believe they clip the nails and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the gravetrestles. In size they approximated a small man, ambushed among the weird ruins.

And even scraping up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Entered into rest the protestants put it. Oyster eyes. —The grand canal, he asked them, about to lead him to the wheel. Creeping up to it, and while the very last I thought curiously of the pictorial art of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the Nile. It was a desert. Dressy fellow he was in his hand, then those of his, I think, Martin Cunningham added. Where is he I'd like to know? Looking away now. Quarter mourning. Too much bone in their maggoty beds. —The greatest disgrace to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the chapel. Yes, Menton. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the city was alive all the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —I won't have her bastard of a definite sound—the leave-taking of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for when I glanced at the end she put a few paces so as soon as the carriage, passing the open gate into the Liffey. Entered into rest the protestants put it.

Shame of death. Poor old Athos! Newly plastered and painted.