#almost every picture had a horse in it which is slightly alarming but i’m trying to be better as not hating things about people

[erggggggggg]

things are going great out here

[ellewritesathing]

So Close - S.S. XLV

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist   Prev. | Part 45

Word-count: 5.7k+

A/N: guys. guys. guys!!! happy birthday to the longest thing i’ve ever written!! this baby turns one year old today and that is fucking mind blowing. my life has been pretty weird this past year but this fic has been my one consistency so i guess what i’m trying to say is thank you for sticking around with me this long 💕

You’d done plenty of dumb things with Scott and Stiles - jumped off a roof and broken Scott’s arm, snuck a raccoon into the school and left it in Coach’s office, gotten trapped in the mall overnight, just to name a few - but you had never felt quite so dumb as when you had to explain to Noah why there were claw marks on the Beacon Hills Service van while Stiles got his wrist set. 

“What … in the hell … were you three thinking?” Noah asked. “From you two-” he waved an accusatory hand at Scott and Stiles “-I can understand. But you?”

“I wanted to make sure no one got hurt,” you said instantly. Considering all the bad guys you'd gone up against without squirming, it was a little embarrassing that it only took Noah a minute to get you sweating. 

“Uh, I got hurt,” Stiles said defensively, turning away from the medic to argue. 

“No one other than you,” you corrected.  

“Okay, you kids can battle this out after someone tells me what you thought you were doing speeding down the highway and chasing after a Beacon Hills Service vehicle,” Noah said. “On a school night.” He looked at each of you and you nodded sheepishly. 

Scott shrugged and looked at his shoes before answering, “We were just trying to help.”

“Well, why don’t you try and help me understand-” Noah caught his voice, leaned in, and angrily whispered “-what the hell happened here?”

Stiles picked at the brace on his wrist. “Right, well, we were trying to gently persuade him to pull over …” 

“He was getting away,” you added awkwardly. “So, Scott tried to stop him.” 

Noah didn’t look impressed. “He got away.”

“Right! Because, obviously, he’s some sort of criminal mastermind, Dad,” Stiles argued.

“Uh-huh.” Noah started walking away and motioned to you guys to follow him. “You want to guess what the stolen merchandise is?” He led you to the back of the van and opened it up to reveal gas canisters. “Hmm?”

Scott sighed next to you and you pulled a face. Stiles, however, was not so ready to give up. “Critical life-saving medical equipment?” he asked. 

“No.” 

“Poison gas?”

“Nope.”

“... Filled with drugs?”

Noah leaned in. He looked to the sides like he was checking that no one was spying on you, and said, “Helium.”

“Helium?” Stiles repeated, his face going from confident to unbelievably frustrated in less than a second. He was so sure that this time had been the real deal. 

“Like the stuff they put in balloons?” Scott asked. 

“Exactly.” Noah closed the doors and let out a sigh when he turned to look at you again. “Just go home. I’ll call you if I need anything.” 

You and Scott started walking Stiles back to the Jeep while he mumbled about how his dad hadn’t called them in months. And you guys all knew that Noah wouldn’t call for anything less than the apocalypse, so none of you even bothered to comfort him with the possibility of being called. 

Stiles was so agitated that he actually let Scott drive you guys home, even if he tried to keep quiet about it. After about five minutes of awkward silence, Scott looked over at Stiles for a second before turning back to the road. 

“This could be a good thing,” he said hopefully. 

“That we saved helium?” Stiles asked.

Scott laughed, a smile still on his face as he spoke. “I mean, that … they don’t need us anymore.” 

It was strange to picture your life where you weren’t constantly trying to defeat some omnipotent bad guy, but not in a bad way. As scared as the thought made you, it also excited you. You might actually have a life outside of the supernatural again, a life after high school.

That hope was extinguished ever so slightly when Stiles scoffed. “Okay, well, they need us,” he said. “They just don’t know it.”

“We’re all going off to college soon-” 

“Excuse me?” you asked. 

“Most of us are going off to college soon,” Scott corrected. He caught your eye in the mirror and gave you an apologetic smile. “So, Beacon Hills is gonna have to survive without us.”

“Beacon Hills will burn to the ground without us,” Stiles said softly. He looked out the window instead of at you or Scott.

Scott tried to be equally soft when he spoke again. “Stiles … they don’t need us.”

Stiles’ phone started buzzing before he could say anything in his defense. Noah was calling him. Just like that, he went from dejected to excited again. “They need us!” he yelled. 

Over the phone, Noah explained that there was a kid in the office, Alex, who was in an accident with his parents but couldn’t remember anything. His parents were missing and no one had seen anything. Noah was still in the middle of maybe, possibly asking if Scott would mind using his powers to access Alex’s memory when Stiles said you’d be right there and made Scott turn the Jeep around. 

Stiles gave you a cheesy grin as Scott made a u-turn and your heart ached. Stiles couldn’t shift his focus like the rest of you, which was why he’d had you guys looking into every vaguely-abnormal incident since he’d gotten out of the hospital. Fighting bad guys left him drained and nearly dead, but it was still all he wanted to do. He couldn’t picture a life without it. 

And you loved him for it. You loved the way he thought and the way his mind worked, but you worried how he’d react every time you chased down a bad guy on the highway and all you found was helium. You weren’t sure how many false alarms he had left in him.

It was difficult to focus on Stiles once you were in Noah’s office, though. Alex was so young and he looked so scared. He’d barely spoken, other to say that he couldn’t remember anything and that he needed to find his parents. 

Scott put a hand on Alex’s arm and gave him an encouraging smile. “You ready?”

Alex frowned but then he nodded, tears in his eyes. And then Scott sunk his claws into Alex’s neck. Alex’s head rolled back and Scott took a deep breath. 

“Uh, what do we do now?” Noah asked. 

“Time it?” you suggested. 

Stiles pulled out his phone and gave you a shaky smile. “Already on it.”

The three of you huddled around Stiles’ phone and took turns looking between the timer and Scott like you were watching a ping pong match. When the timer hit four minutes, exactly, Scott pulled his claws out and sprang away from Alex as they both tried to breathe again. 

You and Stiles pulled Scott up to his feet. “What happened?” you asked, holding onto Scott's hand.

“I saw a guy on a horse,” Scott said, not taking his eyes off Alex. 

“A horse?” Stiles asked. Behind Scott's back, he shot a look at you that said, Cowboys? Is he serious?

Scott slowly looked away from Alex and at Stiles. “He had a gun.”

“Okay, a guy with a gun. That sounds like my department, not yours,” Noah said with a confused but hopeful expression on his face.

“What about his parents? What happened to them?” Stiles asked. 

“I don’t know. That’s all I remember,” Scott said. He tried to focus on the memory and shook his head after a few seconds “But … I got this feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?” you asked, ducking your head slightly to look at him. 

“They’re coming back,” Alex said. You almost jumped - it was the first thing he’d said since you’d been in the room with him. He looked up and stared at you guys; his eyes were haunted. “They’re coming for me.”

“I think this is our department,” Stiles said quietly. 

Noah was still hesitant to hand the case over to you - you figured he liked the idea of you guys leading semi-normal lives, at least until graduation - but he let you look at Alex’s car with Lydia and Malia. 

Stiles didn’t need any more encouragement to take you and Scott to the evidence lot. It only took Lydia ten minutes to get to the lot, but she sat in the car for what felt like an eternity, running her hand along the hood and then the windshield, feeling up the doors and the interior. You and Scott stood outside, him trying to catch a scent and you waiting for Malia.

You heard a familiar howl and then Malia ran into the lot as a coyote. Every time you saw her in this form, you smiled at the thought of how proud it would make Derek. Another Hale in full control in full-shift. She shifted back to human in a few seconds and you handed her some clothes. 

“Did you find anything?” you asked as she jumped into some pants. 

Malia pulled her head through the hole of a sweatshirt and shook her head. “They’re dead. Probably torn apart.” 

“I don’t think they’re dead,” Lydia said as she got out of the car.

“The only thing I don’t get is why there’s no blood,” Malia continued. She shoved her arms through the sleeves.

“They’re not dead,” Lydia argued. “If they were dead, I’d sense it.”

“And if they were alive, I’d smell it,” Malia said.

“Yeah, I’m not getting anything either,” Scott said, determined to look anywhere except for Malia. 

“Scott, what are you talking about? You were in his head for four minutes,” Stiles said as he climbed out of the car. “I timed it.”

“Well, it’s not an exact science,” Scott said, looking over at Malia and Lydia for the first time. “And he’s a kid. Maybe he’s too freaked out to remember.” 

“No, Peter could see in Isaac’s head and he was just as freaked out,” you said. “If he can’t remember then there has to be another reason why.”

“What does any of this matter if they’re both dead?” Malia asked. She’d moved onto her shoes and looked up as she laced them. “Dead is dead.” 

“Okay, if it’s just a robbery, then we can’t help them. But if it’s something supernatural, then my dad can’t help them,” Stiles explained. 

“It sounds like you want it to be supernatural,” Lydia said. 

She didn’t mean it to come out so accusatory, you told yourself, but you still stepped in. “We just want to make sure that Alex has a fair chance of seeing his parents again,” you said. “And the longer we go without something supernatural happening … it just feels like this could be it, you know?” 

“Three months. It’s been three months since anything’s happened,” Stiles said, looking up from his hands to look at you. 

“Yeah, and once a week you drag me out of bed like I’m some sort of supernatural metal detector!” Lydia snapped. 

“Okay, it’s way more often than that,” Stiles admitted. Then he tried to recover his argument, “But you can’t tell me that you think this is just some series of impossible coincidences.”

“What I’m saying is maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” Lydia said. She gave him a very deliberate look and then started walking away. Malia shrugged and followed after her.

You sighed and Scott shrugged at Stiles as he turned around to face you guys. Stiles seemed exasperated, like he always did when he wanted something to be supernatural and the others blew him off. He walked back over to the car and slammed the door after he got in. 

You walked over to the car, putting your hands on the doorframe and debating whether to rest one on Stiles’ shoulder. He stared so intensely at the windshield that you weren’t sure if he noticed you. “Hey,” you said gently. “You okay?” 

“There’s something wrong with the windshield,” Stiles mumbled. 

“Well, yeah. It’s broken,” Scott said as he walked closer. He took a spot next to you, standing next to the side mirror. “And it wasn’t a magic bullet. It was a regular bullet. That blew out a regular windshield.”

But if it was a regular bullet and regular windshield, there would be a bullet hole and fracture lines just like every other shot-up car in this lot. You were willing to bet that it wasn’t the windshield that was magic.

“Just like that one.” Scott looked over at one of the other cars. “And that one. And that one-” he stopped. He realized the same thing you did. 

Stiles reached forward and picked up a shard of glass from the dashboard. “Magic bullet,” he said quietly. 

--- 

Talking Stiles out of spending the entire night researching ghost cowboys on the internet and ordering about a dozen library books wasn’t an easy task. In an attempt to compromise, he ordered three books from the library and stayed on the phone with you until he fell asleep. As weird and terrifying as the idea of another supernatural evil coming to Beacon Hills was, it was nice to see Stiles so excited about something again. 

“Hey, do you know where my lucky coin is?” Stiles asked as you got in the Jeep the next morning. 

You moved your backpack around by your feet to get comfortable. “Your lucky coin?” 

“Yeah. The game token from that night we went to the arcade on one of our first dates. I got home, found it in my pockets, and like almost immediately you called and told me you loved me because you forgot to say it when we said goodbye,” Stiles said. He tapped on the steering wheel anxiously as he waited for the frown to disappear from your face. “My lucky coin.” 

“I think that would technically make it your lucky token,” you said, keeping an eye on him as you buckled your seatbelt.

“Okay, then do you know where my lucky token is?” Stiles asked. He was getting more and more frustrated at your bantering.

“Not a clue. I can check my room after school.” That didn’t seem to do much to ease whatever was worrying him. You turned and put a gentle hand on the side of his face, turning it away from his tapping hand to look at you. “Hey, are you going to tell me why you need your lucky token?” 

Stiles smiled. He stopped tapping and cupped your hand, turning to kiss it. “Would you believe me if I said it was back to school jitters?”

“No,” you said, giving him a matching smile. 

“Then give me a minute to come up with a better line.” 

He was joking, but whatever he’d learned in his hour of frantic googling had clearly freaked him out. Stiles gave your hand one last squeeze before turning back to face the front and pulling the Jeep out of your driveway. 

Without another mention of the lucky token or the ghost cowboys, the two of you fell into your familiar routine of walking each other to your lockers and then going to find your friends. Some days, you disappeared to catch up with Liam and Mason but today you went with Stiles to find the others. You wanted to ask Scott to keep an eye on him. 

You found him and Lydia sitting at one of the tables outside where Sydney was taking the yearbook photos. Stiles immediately went to harass Malia and you sat on the table between Scott and Lydia. They were talking about one of their advanced placement classes that they were both taking this semester and you barely got the chance to say anything before Malia stomped over with Stiles on her heels. 

“Why would I want to ruin your yearbook photo?” Stiles asked. 

“Maybe because you haven’t signed up for your own photo yet?” Malia asked. She broke her eye contact with Stiles to smile and give you a nod that was her version of saying good morning as she sat on the table on the other side of Lydia. 

Stiles dug a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Yes, I did,” he said as he unfolded it. He handed it to her and it was a blank order form for yearbook photos. You leaned over Lydia’s shoulder to see that not a single one of the boxes had been filled in.

“It’s blank,” Malia told him.

“Uh…” Stiles took the paper back and frowned at it.

“Or maybe you’re sublimating the stress of graduating by avoiding key milestones,” Scott said, looking up from the notes he’d been writing to look at Stiles. You turned to frown at him when you saw the textbook he was taking notes from. That explained why he sounded far more like Lydia than himself. He shrugged. “Psych paper.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” you said with an attempt at an easy smile as you reached a hand out to Stiles. He took a few steps closer and let you hold one of his hands. “You can be in mine with me.” 

“See, this is what being supportive looks like,” Stiles said, giving you a smile before turning to glare at Scott. “Take notes.”

“Plus, if you’re in one photo, it’ll be so much easier to make fun of you for being the most nauseating couple in the world that way,” Malia said. 

You laughed. “Yeah, thanks, Mal.” 

“Anytime.” Malia winked at you. 

You thought Stiles was going to argue with her but he just got a serious look on his face again and changed the subject. “Hey, so the Deputy searched the car - no slugs, no exit holes. And the address Alex gave my dad? It’s an abandoned house,” Stiles said. Your friends were quiet. “Come on! Missing parents, suspicious guy on horseback, magic bullet … who’s coming with?”

“I’ve got to retake my photos,” Malia said.

Lydia shook her head and pulled a face. “Yeah … not interested.”

Stiles turned to Scott but he was too quick. “I cannot miss any more classes,” Scott said before Stiles even had the chance to ask. “I missed thirty-eight last semester.”

“Scott-” 

“Lydia’s mom is the only reason I’m still in school,” Scott continued. “I can go with you after school.” 

“You know what? Forget it,” Stiles said. “I’ll take Y/N and Liam.” 

“Uh … you sure about that?” You nodded over to the quad where Liam was trying to suck Hayden’s face off. It didn’t look like he was going to an abandoned house any time soon. 

“Ugh, I change my vote for the most nauseating couple,” Malia mumbled.

“Yeah, I’m not taking Liam,” Stiles said, pulling the exact same face that Lydia did at the mention of the abandoned house. He straightened up and squeezed your hand. “But you’ll still go with me, right?” 

You hesitated. As much as you wanted to, you’d also missed more school than the school board deemed appropriate. Luckily, Sydney popped up with her camera before you needed to answer. 

“Hey, can I get a candid?” she asked. 

“Yeah, sure!” Scott said over Stiles protests. He pulled Stiles down onto the spot on the bench between him and Lydia where your legs were. 

You moved to make space for Stiles and held onto his shoulders as he slumped into his seat. “Okay, fine,” he said. He pulled out a shard of glass from his pockets and gave it to Scott. In a low voice, he added, “If you can explain to me why this is blue, I’ll let it go.”

“Everyone smile!” Sydney said. 

You guys huddled slightly closer and pulled out your best smiles. Sydney loved it and then asked for another, more fun shot. Obviously, your first instinct was to harass Stiles and Scott from your higher vantage point while Lydia and Malia did the Charlie’s Angels finger gun pose.

---

The plan was to go with Stiles to the abandoned house during your free period, but after one very angry text about how Lydia’s mother was ruining your lives, you figured the plan had changed. Stiles promised to meet you at the Jeep after school, so you went home to look for his lucky token instead. 

Every couch cushion, jacket pocket, and shoe was checked but you couldn't find the token anywhere. You were lying on the floor next to all your pillows and blankets when something shiny caught your eye under your bed. Underneath Cora’s old geometry notebook, you found a game token for the Feliscore Arcade. 

You flipped it over in your hands a few times, thinking about the night Stiles had gotten it. Movies, bookstore browsing, and then the arcade. It was one of the first real dates the two of you had gone on. Smiling, you slipped the token into your pocket and headed back to the school. 

You only had a few classes left until the end of the day, so you didn’t mention the token to Stiles. You’d tell him in person after checking out the house with him, maybe if the house turned out to be nothing then you could cheer him up with the token and some diner food.

The classes dragged on but you met Scott and Stiles at the Jeep as promised and the drive was rushed and full of complaints about how Natalie and Noah really should be more understanding considering that you guys had saved them on more than one occasion. You and Scott didn’t interrupt but you did catch each other’s eye in the rearview mirror. 

The house was face-brick and old, the street gravel and empty, and all the plants overgrown. If that wasn’t enough to creep you out, the clear sky from this morning was full of dark clouds that cast shadows all over the abandoned house.

The front door was unlocked and it creaked as Scott pushed it open, revealing a house that was completely bare except for the spiderwebs. At least, there was a table in the dining room, with two very dusty places set. 

“You wanna split up?” Scott asked. 

“No way,” you said at the same time that Stiles said, “Absolutely not.”

Scott shrugged and led the way to the dark and decaying staircase. You held Stiles’ hand as the two of you followed, reminding yourself that you were way scarier than anything that might have been lurking in this ghost house. 

The second floor was just as empty as the first, but almost all the doors were shut which made it darker. 

“Maybe Alex got the address wrong,” you said quietly. 

“Yeah, or he lied,” Stiles said, poking his head into one of the empty rooms as you made your way down the passage. 

“Why would he lie?” Scott asked.

You reached the door at the end of the hall. It looked more beaten up than the others, with its paint peeling away and scratches on the frame. Hesitantly, Stiles reached forward and opened it. 

The room was clean. It had furniture and a neat bed, blue painted walls, and decorations on every available surface. This room didn’t belong with the rest of the ghost house; it was the room of a thirteen-year-old boy. 

“He didn’t lie,” Stiles said over his shoulder as he sped into the room. 

“Why didn’t the cops say anything about this?” Scott asked as he looked around. 

Stiles tore his gaze away from a bookshelf to say, “They don’t know it’s here. They can’t come in without a warrant and there’s no owner of record to serve a warrant to, so unless there’s some kind of threat or imminent danger, they wouldn’t come in.”

Something rattling downstairs made you jump. 

Stiles reached out and touched your arm. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Someone’s downstairs,” you whispered.

“I’ll go check it out. You guys stay here,” Scott said. He didn’t give you a chance to argue before he left and closed the door behind him. 

You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment. Stiles was still holding onto your arms but he was looking at Alex’s corkboard when you opened your eyes again. 

“Do any of these look weird to you?” he asked in a low voice, taking one of his hands off to point at the pictures. 

You took a step closer to see them more clearly. “He’s alone in all of them,” you said. Your eyes caught on a photo on the table underneath the board. The frame said Number 1 Dad but there was no one in it except for Alex. “It’s like everyone else was taken out.”

“Yeah, I-” Stiles stopped and looked behind you. Slowly, he walked over to the bed and crouched in front of it. He got on all fours and pulled the sheet up to look underneath. For a second, he stayed in that position like he was frozen, and then he bolted up to his feet. “Did you see that?” 

“See what?” you asked. 

“The- the horse. I saw it’s hooves and heard it snarl. Is that the right word? Do horses snarl?” he asked. His breathing was quick like before his panic attacks. 

“Hey-” You put a hand on either side of his face so he looked at you and not the empty space in front of the window. “I didn’t see anything, but I believe you, okay? Let’s just find Scott and get out of here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Stiles said with a nod. He grabbed one of your hands and started you out. He stopped so you could close the door, but he was staring down the hallway when you turned around again. His eyes were fixed on something you couldn’t see.

Stiles pulled you behind him and then the first shot went off. You weren’t sure where it came from, but the two of you fell into the wall and slid down to the floor. Stiles pulled your head into his chest as two more shots went off. 

“Where is this coming from?” you asked, trying to look over his arm. 

“You can’t see him?” Stiles asked. His heart raced as more and more shots went off. 

Then it was silent. 

“What happened?” Scott yelled as he ran up the stairs with Liam and Mason. 

You and Stiles scrambled back to your feet as they closed the distance. 

“He was here. He shot at us,” Stiles said. “It was one of the guys you saw in Alex’s memory.”

“The guy who took his parents?” Mason asked. 

“No. No, they weren’t just taken. They were- they were made to disappear. That’s why there’s no furniture. That’s why they weren’t in any of the photos,” Stiles said quickly. He took a breath and looked at you. “They were erased.” 

Stiles spun on his heel and tore open the door again. The walls were still blue and it was relatively dust-free, but it was empty. All of Alex’s stuff was gone. Even though you’d seen it only minutes before, your brain tried to tell you that Alex’s stuff had never been there at all.

---

Stiles’ first stop was the library, which meant your first stop was the library. Scott, Liam, and Mason disappeared for lacrosse practice, and Lydia wasn’t there for very long before Natalie texted her to come home for dinner. She asked if Stiles could walk her out since it was dark and there were lunatics with guns on the loose. 

“Sure,” you said with a smile. “He’ll be down in a sec.” 

Lydia smiled and started walking to the stairs, leaving you and Stiles alone with all his research books. He started closing them and piling them together when you reached out and put your hand over his.

“I’ll pack these up, okay?” you said. 

“Uh, sure,” Stiles said. “Why did you want me to stay then?” 

“I just want you to promise me that whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together.” You took his hand off the book and held it in both of yours. “I know it’s easier to do it by yourself than to wait for me to catch up, but please-” 

“I promise,” Stiles said. It surprised you how easy that was. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together. No matter what, alright?”

“Alright.” You smiled and pulled him closer so you could kiss him. With your head against his forehead, you sighed and said, “I guess I should let you go before Lydia leaves without you.” 

Stiles laughed. His thumb grazed your cheek as he pulled away. “Meet me in front?” 

“Be safe,” you said with a smile. “I love you.” 

Stiles gave you one more smile as he started walking backward. “I love you, too.”

Then he turned around and disappeared down the stairs after Lydia. 

It didn’t take you long to pack up the books, but once the last one was on its shelf, you struggled to remember why you’d taken it out in the first place. Chalking it up to a lapse in memory due to too much late-night studying, you tried to shrug off the feeling as you grabbed your bag. 

But there was still something wrong when you stepped out into the hallway. You couldn’t shake off the feeling that you were supposed to do something. Before you got the chance to figure it out, your phone buzzed and an unknown number flashed across the screen. 

‘At the station. Alex is next.’ 

“Who the hell is Alex?” you mumbled, locking your phone again and sliding it into your pocket. 

You wandered around the school, trying to find one of your friends to take you home. Scott was nowhere to be found but after about half an hour you eventually found Liam, Hayden, and Mason being harassed by some guy.

He was taller than them, wiry, with choppy brown hair. As he spoke, his hands flew around in the air and tugged at the red flannel he wore. There was something so familiar about him, as erratic as he was. You knew him.

“-So you guys, you can’t be alone,” he said. His voice was so familiar, as was his heartbeat. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible lilt in his heartbeat. “You gotta stick with Scott or with me because I can see them.” They didn’t say anything. Did they know him? How did he know Scott? “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

Hayden whispered something to Liam as you came closer. He said he didn’t know him. 

“Do you … go to this school?” Mason asked.

“What’s your name?” Liam asked. 

He was confused. Something about his face made you want to reach out for him and comfort him, but you didn’t know why. It was more an instinct to protect him than anything else. 

Then he pushed Liam and Mason aside and started running. He stopped Noah and pulled him into a hug. You were so busy trying to work out how you knew him that you couldn’t focus on what he was saying. You couldn't focus on anything other than the lilt of his heartbeat.

He froze again. Then he started walking away like he was in a daze. He pulled out his phone and called someone, and it took you a second to realize he was talking to Scott. 

He hung up. 

“It’s me. I’m next.” 

And then he started running. 

You bolted after him, not wanting to lose him again. Whoever he was, you knew him and you weren’t going to let him disappear. 

“Hey!” You yelled and grabbed his hand. It took him a second to realize that you weren’t a threat. He stopped running but he was still restless. “Hey, let me help you.”

“What’s my name?” he asked. His voice shook. You tried to think about it, but you just couldn’t remember his name, no matter how familiar his hands felt or how badly you wanted to make him safe. “Oh, god. You don’t remember me.” 

“I know you,” you said. “I don’t- I don’t know how, but I know you.” 

He put his hands on either side of your face and kissed you. It was over in a second but it felt like you’d been kissing him all your life. “I love you, but I’ve gotta go.” He pulled away to start running again when you grabbed his hand to make him stay.

“No! Let me come with you.” 

He looked heartbroken. “You don’t even remember me.” 

“But I know you,” you said. You held his hand tighter. “And I’m not letting anything happen to you. So wherever you’re running … I’m running, too.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. He nodded, more to himself than to you. “Okay, let’s go.”

He started running. He was fast, but he was undoubtedly human. He kept looking at things that you couldn’t see and pulling you out of invisible danger. Maybe he was like Lydia. Maybe you could help him. 

“Don’t look at them,” he said. “Whatever you do, don’t fight them and don’t look at them or they’ll take you too.” 

“But I-” 

“Promise me.” 

“I promise. No matter-” The words caught in your throat. They rolled off your tongue without thinking, but it bothered you that you couldn't remember why you were saying them.

Whoever he was, he dragged you to a powder blue Jeep and fumbled for the keys as you slammed the doors. Then he stopped. He looked around and took a breath. 

“Hey, we can still get out of here,” you said, leaning over to touch his hand. 

“No,” he said quietly. He looked over at you with the most heartwrenching expression you’d ever seen. You didn’t know why that look made you want to cry. “There’s no time.” 

“There’s plenty of time,” you said, needing more than anything for him to stop looking so sad. “Just start the car. We can go anywhere you want.” 

“Hey, listen to me,” he said. He turned and cupped your face like he did in the hall, but he didn’t kiss you this time. “My name is Stiles. I’m gonna be erased, just like Alex. You’re going to forget me.” 

“Stiles,” you repeated. “Stiles, I won’t forget you. Not again, okay? I can’t- I can’t lose you again.” 

“I love you,” Stiles said. And you knew he meant it. He knew you better than you knew yourself, and he loved you. 

“I love-” 

Something ripped him out of the car. 

And then he was gone. 

Stiles was gone. 

Tagged: @ietss​  @used-avocado​

[sweetteaanddragons]

How to Train Your (Evil) Dragon

A/N: I’d been wanting to write this for a while, and the five sentence prompt I recently wrote finally pushed me over the edge. Definite thanks is owed to the actual HtTYD.

Also, fair warning, this gets progressively crackier as it goes on.

. . . 

Dear Mother,

Someday, I’ll find a way to actually send these to you.

In the meantime, interesting news continues to accumulate! We ran into an exciting new creature on patrol this morning that looked something like a lizard, if a lizard happened to be the size of a horse. I’d include a sketch, but I’m afraid my drawing skills are as dismal as you remember.

My skills with the sword, however, are better than ever - I was able to drive the beast off before anyone was more than slightly injured! I think it may lose one leg entirely. Unfortunately, our pursuit failed, and I was not able to finish it off, but there is another patrol planned for tomorrow; perhaps I can find it then.

There is still no news from Turgon and Aredhel, but as I recently assured Father, that is no reason to fear the worst. If the worst had come to past, surely the Enemy would have found some way to taunt us with it.

I wish dearly that Father would let me go in search of them, but he insists he needs me here. I confess, I feel better keeping him in sight as well  - 

In better news, Maedhros’s letter has arrived after all; later than I expected, but the news in it is good, and my fears are much allayed. We are holding the line, and that’s the most important thing.

I hope you don’t worry too much.

All my love, 

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

I have found the beast! A minor rockfall down by the river pinned its tail and has kept it trapped. When I found it, it had given up hope of pulling itself free and was sulking about it. It looked rather more like a cat than anything else, and I almost laughed.

. . . Which brings us to my next point.

It just looked so helpless, lying there like that, and I’d gotten a bit separated from the rest of the patrol - don’t look at me like that, I was perfectly safe - and it just felt, well, wrong to kill it. When else will we have an opportunity like this, to see if we can save one of the beasts Morgoth has corrupted? Don’t I have a duty to try?

And no, before you ask, this has nothing to do with the whispers I’ve been hearing about thralls -

I promise this will end better than the bear cub I brought home in Aman. And the fox. And that hawk.

This time, everything will work out perfectly.

I’ve started by feeding it fish.

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

Day Three of my new project! I am now almost certain that my new friend is male, and he has stopped hissing at me when I approach. Admittedly, this is probably because I continue to bring him fish, but still: progress!

Between the need to actually fish for the fish, for lack of a better phrase, and my attempts to train the horse-lizard (definitely need a better phrase), this has been taking up a larger portion of my time than is easy to conceal from Father. He has been starting to make jokes that are not actually jokes about my riding off into the unknown like Turgon. I’m not sure what to tell him. I want to be further into my project before I try to sell him on it.

So I tried to drop hints that I was actually sneaking away to have the kind of assignations that might eventually end in grandchildren, which successfully distracted him.

If this continues long enough, I might actually have to find a baby somewhere.

I can picture you laughing at me. I wish you were here.

I will try to come up with a better name than lizard-horse soon. I also need a name for this specific lizard-horse, which I admit is harder than I thought it would be. Maybe I can come up with a sneaky way to ask Maedhros to ask Maglor. Celegorm might also be of some help - with the training, not the naming - but I’m pretty sure he still isn’t speaking with me. According to Maedhros, this is because the last time they met, Aredhel wasn’t speaking to him, so now that she’s disappeared, I have to fill in as a proxy.

No, it doesn’t make sense to me either.

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

Day 12 of my project! I am spared of calling my new friend a horse-lizard by the wit of one of the people who was on patrol with me; she has taken to calling it a dragon, and I like the sound of it so well that I’ve decided to adopt it. My particular dragon I have decided to call Glaurung.

He gave me a bit of a fright today when he unexpectedly breathed out sparks while I was doing my best to mend his leg, but there was no true harm done, and I think he looked a bit sorry afterwards. He is beginning to look genuinely happy to see me when I come, and I harbor some small, probably foolish, hope that it’s not just excitement for the fish.

Father has begun to poke around to try to find out just who I’m having assignations with; I might actually have to start courting someone to satisfy him.

Or I could come clean, I suppose, but my other idea sounds easier. No luck finding a suitable and available baby to claim so far, but my efforts continue unabated!

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

Glaurung can talk! He said his very first word today! It was “fish.” I am very proud and am now attempting to get him to say my name. The first letters are the same; how hard could it be?

I stay longer and longer to sit and talk with him now. Hopefully it will help him learn to speak. Once he can actually hold a conversation, I feel I can present him to Father. 

I’m more hesitant than ever to do so before I can be sure how Father will react. He would be perfectly right to be cautious, of course, but I hate the thought of having to see Glaurung dead. I feel responsible for him now, and I want to protect him if I can, as ridiculous as that may seem directed towards a being that successfully started a fire for me yesterday.

In other news, Glaurung apparently now prefers his fish cooked.

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

I have finally freed Glaurung from where his tail was pinned. I confess I had some lingering fear that he would attack or at least wander off, but now that I see the damage, that concern has lessened greatly. He will need a good deal of help before he is ready to do that.

Please don’t worry. I’m being very careful, I promise.

In unrelated news, I discovered dragons can purr if you pet them just exactly right.

All my love,

Fingon

. . . 

Dear Mother,

Glaurung did a bad thing today.

He has been growing at an incredible rate, and I’m afraid my fishing skills are struggling to keep up with him. Today he wanted more fish when all I had left was the one I had intended for my own lunch. When I told him no, the strangest look came over his eyes, and suddenly I found myself bringing him the fish anyway despite my intention.

Fortunately, I snapped out of it before I could actually give him the fish, and I suppose no great harm would have come of it even I had, but the incident still alarms me. His fire is getting stronger. What if this does too?

Well, hopefully I can train it out of him. Immediately after I snapped out of it, I poured the bucket of water I’d brought him over his nose, and he reacted exactly as a cat would, sputtering and indignant, so that will be my new strategy: All misbehavior will be greeted with a liberal application of water. Perhaps I’ll see if one of the artisans can create something a little more manageable for the task than a bucket.

On the bright side, his language skills are improving! He asked for that fish in a full sentence. I’m very proud. Is this what parenting feels like?

Meanwhile, I think Father has questioned every eligible Noldorin woman in Hithlum. Presumably he’ll move on to the Sindar next; I don’t know what he’ll do when he runs out of those.

Possibly I should have come up with a different excuse.

Maedhros’s next letter has arrived, by the way. I referred to my project very discreetly in my last to him, but apparently it was not discreet enough, because he sounded rather alarmed. I’m torn between telling him the whole truth and obfuscating so he doesn’t feel the need to lie to Father on my behalf. 

I’ll just tell him I’ve gotten a cat. A very large cat. That breathes fire.

Maybe not that last part.

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

I now have a special bottle that sprays water when I push a little trigger at the top. I like it very much, and after extensive and absolutely necessary practice on various rocks, I have taken to carrying it with me when I go see Glaurung. Unfortunately, this has proven necessary. Twice more he has attempted that eye trick, both times in attempts to get more fish, but after the last attempt he seemed resigned to failure. I also take heart from the fact that he is now fully healed and could easily leave to survive on his own, but instead he has stayed here, seemingly perfectly content to stay with me. In fact, I’ve had to use the spray bottle once or twice to keep him from following me back to the fort.

(I am getting increasingly tempted to use the spray bottle on Father whenever he brings up the woman I am supposedly seeing, but I doubt I would find as good a result. In hindsight, I really should have found a different excuse to use.)

In cheerier news, I can have full conversations with Glaurung now! His own contributions remain simple, but he is improving greatly.

I also have a confession to make: I told you that I was teaching him to speak. I did not tell you that I was teaching him Quenya.

Keeping that secret from you of all people was spectacularly pointless, I know, seeing as you aren’t actually reading these, but I was afraid to commit the words to paper in case these were ever found.

You have to understand, it just seemed so natural! I was alone, doing something secret, so naturally I would use -

Well. I suppose when Father finds out, the sticking point about the dragon will probably not be what language he speaks. On the other hand, when Thingol finds out . . . 

Maybe I should start teaching him Sindarin.

All my love,

Fingon

. . .

Dear Mother,

I have a baby!

Admittedly, I’m increasingly concerned about the provenance of said baby, but Caranthir’s not talking, and Father’s already seen the baby, so it’s too late to back out now.

. . . Though maybe I should back up just a little.

You see, a few letters ago, I’d mentioned to Maedhros that I needed a baby, mostly because I was too tired to think about what I was writing, and then the messenger took it before I could -

Anyway. Maedhros, being the supportive cousin that he is - and also, notably, having survived Feanor’s determination to have 49 grandchildren at minimum - assumed that I had legitimate reasons to want said baby: Namely, Father pressuring me to get to work preserving the line of Finwe by providing more heirs.

Which shouldn’t be necessary but given that we still don’t know what happened to Turgon, Aredhel, and little Idril - 

Which, to be fair to Maedhros, was much more sensible than what was actually going on.

In my defense, I didn’t actually expect Maedhros to - to do whatever it is he did. I thought he would commiserate a little, maybe, and that would be the end of it.

But no. Caranthir is here with the horses he wants to trade for some of our stock, and he brought with him the tiniest, most perfect baby I’ve ever seen.

I’m going to call him Gil-Galad.

I know, I know! I shouldn’t be naming the baby before I’m sure I’ll get to keep him, and I shouldn’t decide I’m going to keep him before I can get Caranthir to cough up more than, “Don’t worry about it,” when I ask where he came from.

But Caranthir managed to smuggled the baby into my arms right before Father walked in, saw it, and jumped to the obvious conclusion, so if I do end up having to give the baby up, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.

Actually, I already have a lot of explaining to do because I might have panicked a little bit when Father saw me with the baby.

And by ‘panicked a little bit,’ I mean that when he said, “You have a baby?” I may have, possibly, blurted out, “I also have a dragon.”

So, as I write, Father’s getting kitted up to go meet said dragon.

Do you think Gil-Galah’s too young to come along?

All my love,

Fingon

[savannah-lim]

Defying Gravity || Norma & Savannah

Title: Defying Gravity Timing: Nightmare POTW Location: Hanging Rock Parties: @normallee and @savannah-lim  Content Warnings: Hit and run (on monster), reckless driving, Wizard of Oz references

Going for a run or a walk to clear your head. People did that, right? Savannah was way more likely to make regretful sex decisions or have a few strong drinks, but it must have been getting to her head, because she was starting to see really weird shit. Savannah figured a few days off the alcohol would do her some good. She wasn't totally immune from making regretful decisions though, and still managed to snapchat her ex from the clifftop; Apparently they used to hang witches here. Cool, huh? she plastered over the top of a photo of the ocean from Hanging Rock. That definitely wasn’t a shark in the background, right? Nope. Definitely a large seal. “I must be going fucking crazy,” she chuckled to herself before she sent the picture and continued with her hike. She whipped her phone out again to video a flock of birds, curious looking things, probably migrating or something. And what the hell was that big one in the middle? “Holy shit--” she looked around as if checking anyone else was nearby. She’d seen a few dog walkers and bird watchers, so someone had to be close enough to confirm this, right? “Hey! Uh, sorry, hi, excuse me?? Do you see these birds?” Birds, yep, they’re birds, just keep telling yourself that. 

Norma didn’t quite understand why humans were both so insistent on building things up and out and taking over every inch of land they could, while at the same time preserving nature. It truly made no sense. Still, she was told Hanging Rock was a nice place to visit and that many humans enjoyed going there to “get away.” What they were getting away from, she had no idea, but it was nice out there so that was pleasant enough. She sat by the edge of the cliff, legs dangled over the side, swinging them on occasion. The breeze did feel nice and if she sat there long enough, she could almost see the way things used to be about a thousand years ago. Almost. The railings and signs and occasional boat below shattered the illusion slightly. As did the witch flying through the sky. And those things that looked like flying monkies. So annoying. She should really know better to stay out of the way and let the humans appreciate nature in all its splendor. “The birds?” She asked, twisting back towards the woman who seemed a bit frantic. “Oh yes. I saw them. They’re very nice, do you like birds? I’ve been told some people watch them. I’m not entirely certain what they expect to see other than a bird but it’s nice they keep an eye out for them.” Norma turned back to look out in front of her. “It’s such a shame that witch is blocking the view. Really, the audacity.” Norma sighed. Was that witch getting… closer?

Savannah really did enjoy White Crest in a lot of ways, but she was starting to wonder if it would be the death of her, perhaps literally as well as metaphorically. The nightmares, the visions, the hallucinations, it seemed to give her a permanent headache, and in spite of the fact they’d found Javier’s remains, she still wasn’t any closer to solving the case. She was almost desperate for confirmation from the stranger, and yet how could she be sure she wasn’t hallucinating that too. “Witch?!” Savannah’s eyes widened, and she stared at the shape in the sky that twisted amongst the backdrop of clouds and birds. She instinctively took a step back. As the so-called witch twisted and danced on her broomstick among her companions, the sky grew louder with the chattering and squealing of monkeys. “Is that normal for White Crest?!” she asked. A short time ago, that would have seemed like a really stupid question. Now, it was par for the course. 

The woman seemed confused by the word witch. Perhaps Norma had to explain it to her. “Yes, a witch. She’s green and riding a broomstick, see. And yes, most actual witches are not like that but since enough of popular culture has in fact decided that is what a witch looks like, we can both agree that a woman dressed in black with green skin flying on a broomstick is in fact a-- AHHH!” Norma screamed and rolled back as one of the flying monkeys howled and swiped at her head. She pulled herself up and away from the ledge and hid behind the woman. She looked hearty, she was jogging, she had to be athletically skilled in some way. “I’m not aware! I haven’t lived here for very long. I do not think monkeys often fly but I could be mistaken.” Norma squealed as one of the monkeys pulled at her hair. The witch was nearly there, cackling and quite pleased with herself seemingly. “We should remove ourselves from this situation! How do we do so?” Norma asked, panicked, still cowering behind the other woman.

“I know what a witch is! I just don’t expect to see one on my afternoon jog!” Savannah’s words were pointed, her tone and body language erratic. She had really lost her grip on reality. They were going to take the case away from her. They were going to take her whole job away from her. “I don’t know? Run?!” She practically screamed at the stranger, and of course, being that she wasn’t exactly on duty right now, she wasn’t wearing a gun strapped to her hip along with her athleisure wear. Savannah ducked behind a rock, throwing her water bottle at a flying monkey that seemed to cackle as it dove just a little too close. It connected, sending the monkey falling to the ground, useless. But that still left the other dozen or so. She practically grabbed the stranger by the arm, dragging her down with her. “I parked my car over at the other end of the trail. Maybe we can make it.” 

“Well if you know what one is, why are you asking me about them?” Norma shouted. The other woman was running and so Norma did the same as that seemed like the best solution at the moment. “Quick thinking!” she said with a nod as the water bottle decked the monkey that was practically breathing down their necks. It seemed like Norma had hitched her horse with the right wagon, whatever the humans meant by that. “Okay, I think we should just ru--” Her words were cut short by another scream as hands gripped her shoulders and feet wrapped around her waist. Norma reached out to grab her companion, to try and tether herself to the ground, but the monkey’s grip was tight and she couldn't break free. “Help!” she screamed. “Put me down you idiot! I can’t fly! I know it’s very confusing why some furies have wings but they don’t WOOORRRK!” Her voice shifted to another scream as the chattering beast pulled her upwards farther into the clouds. This was bad. Very bad. Norma reached and grabbed her shoe off her foot and tried to slap the animal with it enough to encourage it to let her go. 

This was more of a workout than Savannah had planned for. She knew you were supposed to get your heart-rate up, but this was a little on the extreme side of things. “Hey!” she called as the stranger was hoisted up into the air. She tried to grab for Norma’s hands to pull her back down, but she was gone too quickly for Savannah to stop it. “You little shits!” She scrambled for the water bottle again, for some rocks to throw, for anything that might give them something of a chance. She threw them at the gaggle of primates, which unfortunately disrupted them just enough to drop Norma to the ground. “Oh, shit!” she hurried to Norma’s side, swatting monkey hands out of her hair. “ARGH! GET OFF! Are you okay?!” 

“Let go, let go! Let-- Stop throwing the rocks at me!” Norma shouted at all parties involved, still hitting the monkey with her shoe. She wasn’t sure if it was her shoe or the rocks that encouraged the primate to let go, but it did in fact loosen its grip on her. That was nice of it. She got what she wanted. Then she realized she was plummeting to the ground, wind rushing past her as gravity pulled her back to the earth. Norma screamed and tried to brace herself, covering her head. She hit the ground with a thwack. Gods, there were things definitely broken. Oh no, that hurt. Norma pulled herself off the ground with a groan. She bit down and pulled her lips into a thin line as she popped her shoulder back where it belonged, trying to hold in the squeal of pain. It was very much not her first time doing so, but she never much enjoyed when she had to. If only the whole invulnerable thing meant she didn’t have to feel pain or healed as quickly as some other supernatural species. Then again, injuries aided her in her aim to appear human. The avoidance of what should have been something close to death? Well, that would have to wait. Norma stood up, wincing as she tried to put her weight on her foot, cradling her bad arm with her other. “I’m alive! Do not worry I have not perished! Hold on!” Norma pushed past the pain to grab her other shoe and chucked it at the monkey bothering her companion. It squealed and flew off. “Now please help me to your car before that witch brings that small tornado closer to us.”

“Oh god, oh no, we need to get you to a hospital.” Savannah cringed as Norma clicked her shoulder back into place. Norma’s groan of pain shredded the afternoon air and seemed to give the monkeys pause for a moment, likely due to the surprise of the shrill sound. They twisted and turned in the air, and the witch straddled her broom, waving her arms and cackling as if she were conducting an orchestra. She didn’t have time to worry about Norma’s strange way of speaking. She’d pulled for her phone to call a hospital, but the monkey’s reaction to Norma’s squeal gave her an idea. She covered her head with her jacket to protect her head, turning on the loudest, most shrill alarm sound she could and pointing it up in the air as she ran. She followed the trail, not daring to look back at the small tornado that followed them. “UGH!” She grunted as she tripped on a dip in the dirt path, cutting her palms and, of course, smashing her phone. “Oh come ON!” She winced, pulling herself up. They were almost there. “That one! The silver Honda,” she groaned as she forced herself upright again, leaving her broken phone on the ground as she wrestled through her pockets for her keys. 

“Hospital?” Norma’s eyes went wide and she could feel her heart pounding in her centuries old chest. “Oh, no thank you! I’m sure I’m fine. Look at how very fine I am! I’m alive and breathing, I’m very sturdy like that.” Even in pain, a human hospital was the last pace she needed to land herself. There were too many things to explain and circumvent and truly just simply not going was the best solution. She was unaware of the current plan but hobbling behind her companion was the best she had so that’s what she did. On their way, the other woman tripped and fell. Norma considered leaving her behind, survival of the fittest, or the supernatural in reality. That seemed like a bad thing to do, not the way to make human friends. Norma bent down to help lend a hand to her, pulling her up as they ran to the car. She wasn’t sure what a Honda was but she followed her to the silver car. Maybe all cars were now called Hondas. Norma pulled and pulled on the door. “Faster, please! I would like to hide in your vehicle as soon as possible. Ideally before that tornado hits!” There was a swirl of wind and branches tearing through the trees towards them, witch cackling just behind it. 

“You just… dislocated your arm!” Savannah answered between laboured breaths. She screamed as one of the monkeys grabbed at her hair, smacking at it and letting out a string of incomprehensible curse words before it finally let go. She frantically hit the unlock button on her keys and dove inside. Norma didn’t need any encouragement to hurry. As soon as the doors were closed, she locked them with a swift click. That didn’t stop the witch swirling around them with awful cackling, and the monkeys flying into the windows like bugs on a windshield. Thank God her car had bulletproof glass. The wipers and lights? Not so lucky. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she was getting the hell out of her. She turned the key and put the car in drive, stepping down on the gas and ignoring the awful squelch of what she was sure was a couple of flying monkeys beneath the tires. 

Norma fumbled with the door and threw herself inside the car, wincing as her slightly mangled body found a decently comfortable position. She had barely pulled the strange belt contraption onto her lap when the other woman took off driving. And Norma started screaming, bracing her good arm on the dashboard. “When did motor vehicles start going so fast?!” she shouted as they barreled down the road. “Watch out for the— AHHHH!” Norma looked around out the back window. It was very much a mistake. She saw the flattened bodies of the monkeys that they had run over as well as the swirling tornado headed their way. There was no way they could out run it. Unless… “Turn right!” she shouted. “Go towards the water! Just to the edge. Then stop! I think it’ll work!” Fingers crossed. “We might need to jump out of the car if we want to…” Guess they’d see.

Savannah was a good driver. They did learn car chases in Quantico, but that was a lifetime ago, and these weren’t exactly the conditions she’d tested under. “Fuck, shit, fuck!” She cursed more emphatically under her breath, and then not so under her breath. She couldn’t take her eyes off the--well, it wasn’t even much of a road--but she couldn't take her eyes off it anyway. She was less than thrilled about driving on these precarious cliffs, but she was running on pure adrenaline and did it anyway, half-skidding around the bend as she took a hard right, and skidding again to a halt with grass and rock under the wheels before the tornado blew past them, just a few feet from the window, and off into the ocean. She took a breath, then another, and another, and as quickly as it had turned to chaos, everything was calm again. “Jesus,” she sighed, clutching her chest and leaning back in disbelief. “That was a close one.” Savannah looked over at her passenger to ensure she was unharmed. “Are you okay? I’m Savannah, by the way… didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before Planet of the Apes.”

Norma screamed the entire time they were driving down the way, through the winding path, tornado just behind them. This was not a nice pleasant day in nature. Humans were truly perplexing in their definitions of a good time. She ducked under the dashboard as the tornado blew past and into the water. She peaked out to see a house drop down right next to them, striped stockings sticking out from underneath the porch. “I think the witch is dead. That’s nice. It was a very convenient house. I’m sure that someone will be very happy to live here at this very nice park. I assume the tornadoes only happen with mild frequency.” She turned back to the driver and gave a smile and held out her hand, Oh wait, no, that was the injured one. Right. She held out her other hand to shake. “I’m Norma Lee. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m thrilled you were able to save me from the flying monkeys. I very much hope that house was not yours. Mine is downtown. Would you be willing to drive me back there? Thank you!” She was not sure if this was a normal interaction but hopefully, she made herself a new friend.

[splendidlyimperfect]

Let them think you are weak and do what wolves and fire do best.

Surprise them when they least expect it.

-Nikita Gill

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Witcher Rating: Mature Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier

-----

Jaskier is not useless.

Sure, he’s not great with a sword – he knows how to wield one, to Geralt’s surprise, but it’s not something he’s trained in. He’s handy with a dagger, especially from a distance, and he’s bashed more than one monster (or bandit) with his lute while Geralt is off fighting something significantly more dangerous.

The problem right now is that the incredibly dangerous thing – a maurezhi, which apparently feeds on human flesh – has thrown Geralt across the room. He hit the wall, and Jaskier had heard a crack, and now Geralt’s not moving and Jaskier’s pressed behind an overturned table, hand over his mouth and hoping to hell that the maurezhi can’t hear him.

The room is silent for a moment, and all Jaskier can hear is the hammering of his own heartbeat, and the rain pounding down in torrents outside the abandoned building.

Then there’s a deep, inhuman growl, and the sound of something scraping across the stone floor. Jaskier shudders, trying not to picture the mangled victim they’d found earlier with its insides… well, not on the inside. A quiet clicking echoes off the stone walls – the creature’s long, poisonous claws clacking together – and Jaskier looks over at Geralt again. He’s still not moving.

Get up, Jaskier thinks desperately, gaze bouncing around the room as he tries to find a way out. Even if he could get over to Geralt, the man is heavy, and Jaskier would never be able to drag him out of the building in time. He could distract the maurezhi, but then he’d risk it finding him, and Jaskier would really prefer to keep his entrails inside his body, thank you very much.

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The maurezhi stalks closer to Geralt, another rough growl scraping its way out of its throat. It’s nearly six feet tall, even hunched over with its claws dragging over the floor – claws that, Jaskier has been informed, will paralyze a human with a single touch. He’s not sure if this extends to Witchers, but he’s also not particularly interested in finding out.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, ducking out from behind the table and quickly taking cover behind another chunk of debris. The roof has fallen apart here, and rain pours in, immediately soaking Jaskier’s cloak. “Get up!”

The creature hisses, and Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat when it turns and stalks toward him, much quicker than it had been moments ago. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck.

“Over here, you…” Jaskier yelps as the maurezhi’s claws tear apart his hiding place, and he rolls out of the way, looking wildly around the room. There’s nowhere else for him to hide, and this thing is going to stab him and paralyze him and then he’s going to have to watch while it eats Geralt alive, and—

A glint of silver catches Jaskier’s eye. Geralt’s sword is lying near his unmoving body, half-buried in the rubble from where the wall had caved in. Before he can think, Jaskier throws himself forward, skidding across the room at an inhuman speed and grabbing the hilt of the sword with both hands.

“C’mere, you bastard,” he growls, whipping around and hefting it as high as he can. He shifts so that he’s standing in front of Geralt’s body, feet planted, adrenaline pushing away the immobilizing terror.

The maurezhi howls, baring its teeth – gods, how many are in there? – and charging at Jaskier. He shouts, pivoting on one foot and swinging the sword as hard as he can as soon as the creature is within range. It connects with a sickening squelch, and Jaskier’s teeth rattle when it hits bone. He yanks it back as hard as he can, kicking out at the claws that are swiping at him, and thrusts again, wild and desperate.

They’re not going to die here. Geralt’s saved his ass too many times to count, and the fucking White Wolf isn’t going to get ripped apart by some horrifying monster that will end up wearing his skin.

Jaskier staggers backward under a blow from the maurezhi, heart pounding at the close call, and then he’s screaming, teeth bared, and sword held high as he leaps at the beast and aims for its heart.

There’s a flash of blinding light, searing the air and scorching Jaskier’s forearms as he digs the sword into the creature. It howls again, high and gurgling, and as suddenly it appeared the light is gone, and the maurezhi is dead, and Jaskier’s gasping for breath and blinking at the smoking corpse in front of him.

“Oh,” he wheezes. The sword is suddenly much too heavy for him and he drops to his knees, sucking in a desperate breath. “Fuck, what the—shit. How the…”

Then he remembers that Geralt is unconscious and quickly turns toward him, setting the sword down and running his fingers across Geralt’s face. It’s scraped and bruised, and there’s a nasty-looking cut on his temple, but the immediate problem seems to be the enormous hole in his chest that’s currently pumping out an alarming amount of blood.

Jaskier yanks off his own doublet, buttons tearing under his trembling fingers, and presses it against the wound. He sucks in another shaky breath, wiping his face with the back of his hand and breathing a sigh of relief when he finds Geralt’s bag still around his waist. He digs through it quickly, peering uncertainly at the vials – why the gods doesn’t Geralt label them? – until he finds one that looks familiar and tugs off the lid. He pulls back the doublet and pours a bit of the liquid onto the wound, and it immediately starts to bubble and hiss as the potion takes effect.

Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Geralt’s. “Idiot,” he breathes, trying to calm his pounding heart. “You can’t do this to me. My heart can’t take it.” 

~ 

Geralt doesn’t wake up for two days.

Jaskier spends the entire time alternating between pacing back and forth across the room or curled up on the bed, staring at the rise and fall of Geralt’s chest. The wound, now stitched and bandaged, is taking longer than usual to heal, and it makes Jaskier’s stomach twist every time he looks at it.

When Geralt finally opens his eyes, blinking blearily and staring up at the ceiling, Jaskier nearly starts to cry.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he says, sitting down heavily on the side of the bed and watching a confused expression make its way across Geralt’s face.

“Do…”

“Almost die,” Jaskier clarifies. He tries to rearrange his features into a scowl, but all he can manage is a weak look of relief.

“I didn’t—”

“You absolutely did, and I had to save us – which was terrifying, how you do that all the time is beyond me – and then I had to carry you back to your horse – do you even know how heavy you are? Plus it was pouring rain, so by the time we got back I couldn’t stop sneezing and Roach was soaked, and I was pretty sure you were going to die because you wouldn’t stop bleeding and—”

“You… saved us?” Geralt interrupts. His brow is creased in a frown and his gaze is still slightly unfocused – a side effect of the herbs the healer had used to help keep the pain at bay.

“Yes, which surprises me just as much as you, but that thing was going to kill you and eat you and wear your skin – or my skin – which is just—and your sword was lying there and y’know, it weighs nearly as much as you do, but I had to and—”

“Your eyes are pretty.”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me; I’m not done chastising you—” Jaskier stops as Geralt’s words catch up with the frantic racing of his brain. “What?”

Geralt’s usually stoic expression is soft and open, and he slowly reaches up and touches the bandage on Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re hurt,” he says.

“I—yes, but that…” Jaskier frowns as Geralt’s fingers brush across his chin. “That’s not… what you…”

“Your eyes,” Geralt says, tucking a stray curl behind Jaskier’s ear. “They’re pretty.”

“You’re delirious,” Jaskier mutters as heat creeps into his cheeks. “It’s those herbs the healer gave you, it’s—”

“Mn-mm,” Geralt insists, pushing himself up on one elbow and wincing. Jaskier quickly grabs his pillow from the other side of the bed and tucks it behind Geralt, helping him sit up. Geralt’s fingers touch his, sliding along his palm, and Jaskier’s heart does that stupid twisting thing that it’s done every time they’ve touched since they met.

“You need sleep,” he says quietly, torn between pulling away and enjoying the touch while he can. Soon the herbs will wear off and Geralt will be back to his usual self – the man whose vocabulary consists of “fuck” and “hm,” and definitely not “your eyes are pretty.”

Geralt ignores the statement and frowns, looking down at the bandage on his chest. “Wait.” Jaskier’s rambling from earlier seems to catch up to him and he says, “You carried me?”

Jaskier hmphs. “And you’re heavy,” he complains.

“Out of the building?”

“Yes, I already said—”

“All the way to Roach.”

“Yes.”

“And you killed the maurezhi.”

“Yes.”

“With my sword.”

“Yes, we’ve been over all of this, keep up.”

“Oh.”

Geralt is quiet for a second, then looks down at their joined hands as if just realizing that they’re still touching. Jaskier expects him to pull away, but instead Geralt slides their fingers together and gives Jaskier the most ridiculous, drug-addled smile he’s ever seen.

“Thank you.”

Jaskier laughs. “You must really be out of it. Thank me again when the herbs wear off tomorrow and I might believe you.”

“I will,” Geralt insists, and his gaze is so sincere that Jaskier suddenly can’t look at him. “You’re very brave.” Jaskier’s cheeks burn and he plays with a loose thread in the blanket. “I’m glad you were with me.”

“I am too,” Jaskier mumbles. “I really prefer you not to be dead, if it can be helped.” Geralt laughs – a light, sincere sound that makes him seem so young.

“I’d also prefer to not be dead.”

“Right.” Jaskier tugs on his hand, but Geralt refuses to let go. “Well, it’s—you’re good for business, and I wouldn’t have anything interesting to write about if you died.” He hesitates. “My life would be… rather boring.”

“Mine would be empty,” Geralt says, and he brings his other hand back up to Jaskier’s face and runs his thumb across his cheek.

“Look,” Jaskier says, trying to push away the sudden urge to cry. “You can’t just say things like that. ‘s not fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you were sound, you’d never tell me I had pretty eyes.”

“Then I’m an idiot,” Geralt says, voice and expression both earnest.

“Well, I won’t argue with that,” Jaskier says, sighing and leaning into Geralt’s touch. A tiny thread of guilt works its way into his chest for taking advantage of the situation, but the other part of him can’t help it. The more time they spend together, the more Geralt allows Jaskier to touch him. It’s usually small things – a hand on Geralt’s back as Jaskier passes him, leaning against him when they’re sitting by the fire, feet touching under the table when they eat dinner at the inn. But Geralt has never touched him like this.

“You look tired,” Geralt says softly, tipping his head toward the other side of the bed.  

Jaskier hesitates. When they sleep outdoors, they do sleep next to each other – Jaskier feels safer being out in the open when he can hear Geralt breathing next to him. But whenever they’re at inns, they sleep apart – still in the same room, but not in the same bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Jaskier says, sighing when Geralt stops touching his face.

“Now who’s being stupid?” Geralt gives him an unimpressed look and shuffles over a little more to make room for Jaskier on the bed.

Jaskier sighs, wrestling with his self-restraint for just a moment before giving up and climbing carefully into the bed. He tries to leave a respectable space between them, but Geralt is having none of it and tugs Jaskier close until he’s basically leaning on Geralt’s shoulder.

“You have to promise me something,” Jaskier says as a yawn catches him by surprise.

“Hm.”

“Don’t shove me out of bed tomorrow morning when you wake up and realize you’re basically cuddling me.”

“Won’t.” Gerald shuffles down, pulling Jaskier with him until he’s using Geralt as a pillow.

“Promise?” Jaskier asks, giving in entirely and curling up on his side, one leg tucked over Geralt’s, hand in the middle of his chest.

“Promise.”

Jaskier hums, not quite believing him, but happily falling asleep to the soft, slow beat of Geralt’s heart.

[marypsue]

house rule #3

So Darcy Lewis' new roommate might secretly be a supervillain. At least she always takes out the trash.

I timewarped in from 2012 to bring you this silly fic. Canon divergent(...ish? If anything contradicts canon pretend it's an AU) after Thor. I've never kept a timeline straight in my life and I don't intend to start now.

Happy New Year or whatever.

[on AO3]

...

Darcy goes back to school after New Mexico, and her roommate is gone.

Not, like, vanished by the government the way Darcy nearly was (thanks, Jane), probably, because apparently Melissa stopped and had a nice long chat with the landlady about why she was suddenly packing up and moving out mid-school-year. Oh, and took back the damage deposit that Darcy paid half of. Thanks, Melissa.

Darcy pays up for the damage deposit, goes back up to the apartment, puts on some angry music, and drafts an ad for a new roommate. She posts it online, then makes herself some noodles, eats them while watching Jenna Marbles videos on Youtube, and then goes to bed.

The next morning, there’s exactly one email response to her ad sitting in her inbox.

That’s how Darcy meets Lucy Walker.

Lucy’s an exchange student, over from England for a single semester. Her accent is as charmingly Mary Poppins-ish as her extremely convenient arrival. Darcy’s so relieved to have somebody to pick up the other half of the rent that she thinks she doesn’t even care if Lucy’s Single-White-Female-ing her right now. She says as much, and Lucy just gives her a good-naturedly baffled look before changing the subject to utilities.

Lucy’s good with Darcy’s 50/50 arrangement for utilities, isn’t horrified that Darcy doesn’t have cable and expects Lucy to pay for it if she absolutely can’t live without it (though she is horrified that Darcy doesn’t have an electric kettle, and by Darcy’s suggestion that she microwave the water for her tea), and seems satisfied with the smaller bedroom. She signs the lease before she leaves the viewing, and by the end of the week, she’s fully moved in.

The first night that Lucy stays at the apartment, Darcy orders in Thai and makes them both Long Island iced teas. It’s got tea in the name, she figures. The Brit will probably like it. Also maybe get drunk enough to let slip if she’s planning to wear Darcy’s skin like a suit.

But the alcohol barely seems to touch Lucy. If anything, she gets quieter, moodier. This was the opposite of what Darcy was going for, so she turns on some music to bring the mood back up.

“Oh, house rule number one,” she says, as she hits shuffle on her dance-pop playlist. “Stereo’s mine. I control the music. Unless you have, like, really good taste in music, and even then, ask first.”

Lucy smiles at her, slowly, over her novelty tiki mug of extremely powerful booze. “I find it better by far to beg forgiveness than ask permission. How will I know if I have, ‘like, really good taste in music’?”

“Oh, I’ll let you know,” Darcy says. “Here, gimme your iPod, let’s take a look.” She holds out a hand, wiggling her fingers. Lucy shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“I don’t…have one of those,” she says, warily, and Darcy draws her hand back.

“Yeah? No big. I almost didn’t either, after the government stole it.” She shakes her head. “What bands do you like?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with many American bands,” Lucy says, and Darcy beams.

“Even better! You’re a blank slate.”

“Yes, I certainly am that,” Lucy says, into her tiki mug, her eyebrows rising.

“Okay, cryptic,” Darcy says, and skips to Party Rock Anthem. “Hey, do you need more booze?”

Lucy, it turns out, is in the States studying business, though if the way she talks about her one Shakespeare-focused lit class is anything to go by, her true love is drama. She’s here because her older brother did the exchange program and got so much out of it, though so far she seems pretty unimpressed with the States.

“Well, I mean,” Darcy says. “We are barbarians who microwave our tea.”

Lucy laughs so hard at that that Darcy suspects she’s not as unaffected by the Long Island iced teas as she’d like to pretend.

 …

 Darcy ends up using the electric kettle almost as much as Lucy does. She doesn’t convert from coffee, though. Starbucks still owns her ass. She should really invest in shares.

Lucy makes herself incredibly easy to get along with. Sure, she takes forever in the bathroom every morning – probably making her hair do that thing it does, Darcy’s got no idea how she keeps it in place, she’s starting to suspect witchcraft - but she wakes up at hours that Darcy’s only ever seen from the other side, so it’s not really an issue. Lucy pulls long (and slightly odd) hours in the library, doesn’t bitch about Darcy’s music, always washes her dishes and takes out the trash and replaces the toilet paper roll. She doesn’t throw wild parties or steal Darcy’s jackets or leave clumps of hair in the shower or perishable food out on the counter for hours or invite her boyfriend to basically move in rent-free like some roommates Darcy could name.

But she also…doesn’t seem to have any…friends.

Lucy never brings anybody to the apartment, which is a point in her favour as far as Darcy’s concerned. But she also never talks about meeting anybody at the library or for coffee. She doesn’t have people over, but she also doesn’t go out. She’s not bad-looking - pretty, even, in a pointy kind of way, with those dark Snow White curls and pale skin and big sad-puppy green eyes – but as far as Darcy can tell, there’s no boyfriend in the picture, not even a long-distance one.

And she doesn’t call her family.

At first, Darcy thought it was a time zone thing, but after some of the things Lucy’s said in passing about her dad – well, it sounds like things between her and her family are kind of…strained. Darcy isn’t sure, but she thinks Lucy might actually be adopted. Maybe. Lucy seems to live for cryptic answers to straightforward questions.

Ordinarily, Darcy would consider all of this not her problem. But ordinarily, Darcy would also not be coming home after classes on a Friday to find her practically-perfect-in-every-way new roommate curled up on the couch hugging Darcy’s pug pillow to her chest and staring blankly at the wall. Lucy’s not crying, but her cheeks are suspiciously shiny.

She doesn’t seem to notice Darcy’s come in until Darcy says her name twice, and then she jumps up with a guilty expression, like Darcy’d just walked in and caught her jerkin’ it. Wanking? She is British, after all.

“Don’t mind me,” Lucy says, scrubbing a hand under each of her eyes in turn, an extremely bright and extremely fake smile settling over her face. “I was just heading back to the library – how was your class?”

“Not interesting enough to distract me into changing the subject?” Darcy says. “And don’t try to tell me you’re fine, because you’re obviously not. What gives?”

Lucy’s smile takes a turn for the embarrassed. “I’d really prefer not to discuss it.”

Darcy shrugs, dropping her satchel on the coffee table. “Sure. But – house rule number two. I’m like Dolly Parton. Nobody cries alone in my presence.”

Lucy rubs the sleeve of her dark blazer across her cheek. “Well, no one’s crying here,” she says.

“Yeah,” Darcy says, rolling her eyes as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck. “Anymore.”

“Really,” Lucy says, but her fake smile looks a little less fake. “Please don’t concern yourself. It’s not anything – not anything you can help.”

“Okay,” Darcy says, tossing her scarf over the hook by the door, her hat on top of it. “Wanna eat our feelings and make fun of ANTM highlights?”

Lucy gives her a blink that Darcy’s starting to recognize as her ‘I-don’t-get-that-pop-culture-reference-but-I-don’t-want-to-look-like-I-don’t-get-that-pop-culture-reference’ look.

“America’s Next Top Model?” Darcy says. “Tyra Banks? We were all rooting for you?” Lucy still looks blank, so Darcy grabs her satchel and pulls out her laptop. “Oh, this is happening. Reality television is everything that’s wrong with society today, which is what I love about it.”

She plops down on the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and her laptop on her knees. When she looks up, Lucy still hasn’t moved. Darcy pats the seat beside her. “C’mon, you’re not gonna be able to see anything from up there.”

Lucy does her best impression of a spooked horse ready to bolt, staring at the cushion next to Darcy like it’s a coiled viper.

“I should get to the library,” she says, half-heartedly. “Study…”

“No, what you should get is that pint of Cherry Garcia out of the fridge and bring it over here,” Darcy says. “Oh, and two spoons.”

 …

 Bad Reality TV Night quickly becomes an apartment tradition. If by ‘tradition’ you mean ‘whenever we feel like it’, which Darcy does.

They catch up on the highlights of the Bachelor, Jersey Shore, and Survivor, though Lucy also seems to like ANTM best. It’s a good excuse to spend time together that doesn’t involve chores or schoolwork. And Darcy’s never been one for standing on ceremony, but a good icebreaker is a good icebreaker.

Better than a taser, at least.

 …

 “What on earth is that smell?”

Darcy looks up from the choking clouds of smoke billowing out of the oven, waving an arm to try to waft it out of the way. Lucy’s standing in the doorway with her scarf pulled up over her mouth and nose and both of her eyebrows raised in a look that somehow manages to convey a whole range of emotions, from ‘disappointed and only a little surprised’ all the way to ‘looks into the camera like she’s on The Office’.

“Bread,” Darcy says, in the face of all the evidence. And then, with a last mournful glance into the depths of the oven, “Okay, the artist formerly known as bread. But, I put the fire out.”

“The oven was on fire?!” Lucy asks, her expression going straight to ‘alarmed’, and Darcy coughs into her hand.

“Key word was. Oh, and by the way, we need more baking soda.”

“Do I want to know?”

“You use it to smother oven fires? C’mon, even I knew that.”

Lucy pauses, her expression going carefully blank for a moment. “I don’t…bake at all. Never have.”

“What? Like you don’t even stress bake?”

Lucy’s expression stays blank. “It wasn’t something I was ever encouraged to learn.”

Darcy slams the oven door shut on the last few sad poofs of smoke, straightening up. Forget the aftermath of her bread. This is way more important. “You seriously don’t stress bake? What do you do when somebody makes you so mad you just wanna stab them?”

“Usually, I stab them,” Lucy says, in a voice so dry that Darcy honestly can’t tell if she’s joking.

“Okay,” Darcy says, with a shrug. “But you usually get way less arrested if you take it out on some dough instead.”

“Was that what you were trying to do here?” Lucy asks, waving a hand in front of her face like she can just shoo the smoke away. Funny, for a second it almost seems to be actually working, but then she snorks up a lungful and almost doubles over coughing.

“Oh yeah,” Darcy says. “Professor Doucheface was on his A game today, so I needed something to knead.”

Lucy looks slightly stunned, coming down from her coughing fit, but the ghost of a smile makes its way across her face. “I gather that ‘Professor Doucheface’ is not his given name.”

“Oh, it’s his given name all right. I gave it to him. At the beginning of the semester when he circlejerked about Machiavelli with these two fratbros in the front row for twenty minutes.” Darcy rolls her eyes. One of these days she’s going to figure out how to roll them right back so all you can see are the whites. It’s gonna look so badass. “It was all downhill from there.”

Lucy hums a little in the back of her throat. “Machiavelli made some interesting points.”

“Not you too.” Darcy tries to wave some of the smoke towards the open window. It very much does not work. “I keep forgetting you’re a business student. Is your whole degree just learning how to be an evil mastermind?”

Lucy taps a finger against her chin, thoughtfully. “…it rather is, now that I consider it. But I suppose there are worse things one could be.”

“No offense, but, like what.”

Lucy laughs at that, but it doesn’t escape Darcy’s notice that she doesn’t actually have an answer. Which is not actually surprising. Because seriously.

“All right,” Darcy says, peeking inside the oven and coughing when she gets a faceful of smoke. “I’m gonna clean this out, and then – we’re making chocolate chip cookies.”

 …

 Introducing Lucy to stress baking is probably the best idea Darcy’s ever had, ever. After the first couple of oven fires and garbage batches, there are always freshly-baked sweet treats around the apartment, and it constantly smells delicious. Darcy would worry about Lucy’s mental state if all that baking hadn’t led her to master the chocolate-chip-to-cookie ratio in all its ooey gooey goodness. She’s since moved on to cupcakes, and Darcy has high hopes for Lucy’s buttercream technique.

It’s a couple of weeks later that Darcy comes home and finds the kitchen full of racks upon racks of cookies and cupcakes both. She only pauses long enough to stuff a chocolate-chip cookie in her face before she asks, “Okay, is it your own Professor Doucheface, or something else?”

Lucy doesn’t answer right away, and doesn’t take her eyes off her dough.

After what feels like an entire ice age, she says, “I tried. To recreate a pastry that I remembered from home.” She shakes her head, a long, dark curl falling out of her messy braid. “And I couldn’t.”

Darcy chews on that for a moment as she chews on cookie. “You’re homesick?”

Lucy pauses, tucking the stray lock of hair behind one ear and smearing a white streak of flour along one Morticia Addams cheekbone. She flashes a rueful grin in Darcy’s direction, before going back to almost angrily kneading the ball of dough on the countertop in front of her. “You must think it’s silly. It was my choice to leave, after all, and yet here I am, wallowing.”

Darcy shrugs, leaning over to snag another cookie from the cooling rack. They’re still warm, the chocolate all melty and goopy inside. Heaven. “I dunno. Like, you’re halfway across the world all on your own.” She turns her full attention to separating a particularly sticky chocolate chip from her teeth before saying, “Mostly I’m just surprised because your home sounds like it sucks a fat one.”

Lucy gives a sharp, brittle laugh, and shoves the heels of both hands into the dough with surprising viciousness. She doesn’t talk for a long moment after that, just kneading and kneading and kneading until Darcy has to look away or risk getting hypnotized.

“I get it, though,” she says, ignoring the flat, disbelieving glance Lucy shoots in her direction. “I mean, the farthest I’ve ever been from home was New Mexico, and no offense to Jane or Puente Antigua, but that place sucked.” She demolishes the last bite of cookie, and licks the remnants of chocolate chip from her fingers. Hey, waste not, want not, right? “Although that was at least fifty percent the government’s fault. But! The other half was not having anybody to just hang out with. Jane’s great, don’t get me wrong, but can you say obsessive. Okay, and the internet connection made dialup look like the wave of the future, and you couldn’t get Starbucks without driving three hours, and -”

Lucy’s giving her a blank look. Darcy snags another cookie and waves it dismissively, barely managing to catch the top piece when it unexpectedly breaks in half in her hand. “Point is, we gotta get you out and meet some people. And I guess maybe some decent fish and chips.”

Lucy snorts dismissively at that, her hands rolling back into motion. That bread’s gonna be way overworked, but Darcy figures that’s one she’ll let Lucy figure out for herself.

“Also, it probably wouldn’t kill you to call your mom once in a while,” she says, chomping down on her cookie. How many is that now? Better question, does it matter. They’re best right out of the oven anyway. “I know shit’s weird with your dad and everything, but it sounds like your mom wouldn’t mind knowing you haven’t been eaten by a bald eagle or fallen off Mount Rushmore or whatever. And it sounds like your brother cares about you a lot. Even if he is a doofus.”

Lucy’s face cracks in a big, surprised, unamused grin, and she shakes her head, turning away with a soft huff of laughter.

“My brother cares about the person he wishes me to be,” she says at last, giving the dough another vicious shove.

“You don’t have to talk to him. Just let your mom know you’re not dead, she can pass it on.”

Lucy doesn’t look up from the dough. “I’m not certain it’s a good idea for me to try to contact my family.”

“Really? ‘cause I am,” Darcy says. “Are you worried about the long-distance charges? I know tuition’s higher for international students, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Lucy glares down the dough. “You have no idea what price I paid to be here.”

“I mean, I have some idea,” Darcy says. “You do give me your half of the rent every month.”

Lucy looks up, and then bursts out laughing.

“I like you, Darcy Lewis,” she says, once she’s got herself back under control. “Do you want to apply your flawlessly straightforward logic to every aspect of my life?”

Darcy shrugs. “Point me at the problem. I guarantee you that in twenty-four hours, either the problem’ll be gone, or you’ll have a way bigger, different problem to worry about instead.”

 …

 Lucy still demurs every time Darcy tries to invite her along any time she’s meeting friends, though. By the third or fourth time she makes up some bullshit excuse, Darcy’s starting to get fed up.

So she invites everybody over to the apartment instead.

Lucy comes back from the library somewhere between pizza and wine. She freezes in the doorway with one arm outstretched, overcoat and houndstooth scarf arrested halfway to the hook on the wall. A brief flicker of panic races across her face before she smooths her expression out, hanging up her coat and shaking out her hair.

“Darcy?” she calls, breaking into a broad smile when she catches Darcy’s eye. “Having a few friends over?”

“Yeah, come grab a glass of wine,” Darcy calls back from the living room. “We could use one more for Cards Against Humanity.”

“Cards against…” Lucy echoes, hovering in the entryway. Obviously she’s not going to take the initiative, so Darcy gets up and makes for the kitchen.

“Do they not have Cards Against Humanity in the UK?” Jared asks from the floor beside the coffee table, as Darcy pours out the dregs of a bottle of red into one of the only clean glasses. After a moment’s thought, she tops it off with white. Hey, that’s all rosé is, right?

“Yeah, and actually, what is the difference between the UK, England, and Britain?” Ayesha asks. “I’ve never been able to get it right.”

“Rude,” Darcy says, making her way back into the living room. Lucy’s still standing in the entryway, but her posture doesn’t look quite so stiff anymore, and her shoulders are creeping down from around her ears. Still, she looks awfully relieved when Darcy hands her the novelty plastic cactus-shaped cup of wine. “Nosy here is Ayesha, that’s Jared, strong and silent in the recliner is Vince, and half-passed-out-on-the-couch-already is Rachel. Guys, say hi to Lucy.”

“The practically perfect in every way?” Rachel asks, lifting her head from the hilarious pillow with a picture of a pug in a bedazzled tiara. Lucy’s cheekbones and the tips of her ears go brightly pink, but her grin is wicked.

“Ooh, Darcy. What have you been saying about me.” She takes a sip of her wine, makes a face at it, and then settles herself down on one of the cushions Darcy’s tossed around the coffee table, carefully arranging her pencil skirt. “How do you play this game, then?”

 …

 They add ‘Cards Against Humanity night’ to the roster of apartment traditions. Nobody really seems to mind that Lucy wins almost every time. Beating her is an interesting challenge. Like Rachel says, she makes them get creative.

 …

 They’re catching up on Big Brother highlights when Lucy asks Darcy, “Would you ever audition for one of these shows?”

Darcy snorts. “Thanks, but no thanks. You?”

Lucy narrows her eyes, smiling thoughtfully at the screen. “I think I could win one. The only thing would be convincing the producers I’d be interesting enough to watch.” She turns that grin on Darcy. “You have an advantage there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darcy asks, crossing her arms with a good-natured glare.

Lucy flicks her eyes ceilingward with an expression of affected innocence. “Only that these shows seem to reward distinctive and outsized personalities.”

Darcy mentally translates that into English, then shrugs. “Hey, I’ve been accused of worse. I think.”

Lucy smiles, and says nothing.

“You’d need a gimmick,” Darcy says, watching one of the Big Brother girls hitting another with an inflatable palm tree. “Like…always referring to yourself in the third person, or insisting people call you ‘princess’, or something.”

Lucy’s smile goes a little tight around the edges, but she doesn’t comment.

“No. I don’t think I could stoop to that for any length of time,” she says, at last. “I suppose that’s another plan to cross off the list for once I complete my degree.”

“Do you know what you’re gonna do once you get outta here?” Darcy asks, with a glance over at Lucy. The inflatable palm tree fight got old fast.

Lucy doesn’t take her eyes from the laptop screen. “I thought I did.”

She really knows how to torpedo a mood, Darcy decides.

“Maybe I should audition for a reality show,” she says. “At least you know stuff about running a business. Probably. I mean, I don’t know, you could be failing out.”

Lucy huffs something that’s halfway to a laugh. “I assure you, I’m not failing out.”

“That’s what they all say,” Darcy says, reaching for a handful of popcorn.

Lucy glances in her direction, waiting until Darcy’s got her handful of popcorn before stealing the bowl and settling it into her lap. “What about that – Jane you worked for? Would she hire you back?”

Darcy snorts. Again. “Yeah, sure. If she couldn’t get anybody else.”

Lucy hums in the back of her throat. “Oh, never underestimate the power of being the only option. What were you doing for her, anyway?”

Darcy grimaces. “Making coffee, mostly. She’s an astrophysicist and I…am not.”

“Astrophysics?” Lucy asks, raising an eyebrow, a handful of popcorn apparently forgotten halfway to her mouth. “Now that sounds interesting.”

“Most of it went over my head,” Darcy says. “The wormhole stuff was pretty cool, though.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, but her face is like a big flashing neon sign saying ‘tell me more’. Darcy’s not sure how much she’s actually allowed to say without a bunch of S.H.I.E.L.D. guys rolling up, smashing through all her windows, and whisking her off to some top-secret torture pit, though, so she just says, “Let’s just say science fiction didn’t get it totally wrong, for once.” She takes a sip of her coffee, staring Lucy down. “So what were you planning to do before whatever, and why aren’t you anymore?”

Lucy shakes her head. “Oh, no. Not if you get to leave me on that kind of a cliffhanger.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Okay. Guess we’re just gonna watch Big Brother, then.”

They watch Big Brother.

It’s about seven and a half minutes before Lucy says, slowly, “There is a…family business. My brother is the eldest, we always knew he would inherit, but -” She shakes her head again, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear. “He’s never had much of a head for business. I had assumed I’d be – taken on in a managerial capacity, but with the state of things between me and my family now…”

“See, I’ve never got that,” Darcy says. “Why not just let the person who’s actually good at the thing do the thing?”

“Our father is, unfortunately, something of a traditionalist,” Lucy says.

Darcy rolls her eyes.

“But perhaps it’s all for the best,” Lucy continues, darting a smile in Darcy’s direction. “I’m finding that this really is the land of opportunity. Even if you occasionally have to make your own.”

It’d be a little unfair to leave her hanging after that – even that much of a confession is a lot, coming from tight-lipped Lucy – so Darcy does end up telling her a little about New Mexico. Leaving out the bits about the Men in Black and the buff space aliens, of course.

Lucy’s a good listener – she makes all the right faces at all the right times, and asks relevant questions without interrupting. Darcy actually ends up telling her a little more than she strictly meant to. Although, to be fair to Lucy, Darcy usually ends up telling everybody a little more about everything than she strictly means to. One of these days, she’s gotta get herself a brain-to-mouth filter.

“It sounds as though you enjoyed yourself,” Lucy says, when Darcy finally runs herself out.

“I guess,” Darcy says. “I mean, it kinda stank at the time – literally, it’s hot in New Mexico and Jane’s trailer had the shittiest shower hookup. But it was also kinda an adventure.” She shrugs. “Except the parts where we all nearly died. Jane really needs to learn not to hijack vans to drive directly at tornados.”

Lucy leans forward, setting the popcorn bowl back on the coffee table. “Is Jane still researching these Einstein-Rosen bridges?”

“Think so. She wants to make her own, eventually, but it didn’t sound like that was gonna happen anytime soon. Sounded like she’d need her own nuclear reactor to get enough oomph behind it.”

Lucy nods consideringly. “Well, if she’s still working in that area, you might reach out and see if she needs an assistant.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure. She’s got a couple articles published now. And funding. If she needs an assistant, she’s gonna pick somebody who knows the difference between a quark and a quasar.”

Lucy pouts dramatically at her. “Now, that doesn’t sound like the Darcy I know. Where’s that boundless confidence?”

“Taking a backseat to realism for five minutes? Like I said, I was the only applicant last time.”

“You only need an edge,” Lucy says, like it’s so super easy. “Make yourself stand out from the competition, demonstrate how you are the best candidate. You already have Jane’s confidence, that’s half the battle.” She winks at Darcy before adding, “Of course, you could always simply eliminate the other candidates, but I know your feelings on poison.”

“I’m never totally sure you’re joking when you talk about murder,” Darcy says.

“Because I’m not,” Lucy says, perfectly deadpan. “I am entirely sincere at all times.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna blame the accent.”

“What did you do when you applied the first time?” Lucy asks, going for another handful of popcorn and neatly sidestepping the conversation about her honestly worrying tendency to default to ‘when in doubt, stab them’. No wonder she likes Shakespeare.

“I just emailed Jane with the names and numbers of a bunch of my references,” Darcy says, going for her coffee again. “Like I said. Only applicant.”

The look Lucy gives her is probably the same look she gives to, like, baby animals that trip on their own tails. Like Darcy’s adorable, but only because she’s so pathetic.

“If there’s one thing you learn in business school,” she says, “it’s how to ace a job interview.”

“Excuse you,” Darcy says. “I interview great.”

Lucy says nothing, just looks Darcy up and down and then looks to her left with her eyebrows raised, like there’s a whole lot she could say but she’s politely restraining herself.

“Oh, what,” Darcy says, wiggling back further into the couch and re-crossing her arms. “Don’t give me that discreetly, Britishly rude shit. Spit it.”

A grin slowly sneaks its way across Lucy’s face, and she shakes her head with a laugh. “So forthright. And yet, so perceptive.”

“Well, you were broadcasting…pretty loud and clear,” Darcy points out.

“You’d be amazed what some people fail to pick up on,” Lucy says, half to herself.

“Whatever,” Darcy says. “Lay your wisdom on me, o business major. What’m I doing so obviously wrong?”

Lucy gives her a smile that only turns pitying a little at the end.

“Well, no one could doubt your confidence,” she says. “My only question is how you choose to channel it. I’m sure it’s admirable not to care about the impression one leaves upon others, but when one attempts to take on a new role, that impression is everything.”

Darcy waits, and when no more follows, shrugs.

“You don’t – ah – dress for success,” Lucy says, settling back on the couch with her back against the armrest, so she can look Darcy full in the face as she counts points off on her fingers. “You tend to treat punctuality as though it’s optional. Your forthrightness, while refreshing, could be seen to evidence a lack of tact or forethought – a tendency to charge in without thinking. Which, while a quality many seem to value in their leaders, is not in fact a strategy that frequently yields great success.”

“Unless you’re super buff and hot,” Darcy points out, thinking of Thor.

Lucy rolls her eyes, with a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. As your reality television proves quite handily, a great many rules have their exceptions if you are, as you say, ‘super buff and hot’.”

“Well, I’m already hot,” Darcy says. “So all I gotta do is hit the gym.”

Lucy gives her a flat, disbelieving look. Darcy makes direct eye contact, and flexes one arm, duckfacing before she leans over to kiss her nonexistent bicep.

She’s not sure which of them cracks up first, but she hopes it’s Lucy.

“Is that why you always dress like you’re just stopping in to the office to finish up the Johnson contract?” Darcy asks, when she gets her breath back. “Like, I know suits are required wearing for the business school, but you are allowed to wear, like, jeans or leggings or stuff on Saturdays.”

“I think it’s wise, to require a certain degree of presentation,” Lucy says, primly. “In many cases, the trappings of authority wield as much power as the authority itself. Others’ perception of you, of your legitimacy, is critical to exercising that authority.” She grins, wickedly. “Just ask Macbeth. Or any of the fools demanding your president’s birth video.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Please. Don’t remind me.” She very quickly seizes on the flaw in that logic, though. “But you’re not royalty - no, I know you’re not related to Queen Liz, don’t try that one on me again,” she adds, firmly, and Lucy rolls her eyes ceilingward with an innocent expression. “Or a president, or any other kind of leader of a country. You can get away with wearing jeans every once in a while, it’s not like nobody will ever take you seriously again.”

“So says the woman who wears nothing but jeans,” Lucy says, and then, her eyes crinkling up in a smile, “And has never once in her life been taken seriously.”

Darcy throws the pug pillow at her.

Lucy catches it with the ease of long practice, settling it behind her and making a big show of getting comfortable.

“Only a tiny fraction of a job interview – or, really, of any interaction - is its content. Like it or not, others draw conclusions from how you present yourself,” she says. “You want to present yourself in such a way that they draw the conclusions you wish them to draw.”

She looks at Darcy’s face, and sighs. “You need to learn to smize. But with your clothing, your body language, your choice of words. Smile without your mouth, speak without your words.”

Darcy blinks at her.

“Actually,” she says, “when you put it like that…that makes way more sense than just ‘you’re wearing that?’.”

Lucy gives her a broad, triumphant grin.

“Well,” she says. “If all it takes is a translation into Tyra Banks, there may be hope for you yet.”

Darcy looks around for something else to throw, but there’s nothing close to hand. Instead, she bobs her head in Lucy’s direction with a sarcastic glare. Lucy smiles back angelically.

“Don’t you ever get, like, tired of it, though?” Darcy asks, and Lucy’s smile suddenly goes blank behind the eyes. “I mean, always being on your best behaviour. Always overthinking what other people think of you -”

The smile drops off Lucy’s face so fast Darcy thinks it breaks the sound barrier. She could swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees in ten seconds.

Lucy glares at the laptop for a long, chilly moment before she turns a haughty, challenging look on Darcy. “I do not have the luxury of airing my dirty laundry for the world to see.”

“So you’re just gonna fake it, forever?” Darcy asks, feeling a little sideswiped. This conversation has taken a turn, and she’s not totally sure she likes the direction it’s going now. “That’s stupid.”

“You may try that flawless line of reasoning on my father,” Lucy says coldly.

Darcy shrugs. “I mean, if you’ll pay for my plane ticket. Or, like, call him, ever.”

“You have no idea what it’s been like, the kind of pressure -” Lucy starts, her voice low, her stare intense under lowered brows, but Darcy cuts her off.

“What, you think just because I don’t care what other people think about me, that I don’t notice it? Yeah, I know most people don’t absolutely love it when you just say whatever and never shut up. Total shocker.”

“All the more reason to have a care what face you present to the world.”

Suddenly, Darcy’s irritated, with Lucy, with Lucy’s whole Hamlet act, with the whole stupid world. “Oh, get over yourself. Like I’ve never tried. Do you really think I wouldn’t love to just always know what I’m doing wrong before I do it and be able to turn it off?”

Lucy’s expression softens, subtly, at that. “Believe me when I say I do understand. You’re far from the only one who’s unacceptable to the world the way they are.”

“Who gets to decide what’s ‘acceptable’, anyway? Because I feel like we should find them and like, gag them and toss them in a basement somewhere.” Darcy shakes her head. “I don’t want to pretend I’m something I’m not just to impress some randos. Sooner or later, they always find out I’m, well, me, and then I’ve wasted a bunch of time I could’ve spent watching cat videos. With people who actually like me.”

Darcy’s aware that Lucy’s watching her, very intently, and shrugs again, suddenly embarrassed by how much personal garbage she’s just spewed at a near-stranger. Darcy Lewis’ Lack of Filter strikes again.

“So like…yeah,” she concludes, lamely.

The smile Lucy gives her is a weak imitation of her usual confidence.

“An admirable philosophy, Polonius,” she says, sounding just a little too wistful for the sarcasm to really bite.

“Oh, fuck you,” Darcy sighs, flopping back against the arm of the couch with her arms akimbo, huffing a stray curl out of her face. “Sorry we can’t all be practically perfect in every way.”

There’s a moment of unbelievably glassy silence.

“I’m far from perfect,” Lucy says, quietly, at last.

“Sure,” Darcy says. “I just don’t know it, because I’ve never seen the ‘real’ you. Because you won’t chill out around anybody. And then you’ll get mad and resentful that I don’t get the ‘real’ you and it’ll all end in tears.” She bobs her head back up so she can look Lucy in the face. “Or, you could stop treating your life like it’s a job interview, follow my lead, and dump all your messy, complicated feelings on somebody you’ve known for like a month with no warning.”

Lucy’s face doesn’t change, and Darcy, unable to stop her face from saying words even under the best of circumstances, adds, “Y’know. Like we’re friends.”

The look Lucy gives her is entirely unreadable. Darcy gives it her best effort for maybe ten seconds anyway, then gives up trying.

“Just a suggestion,” she says, as Lucy rises from the couch.

“It’s been a long day,” Lucy says, avoiding eye contact. “And tomorrow will be as well. I’d best turn in.”

“Coward,” Darcy calls after her, as she starts down the hall. “Don’t be afraid of the overshare!”

She considers getting up and grabbing the pug pillow to throw at Lucy again, but decides it seems like too much effort.

 …

 The next morning, Darcy catches Lucy in the kitchen before she leaves for class, which is unusual. Still, Darcy Lewis has never been one to look the proverbial gift horse in its proverbial gift mouth.

“Hey, I’m sorry about last night,” she says, as she pours coffee into her cocoa puffs. “If I was outta line, or stepped over some boundaries…you know.”

Lucy blinks at the bowl of bobbing pale-brown cereal in dark-brown coffee, but says nothing, just passes Darcy the milk so she can add it to her creation.

“I apologise, as well,” she says, at last, with a brief, bright, not-entirely-convincing smile. “Some measure of what you said…touched a nerve.”

“I figured,” Darcy says. “It’s what I do best. Touch nerves, get jobs I’m not qualified for, make killer playlists.”

She meets Lucy’s eyes, and they share a smile.

“I’m not… I don’t share myself the way you do,” Lucy says, at last, turning to the cupboards for a spoon to stir her coffee. “I don’t believe I could, or that I’d wish to. But…”

She pauses to take a long sip of her coffee, the spoon still in it. “This past year, I’ve learned a few things about myself that I…am having difficulty coming to terms with. Things I’m afraid have not provoked a positive response from those I’ve chosen or been obliged to share with. I – it helps, to present myself carefully, to know I have some choice in how others perceive me. To have some measure of control.” Lucy gives the coffee another stir, staring into its spiral. “To be certain they aren’t seeing – certain aspects of myself that I’d prefer not to exist.”

“Wait,” Darcy says, trying to shuffle all of those pieces into order in her mind. “You’re insecure about your appearance?”

Over the top of her coffee mug, Lucy skewers her with a glare.

“Yeah, okay, fair. I guess it was a shitty thing to say anyway.”

Lucy turns her stare down into her coffee. “Perhaps this does make me a coward.”

“What? No way,” Darcy says. “It’s smart. Just, like, as a sometimes thing. Did you miss the part where I said if I could pretend to be a normal person, I would?”

“You shouldn’t,” Lucy says. “If you could, you wouldn’t be Darcy.”

Darcy bites her bottom lip.

“Thanks,” she says. “I think.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lucy says, smoothly, a mischievous smile starting to play around her lips. “Take it as a compliment.”

Darcy aims a kick in her direction, which misses by a mile, then settles down to eat her cereal experiment.

“Well, this is terrible,” she says, a few bites in.

“I honestly don’t know what you expected,” Lucy says.

 …

 Professor Doucheface isn’t at the front of the class one afternoon not long after that. The smiling woman who’s taken his place explains that he’s taken a leave of absence and will be back when he’s back, which might not be before the end of the semester.

Darcy cracks a bottle of wine as soon as she gets home and hauls Lucy out of her room to do a toast with her. And then do karaoke with her. She’s pretty sure Lucy’s big, smug grin is just her being happy for Darcy, but still. It’s nice to see her smile.

She sucks at karaoke, though. Doesn’t know any of the words.

 …

  When Jane turns up at the apartment, it’s Lucy who answers the door. Darcy’s in her room working very hard, thank you, on a presentation about the Euro crisis using ‘Call Me Maybe’ as a learning aid. So she can’t really be blamed if she doesn’t hear the first time Lucy knocks on her door. Or the second. Or the third.

When Darcy finally ventures forth on a quest for snackage, Jane and Lucy are both sitting in the living room, Jane holding forth about some science-y thing, complete with hand gestures, while Lucy looks fascinated and occasionally nods encouragingly. She’s either the best polite listener in the history of polite listeners, or she’s actually interested in this wormhole stuff.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were into astrophysics,” Darcy says, when Jane pauses for breath, and both Jane and Lucy turn to look at her with identical guilty expressions. Darcy can’t help but laugh. “Oh my god, you guys should see yourselves. You look like my mom’s dog when she shredded the cat’s catnip mouse. The cat loved it, though. She was trippin’ for hours.”

Now they’re both kind of looking blank. Jane shakes it off first. “I do actually need to talk to you, Darcy.”

“Hit me,” Darcy says, collapsing onto the couch beside her.

Jane doesn’t move, but her eyes dart in Lucy’s direction. “Do you want to go grab a coffee or something?”

“Ah,” Lucy says, looking from Jane to Darcy and back again. “I have plenty of studying to do. I’ll be in my room.” She pushes herself up from the armchair, smoothing down her skirt – a super cute A-line that Darcy would never wear but that totally works on somebody as tall and bony as Lucy. “Thank you, Dr. Foster, I found our conversation most…enlightening.”

“Oh, please, call me Jane,” Jane says, standing up herself and sticking out her right hand. Lucy blinks at it for half a second before taking it and giving it a very professional shake, with a brilliant smile. Darcy can’t help but notice that the height difference between them is hilarious. She always forgets how tiny Jane is. “Always a pleasure to meet young people with an actual interest in my field.” The look Jane gives Darcy is a little too fond to be a glare.

“Hey, I have an actual interest in your field,” Darcy argues. “I’m very interested in the easy science credits it bagged me.”

“ ‘Easy’ science credits?” Jane says, in mock disbelief, as Lucy heads down the hallway. “I seem to recall somebody saying she refused to die for six college credits…”

Lucy’s bedroom door shuts with a solid thunk, and Jane waits a couple of minutes before turning back to Darcy. Minutes? Probably seconds. Minutes are always longer than Darcy thinks. Or shorter, depending on the day and whether people are talking. “I know I only met her once, but I thought your roommate was…shorter. And less British.”

“Oh yeah. Melissa. She totally flaked on me while you and I were out playing X-Files in the desert,” Darcy says. “Lucy’s doing an exchange…thing. So what’s up?”

“Do you have something lined up for after graduation?” Jane asks.

“Depends. Do you still want to pay me in college credits?”

Jane rolls her eyes. “No. I actually have a budget now, thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D., but it’s been hell on wheels trying to get somebody cleared to come work for me. They want it to be all ‘need-to-know’. But they need to know!”

“What about Selvig?” Darcy asks. Her stomach chooses this unfortunate moment to remind her why she came out of her room in the first place, and she furiously thinks at it to be cool. She might have an actual job lined up if she plays her cards right, here. One where she can goof off for money and gorgeous men literally rain from the sky. No way she’s letting a little Oreo craving get between her and that.

Jane shakes her head. “There’s some mystery project the director’s apparently been courting him for. Even if he’d want to, he doesn’t have time to run around after me chasing storms.”

“Ooh, mystery project,” Darcy says. “That sounds prestigious. And expensive. D’you think he’s hiring?”

Jane gives her a flat look. “They won’t even tell me what it is. No way they’re letting you within a hundred feet of it.”

Darcy shrugs. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Just wanna know what my options are, in case I decide to play hardball.” She considers it a moment. Not so long ago, Darcy would’ve jumped – well, okay, not jumped, casually agreed to, nobody who’s built like Darcy does much jumping – at the opportunity. But not so long ago, Darcy had not had a business major for a roommate. Lucy’s taught her a thing or two about negotiating and knowing her worth. Pretty much all of which she’s throwing out the window right now, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. “How much can you pay me, anyway?”

Jane names a figure. Darcy chokes on her own spit.

“Do you need me to drop out and start now?” she asks, when she can breathe like a normal person again. “ ‘cause I can drop out and start now.”

Jane huffs a soft laugh. “Finish your degree. I’m sure I’ll burn through the last few S.H.I.E.L.D. lab techs who’re willing to put up with me, and the spot’ll be open for you to step into before you even take off the cap and gown.”

“How sure?” Darcy asks, because, well, she doesn’t want Lucy to have had to break her best job interview tips down into pieces of Tyra’s advice for nothing. “Do I get, like, something to sign? Anything in writing?”

Jane actually laughs this time. “Yes. That’s why I didn’t just call. Well, that and the possibility of wiretaps.” She reaches down by her feet for the brown canvas messenger bag Darcy hadn’t really paid much attention to. “There’s, uh, a formal offer…”

Her smile turns apologetic, and Darcy just has time to feel a wave of the ominouses build over her before Jane pulls out a stack of printer paper an inch and a half thick. “And, uh, a couple of non-disclosure agreements. Oh, and a background check. And another background check, except this one’s off the record, because it’s being done technically illegally by a defected Soviet spy.”

“You’re joking, right,” Darcy says.

Jane gives her a smile that’s half a wince, and a pen.

 …

 By the time Lucy pops back out of her room in search of dinner, Darcy’s wrist aches something fierce, to match the throb behind her eyes from all the tiny, tiny, extremely important print, and she’s pretty sure the index finger on her right hand is never going to be the same again. But none of that matters, because Darcy Lewis Has A Job.

“Right out of school!” she crows, shaking out her hand. “How about that, Mom? Oh, and, there’s science in poli-sci, so, like, it’s even using my major. Using half my major. Does that count?”

Lucy looks at her over the mug of tea she’s just poured herself. “For purposes of proving your parent wrong? Oh, absolutely.”

“What?” Darcy says, and then remembers Lucy’s life across the pond is a soap opera. “Oh, no, my mom just – she was worried. Poli-sci was my…third? Third major in two years. She really wanted me to make my mind up, or at least pick something that would guarantee I wouldn’t be moving back in with her after graduation. She’ll be so super proud.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, just blows softly across the surface of her tea and kind of stares into the middle distance.

“You know what this calls for?” Darcy says, before the buzz can get any more killed. “Champagne. Lots of champagne.”

Lucy focuses back on her, quirking an eyebrow up with a hint of a smirk. “Job offer or not, you still can’t afford champagne.”

“Nope,” Darcy says, popping the ‘p’. “But I can afford fizzy wine, and I can’t tell the difference.”

 …

 “Gotta ask,” Darcy says, as they stand in the walk-in cooler, staring at the bottles of prosecco, “does your family really suck that much? Because I’m gonna feel like a real asshole for trying to make you phone your mom.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just studying the glass bottles on the shelf in front of her. Maybe it’s the coat (it’s a nice coat, really thick and heavy, as Darcy learned when she had to pick it up every time it fell off the hooks by the door), or the scarf, or maybe Lucy’s just naturally cold-blooded, but she hasn’t shivered yet. Darcy, on the other hand, wore a spring jacket and is regretting it.

“I wouldn’t say, ‘suck’,” Lucy says, at last, slowly.

“No, you’d say, like, ‘bollocks’ or something,” Darcy says, stuffing her hands in her pockets. Lucy’s face unfreezes, and she darts a bright grin in Darcy’s direction, though there’s still something sad around her eyes.

“I like you, Darcy,” she says. “But unfortunately, not everything is so simple as you like to think.”

Darcy shrugs, without taking her hands out of her pockets. “I dunno. Sometimes people just make things complicated for themselves.”

They spend another quiet moment studying the fizzy wine, before Darcy shakes out her hands with a puff of breath. “Okay, do you actually have an opinion on what we drink, or are you just trying to avoid talking to me? Because if it’s the second one, I’m picking the cheapest bottle and getting out of here. I’m freezing.”

“Oh,” Lucy says, like she forgot they were standing in a refrigerator, and then reaches up and grabs a bottle of prosecco that is pretty clearly not the cheapest bottle on the shelf. “Here. I’ll treat.”

Darcy watches her suspiciously. “I thought you were broke.”

“Not so broke that I’ll drink that barely-alcoholic swill you call fizzy wine, thank you,” Lucy says primly, and Darcy can’t help but laugh.

“Thanks,” she says, once they’re through the checkout and back out on the sidewalk, Lucy pressing the bag holding their prosecco into her hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Lucy gives her a smile that’s just a little unsettling. “I should be thanking you, Darcy. You’ve done more for me than you know.”

Darcy squirms internally under the attention. “We’re roommates. We do roommate stuff. Nothing special.”

Lucy bobs her head back and forth, like she doesn’t agree but she won’t come right out and object. “You opened your home to me. You’ve shown me hospitality above and beyond what was required of you. I won’t forget it.”

Darcy shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, don’t mention it. But if I’m ever in London and need a place to crash -”

Lucy’s smile is brilliant. “Oh, I expect that if you’re ever in London, you’ll look me up. I’ll take you out for fish and chips and we can tour the Tower.”

“Haunted murder prison. Sounds like a blast,” Darcy says. “You better take me on that giant Ferris wheel, too. I promise not to barf on anybody this time.”

Lucy blinks at her. “ ‘This time’?”

 …

 Exam season hits them both hard. Darcy spends a lot of time in the coffee shop, loading up on espressos in a desperate bid to keep herself awake after the string of all-nighters she’s pulled. Lucy practically moves into the library. Darcy doesn’t see her except in the apartment doorway, once, when she’s grabbing some books for class, and even then it’s only for long enough to say ‘hi’ and then ‘bye’ again.

Jane calls about a week and a half, maybe two weeks after Darcy signs the unbearable stack of documents. For one horrifying second, Darcy thinks the ex-Soviet spy turned up some dreadful, sordid thing in her family history and she’s not getting the job after all. But Jane doesn’t even mention the job. She barely even says hello. “Have you heard from Erik? I’ve been trying to get in touch, but he’s not answering his phone. Or his emails.”

“You did say he’s working on some top-secret classified mystery thing,” Darcy points out. “If I had to sign that many NDAs, I bet they’re taking no chances on him blabbing.”

“I know, it’s just – it’s not like him,” Jane says, and her worry’s a little bit contagious, even through the phone. “Wouldn’t he have warned somebody if he was going to have to go dark? Warned me?”

“Jane. C’mon,” Darcy says. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

“Darcy,” Jane says, shortly. “You were there when he told us about his friend.”

“Yeah, but S.H.I.E.L.D. did that,” Darcy counters. “The people who hired him. Who vanishes their own employees?”

“People like S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Jane says grimly. “Let me know if you hear from him, all right?”

“Well, if he’s not talking to you, the chances of him friending me on Facebook or whatever are pretty low.”

“Darcy,” Jane sighs, “just say, ‘Yes, Jane’.”

“Yes, Jane,” Darcy parrots into the phone.

 …

 It’s been almost another week, almost a week since the last time she saw Lucy. Darcy’s holed up in her favourite campus coffeeshop, nursing her fourth – fifth? – latte of the afternoon, when the TV silently playing old episodes of Friends cuts to a news break.

It’s a short clip, repeating over and over. Some dude who looks more like an extremely glam pop star in a ridiculous costume than anything, and at first, with the sound off, that’s what Darcy thinks it is. Some dude trying to get in on the Gaga-Katy Perry weird costume trend. Looks like he might be singing to a big crowd in an outdoor arena. He’s really givin’ it, if the face he’s making is anything to go by. Probably a high E or something. The blue spotlight they’ve got on him is not flattering.

It’s about time the weird costume trend took off for dudes, if you ask Darcy. If she has to see another candy-shaped bra, she’s gonna throw up in her mouth.

She’s turning back to her textbooks when something makes her look back up. Some nagging feeling in the back of her head, like there’s something she should be remembering. She’s seen a tacky horned helmet like that before. Somewhere.

The dude in the costume doesn’t really look like he’s singing anymore, either. The camera zooms shakily towards his face, and Darcy’s forced to admit that most pop stars don’t glower at their audiences quite so much. It’s a crappy, glitchy feed, and the moment the guy makes eye contact with the camera, it washes out in a haze of electric blue. But it’s still long enough for Darcy to get an eyeful of pale, pretty, and pointy.

She’s seen a face like that somewhere, too. Recently.

“Oh,” Darcy mutters into her latte, and finally settles on, “shit.”

 …

 “Hi, this is Dr. Jane Foster -”

“Jane?” Darcy tries not to yell into the phone. “Listen, I need to know how far you are into getting this bridge thing working -”

“I’m unable to come to the phone right now,” Jane’s voice continues, blithely, “but leave your name and number at the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

“Dammit, Jane, are you screening your calls? That’s a new level of paranoia, even for you,” Darcy says, over the beep. “Come on! It’s me! It’s Darcy! Pick up!”

Jane does not pick up. All Darcy gets is a dirty look from everyone within earshot. Including the librarian.

“Is there something I can help you find?” she asks, pointedly. Obviously she’s just trying to embarrass Darcy into shutting up and going away, because she looks a little startled when Darcy hangs up her phone and pockets it, stomping up to the desk like a woman on a mission. Which she is.

“Yeah, actually, there is,” Darcy says, leaning heavily against the counter and making aggressive eye contact with the librarian. “I need everything you’ve got on Norse mythology.”

The librarian looks startled for a moment, before her expression turns professional again. She turns to her computer, taps a few keys on her keyboard, glancing briefly up at Darcy. “Okay, so all our translations of the Eddas are checked out right now, but there are a few interpretive texts available, and some articles -”

“Don’t you have, like, a ‘Norse Mythology for Dummies’?” Darcy asks, and the librarian gives her a look that clearly says she, the librarian, knows Darcy is going to fail whatever class this is for.

“Try the education library,” she says.

 …

 The education library is full of children’s books. Darcy would be insulted, except that she finds the exact book Selvig had brought back to show her and Jane, wedged on a shelf between a fat picture book on Greek mythology and the gold spine of Egyptology. Darcy pauses a moment to let a flood of fond memories pass over her – hey, any book that was shiny gold and had a big plastic gem stuck in the front cover was the coolest ever when you were, like, twelve – before pulling out the book on Norse mythology and finding herself a table. Thankfully, the furniture is all scaled for adult-sized people.

Darcy slams the book open, flipping past the sections on Yggdrasil and the nine realms, pausing briefly on the pages about Thor, before she finally finds what she was looking for. The illustration’s…weasellier-looking than she remembers, the face way pointier, but that is definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the helmet she’d just seen on TV.

Darcy shakes her head, turning her attention to the text that goes with the image. The book’s laid out more like an encyclopedia than a storybook, which is good, because right now Darcy just needs as much information as possible in as little time as possible.

She’s just about finished reading the section when her phone rings. It’s Jane, sounding almost frantic. “Darcy! What’s going on, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Darcy says, and Jane lets out a sigh that’s one part relief, two parts frustration.

“Then what was the panicky phone message about?”

“Panicky? On what planet?”

“Darcy, you were already talking when the recording started, and you just kept yelling at me to pick up. I thought you were being abducted.”

Darcy thinks back to the phone call, and is forced to admit Jane has a point. “I’m okay,” she says. “Aside from the part where I might be sharing an apartment with a homicidal Norse god.”

Jane’s end of the line goes dead silent.

“Jane?” Darcy asks.

“No,” Jane says, and then, like she’s warming up, “No, the bridge still isn’t working, they couldn’t -”

“Jane,” Darcy repeats, interrupting before Jane can really get going. “Checked the news lately?”

She can almost hear Jane deflate through the phone.

“Why wouldn’t he have contacted me?” she says, in this terrible small voice that Darcy feels a wash of secondhand embarrassment just listening to. “If he could get through, why not -”

“Jane,” Darcy says, a third time. “Focus.”

Jane seems to remember she has an audience. She clears her throat, dropping the pitch of her voice. Darcy can picture her, easily, shutting her eyes and shaking her head as she pulls herself together. “What do you mean, sharing an apartment?”

“I mean, how much did you tell Lucy about generating Einstein-Rosen bridges?” Darcy says. “Also, how loud were we talking about Selvig’s big break?”

“Not – I mostly kept to the theory, you know I signed a few non-disclosures of my own – Darcy, what -”

“I’m just asking,” Darcy says, drumming her fingers against the little weaselly illustration. “Because from what I’ve been reading, people tend to just, like, tell Loki stuff if he asks while he’s shapeshifted into a woman.”

There’s another, longer pause.

“No,” Jane says, again.

Darcy nods, before remembering Jane can’t see her. “Kinda think so. I know I should’ve been worried when she turned up so conveniently after Melissa flaked, but I just thought she was gonna skin me and wear my face over her face or something like that.”

Jane pauses again before she speaks, but it doesn’t somehow sound so heavy. “Did I know how graphic your imagination was when I first hired you?”

“Only applicant, remember?” Darcy says. “Look, it all lines up. The family drama, the my brother spent some time here and he believes it did him a world of good, the accent, the way she keeps just disappearing at really weird times for hours or days at a time – I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen her in a classroom or with a textbook – and she doesn’t know anything about music. Or get cold like a normal person, and there’s something here about…frost giants? Also, one of his nicknames is ‘Sky-Walker’, and apparently, in like Norwegian, that ‘oh’ in his name should be an ‘oo’ -”

“Darcy,” Jane says, firmly. “Breathe.”

“I am totally breathing,” Darcy protests. “Look, after you offered me the job, she bought us a bottle of sparkling wine and thanked me really cryptically and I basically haven’t seen her since. And in that time, Selvig’s dropped off the map, and a supervillain calling himself Loki who could be her fraternal twin pops up and starts chewing German scenery in a helmet that looks exactly like the one in this book.” Darcy sits back in her chair, bouncing off the back. “Also, I told her about this professor who was a total pain in my ass, and like two weeks later he was on leave for ‘undisclosed reasons’ and he still hasn’t come back.”

“This…could all be a coincidence,” Jane says, lamely.

“Oh yeah. Same way that weird homeless guy you kept hitting with your car showing up inside that storm was all a coincidence,” Darcy says. “Oh, my god. I’ve been watching ANTM highlights with a supervillain.”

“Okay, stay calm,” Jane says, in a voice that does absolutely nothing to make Darcy feel any more calm. “Does she know you know?”

“Are you kidding? I didn’t even put it together until, like, twenty minutes ago. God! I ate her chocolate-chip cookies!”

“Is she with you? Do you think you’re in any immediate danger?” Jane asks, being infuriatingly reasonable for somebody who was helpless with heartbreak not five minutes ago.

“No,” Darcy admits. “I don’t think so. Oh, shit!”

“What?” Jane gasps.

Darcy groans. “Left my taser at the apartment.”

 …

 Darcy stays late at the coffee shop, reluctant to go back to the apartment. Sure, she hasn’t seen Lucy in weeks and has no reason to think that’s going to suddenly change. And sure, nothing she’s read makes it sound like the god who might be her roommate can read minds. There’s no way, even if she did run into Lucy, that Lucy would be able to tell that Darcy knows.

Except for the part where she’s the literal god (goddess?) of lies and Darcy’s a mediocre actress at best. Yep. No way she’s gonna notice anything’s different. Or anything.

Fuck. Darcy is so, so screwed.

When the coffee shop closes and kicks her out, Darcy migrates to the library. When the library closes and kicks her out, Darcy complains very loudly that they aren’t staying open 24/7 for exam season. Her one-woman protest has absolutely no effect whatsoever.

Darcy stands on the sidewalk outside the library doors, shivering in the chilly night air, and wonders if one of her friends would let her crash at their place overnight. She considers it for a minute before realizing that just figuring out how to ask would probably end up making things even more complicated than they already are.

Finally, Darcy decides she’s cold enough, tired enough, and grumpy enough to take her chances heading back to the apartment. So what if Lucy’s there? So is her taser.

“Tased a Norse god once,” Darcy mutters, under her breath, as she slouches determinedly towards the bus depot, hoping they haven’t stopped running for the night as well. “Can do it again.”

By the time she gets back to the apartment, Darcy’s so wound up that she jumps involuntarily when she opens the door. But there’s nothing to freak out about. Lucy’s coat isn’t hanging on the hooks by the door, which is a sure sign that she’s still out. Darcy wonders, for half a second, where she is if the library’s closed, and then feels incredibly stupid.

“Supervillainy. Right,” she says, into the empty apartment, tossing her coat in the general direction of the hooks. She double-checks the lock on the apartment door, brushes her teeth and washes her face, and then very carefully locks herself in her bedroom. After a moment’s consideration, she wedges her deskchair under the handle, too.

It takes Darcy a very long time to fall asleep.

 …

 She’s woken at some ungodly hour by a crash that has her leaping up out of bed, half-convinced somebody’s trying to break down her door. It takes Darcy a moment to boot her brain up out of sleep mode and realise it was just the chair falling over.

 …

 It takes another panicked phone call from Jane before Darcy remembers she was supposed to check in when she got home last night. She only just manages to talk Jane down from calling in S.H.I.E.L.D., which might seem a little crazy at first blush, but makes a lot of sense if you think about it. Yeah, okay, so maybe Darcy’s been living with the Big Bad of the week, but she doesn’t actually know that for sure, and it’s not like she has any useful information about any nefarious plans, and said Big Bad hasn’t even been around lately, and – look, it just doesn’t seem like a good idea. Darcy’s keeping an eye on the news, and it looks like they’ve got it under control. They don’t need Jane and Darcy butting in. They’re handling it.

Plus, she really, really doesn’t want her iPod confiscated again.

Darcy’s been walking on eggshells all day, jumping at every little noise, before she finally decides she’s done. She’s over it. Either her roommate is a homicidal extraterrestrial, or she isn’t. Either she’s going to totally murder Darcy and wear her skin like a – okay, she’s overusing that one. Either she’s going to totally murder Darcy and use her skull as a drinking horn or whatever, or she isn’t. And either way, there’s not a whole lot Darcy can do about it. So worrying about it like this is pointless.

What would be less pointless would be finding out 1) whether Lucy really is secretly an evil alien god, and 2) if she is, what to do about it.

 …

 To: lucy

From: darcy

house rule #3: if ur a supervillian u have 2 tell me.

 Read at 5:47 PM

 …

 It isn’t even a full day later that the Chitauri attack New York.

 …

 Darcy gets home from the library late, on purpose, though she doesn’t really expect to find Lucy there after the day’s top news stories. The apartment’s dark when she swings the door open, and gets darker when she slams the door behind her, blocking out the light from the hall.

Darcy slouches into the kitchen without turning on a light, throwing open the fridge instead. After staring blankly into its cold white glow for what feels like half an hour but is most likely less than five minutes, and still not having the secrets of the universe or of what she wants to eat revealed unto her, she shuts the door again and turns toward the hall and her bedroom.

“Darcy.”

Darcy is not too ashamed to admit that she screams like a little girl. She jumps backwards, fumbling for her taser, at the sound of a voice from the pitch-dark mouth of the hall.

The hall light blooms to life, revealing Lucy standing by the lightswitch. Under the circumstances, this is not actually a reassuring sight.

“Holy shit, you scared the pee out of me,” Darcy gasps, and Lucy’s eyes crinkle up at the corners in an apologetic smile. “Don’t lurk dramatically in the shadows like that, you’re gonna give somebody a heart attack.”

“I was waiting for you,” Lucy says, which is also not very reassuring, under the circumstances. Darcy’s questing fingers find her taser tucked into the pocket of her jacket, and close over it. “I wanted to talk.”

“You could’ve just texted me back,” Darcy points out.

“In person,” Lucy says.

“Great,” Darcy’s traitor mouth says. “Great, nothing about that sounds unnecessarily ominous, or anything.”

Lucy huffs a soft laugh, turning her face away from Darcy for a moment. Darcy can’t read her expression through the shadows the hall light casts over her eyes and the curtain of dark hair that falls in front of her face.

“I have the feeling,” she says, her eyes flicking in Darcy’s direction, bright even in shadow, “that you suspect I’m keeping something from you.”

“What?” Darcy laughs, nervously. “Why would you think that?”

“Possibly the fact that you’re right.” Lucy’s voice is wry, her mouth twisted in a smile, but all Darcy can see in her eyes is fear. “Darcy…I’ve lied to you.”

So this is happening. Darcy makes herself breathe at a normal human person rate. All things considered, she feels like she’s doing pretty good keeping her cool here. Like, sure, okay, she was totally chill around Thor, but she also never really got the vibe that he might stab her if she looked at him funny. And, as far as Darcy knows, he never actually has stabbed anybody for looking at him funny. So there’s that.

Lucy takes a deep breath, meeting Darcy’s eyes with an expression half steely resolve, half unspoken regret. “I’m not really a business student.”

“Yeah,” Darcy says, her heart hammering in her throat, fingers curling tighter around the reassuring shape of the taser in her pocket. “I know.”

Lucy’s head snaps up, eyes going wide. “You know? But – I was so careful -”

Darcy makes a face. “Were you, though?”

Lucy – Loki? - looks away again, with a soft huff that’s almost a laugh. “No. I suppose I wasn’t.” There’s that strange wistfulness in her voice again as she says, “I did everything – everything – to try to impress my father, became everything he wanted, and it was never enough. I suppose…deep down, I wanted someone to see through the lie. To know. And not to care. Who – and what – I truly am.”

She turns back to Darcy, her smile wide and white and, for once, purely and genuinely happy.

“I’m a thespian,” she says.

Darcy blinks at her.

“Sorry, run that one by me again,” she says, sticking her pinkie into her ear and giving it a good wiggle.

Lucy’s still grinning ear to ear. “I’ve changed my major. You were right, Darcy. ‘To thine own self be true’. I’ve spent my life living for other people, but I have to live with the choices I make. It’s time I did something for myself.”

“So you’re…going into theatre,” Darcy says, slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Have gone into theatre,” Lucy says. “I changed my major after that night, when we talked. I’m in theatre arts now. I’m going to be an actress.”

“I,” Darcy says, and realizes that, for the first time in a very long time, she, Darcy Lewis, is at a loss for words. “Uh.”

Lucy’s expression doesn’t really change, but her jaw sets in trembling defiance. “You think I’m foolish.”

“What? No, I was just expecting something a little more mythological.”

Lucy frowns at her, Darcy’s perceived rejection apparently forgotten in confusion. “Sorry?”

“Nothing. Forget I said that.” Darcy blinks a few more times, and then manages, “Congratulations, though. You’re the most dramatic person I know, it’s a perfect fit.”

“Well, that’s still a more positive response than my father had when he learned of my intentions to drop business school,” Lucy says, her eyes shining, but some genuine humour in the quirk of her mouth. “Thank you. I don’t know if I’d’ve found the courage without you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Wow,” Darcy says, suddenly feeling extremely guilty about suspecting her of being an alien supervillain. “Uh, thanks.”

Lucy’s smile falters, and she looks down at her feet. “Now, though, I suppose I shall have to break the news to my family. With the semester over, at least they can’t threaten to cut me off again.”

“Well,” Darcy manages, mentally shoving her thoughts off the rail they’d been on and onto a parallel set of tracks. “You already seem happier. If your family really cares about you, they’ll see that and be happy for you too.”

“My theatre final is a one-act stageplay,” Lucy says. “It’s tomorrow night at the campus theatre. I’d like for you to come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Darcy says.

  …

 The play is…all right. As plays go. It’s all about adults having Serious Conversations, which is so not Darcy’s scene. Give her elaborate costumes and musical numbers any day.

Lucy’s good, though. Especially compared to some of the other actors on the stage. She has a real talent, able to go from weepy to icy on a dime.

Darcy tells her as much after the curtain closes, when she brings a bundle of grocery-store chrysanthemums up to the stage in congratulations. Lucy’s smile practically glows. She’s totally in her element, and Darcy kind of feels like anybody’d be stupid to try to keep her away from the stage.

She goes with Lucy to the airport, when Lucy leaves a few days later. It’s kind of bittersweet, and Darcy can’t totally deny getting a little misty as they swap contact details outside of the lineup for international security.

“You better mail me a London Bridge keychain,” Darcy says, and Lucy laughs.

“Done.” She looks over towards the line winding slowly through the security checkpoint, then glances at the time on her phone, before turning back to Darcy. “Darcy, I need to thank you again.” She musters up a watery smile. “I know I was something of a handful. But you took me as I came, tried to make me feel welcome in an unfamiliar place, drew me out of myself, treated me as a friend… I won’t forget that. I won’t forget you.”

“Hey, I’m not going to forget you either,” Darcy says, with 100% unpasteurized honesty. “You definitely made my last semester interesting.” She pauses to give it 0.2 seconds of thought, and then decides, yeah. “It was fun.”

Lucy’s smile grows wider, more confident. “ ‘Interesting’ is certainly the word. But…yes. It was fun.”

She casts one more glance over at the security lineup, before she says, “You know, you’ll probably laugh. But for a short while there, I was afraid that you might be involved in the attack on New York.”

Darcy manages not to choke on her own spit, but it’s a near miss. “Say what?”

Lucy shrugs. “You’d always make these cryptic comments about aliens and how terribly the government treated you and whatnot, and then hastily change the subject if I pressed you. And you and your Dr. Foster were both so secretive about her work, but I knew it was in regards to wormholes to other galaxies – and that your Dr. Foster apparently regularly broke the law and had little to no regard for human life, if the stories about the van were anything to go by. What was I meant to think when I didn’t see you for a week and then the news was suddenly full of reports of a wormhole opened in New York to let an alien invasion force through?”

Darcy considers this for a moment.

“Also,” Lucy adds, “you put coffee in your cocoa puffs, which is not the act of a sane and rational human being.”

“Okay, that was one time,” Darcy says.

Lucy does that extremely irritating eyebrow thing that means she doesn’t believe that for a minute.

Darcy decides to let it slide. “You actually thought I helped organize an alien invasion? I can’t even organize my iTunes library.”

Lucy shrugs. “Every good mad scientist needs an Igor.”

Darcy shoves her, hard, in the arm, and Lucy bursts into laughter.

They push back and forth for a bit before Lucy looks at her phone again, and grimaces. “I’ve only got an hour. I should go.”

“Right,” Darcy says. “Well, if I’m ever in London…”

Lucy nods. “If you’re ever in London.”

Darcy’s not sure who starts it. All she knows is that all of a sudden she and Lucy are hugging, her face kind of awkwardly mashed against Lucy’s chest. Good grief, she’s tall.

The hug only lasts a second or two, and then Lucy is off, dragging her rolling carry-on behind her, glancing back only once to wave goodbye.

Darcy flashes her the peace sign, and watches her as she goes through a few turns of the slow-moving security line.

Then she feels like it’s getting kind of weird, and wanders off to find a Starbucks.

 …

 …

 some time later

 “Darcy, you don’t – I can’t afford for you to have your own intern! I can barely afford you!”

“It’s okay,” Darcy says, for like the fourteen millionth time. “Ian’s working for experience. Besides, he’s a friend. Friend of a friend.”

Jane sighs, shaking her head.

“So long as I don’t have to pay him,” she says. “And so long as he’s not – I don’t know, secretly a spy or a supervillain in disguise trying to steal or sabotage my research.”

Darcy snorts.

“Please,” she says. “If one of my friends was secretly a supervillain, I would definitely know.”

[worddevdealswithml]

The Prince’s Bride

Chapter 2:  Pain and Abduction

“When the horse arrives, the insignia will give Gabriel ample reason to say that the very people he’s trying to marry his son off to have abducted his son.  When he catches and supposedly kills the mercenaries stealing him away, in their territory, there’ll be no denying that they were trying to steal him.  All the evidence he needs to start a war, or, well, blackmail them into silence.”

The next two years passed as a living agony for Adrien.

Two of the people he cared for most in the world were gone, and his father…

Father had always been distant, eternally busy with the business of running an entire kingdom, but ever since Mother had died, he’d barely even been seen, always away with Nathalie, or secreted away, working on who knew what.  Even Nathalie, who had previously at least been present, was gone most of the time, running errands that she was never willing to explain.

Adrien only had a few hints regarding the strange fervor in his father’s actions.  The small packages that arrived occasionally, which he recognized as the boxes that Miraculouses were usually stored in; he knew that all but the most lackluster of Miraculouses were incredibly expensive, usually only acquired by inheritance, bloodshed, or the offer of a great deal of money.

His father didn’t have many relatives to inherit from, so Adrien could only hope that he had simply become a collector to keep his mind off of what had happened to his wife, through legitimate means.

Even that wouldn’t explain why the urge had overtaken him with such strength.

Adrien, already half-despairing, was only forced deeper into the state when his father had informed him that he was pursuing a match between Adrien and the princess of The Gilded Kingdom, which was their rather contentious neighbor across the sea.

He should have been glad; The Gilded Kingdom was remarkably rich, and generally considered one of the more powerful in the area.  They were even known for having a Miraculous carried in the royal family; a single cut from the blade of its wielder could freeze even the strongest warrior in their tracks, and it was widely regarded as one of the more powerful Miraculouses.

By all accounts, this marriage would secure their position, financially and politically.

But for Adrien, still bleeding over the loss of Marinette, there was no comfort.  All he knew was that he could promise nothing of his own wellbeing if he was truly to be wed to someone when the only person he could imagine loving was dead.

And, though he knew it was pointless, he couldn’t help wanting to get away from the castle, away from the future that he knew he couldn’t truly avert.

The particularly suspicious observer might have taken notice of the fact that the day Gabriel finally let his son return to the farm he’d kept him away from for so long was the same day he told Nathalie to recruit a few quiet workers to do a bit of work for him.

But… Any such observer either didn’t exist, or didn’t think to tell Adrien.

...

Adrien had little respite from his own mind, except for riding his horse, which meant that he’d become known for it in the village nearby… That, and purchasing significant supplies of breads and pastries from Marinette’s parents; he’d always associated Marinette with the smell of bread, and every time he walked in, he could imagine, for a second, that she would be in there, waiting for him.  And… Even if she wasn’t, he could at least stay for a time, and talk to her parents.

They’d made it clear that they didn’t blame him for her leaving, and had, in fact, been the closest thing to a proper family that he’d had since the news had arrived.

Still, sometimes he just wished that when he went for a ride, he’d be able to keep riding forever, never having to return to the memories of his life; maybe he’d find something more arresting than the old couple he’d run into once or twice.

But, every time, he ran up against the coast, and little though he wanted to stay, he couldn’t just throw himself into the water.  He owed it to Marinette.

Of course, that didn’t make things any easier, and it certainly didn’t make it any less distressing that the ride was becoming so ingrained in his mind that he was almost free to think on the road.

It was on a day when the issue was weighing particularly hard on his mind that he found the path forward occupied.

Jolted from his thoughts, Adrien reached down, and pulled back on the reins.

On the path in front of him, there were three people.

The first, in the front, was a strikingly pretty woman, wearing a well-tailored outfit with orange accents that must have cost her a great deal.  Her expression was the very picture of innocent uncertainty.

Behind her were two others, wearing what Adrien, from his years spent in rich society, recognized as the strange, unnatural clothes that came from using a Miraculous.  One was a man, quite tall, and strongly built, hooded, and in green.  The other was a woman in orange, gently twirling what looked like a small instrument in one hand.

“Hello,” said the woman in the front.  “We’re itinerant workers, but we seem to have lost our way.  I don’t suppose there’s a town, or a village nearby?”

“No, there’s nobody around.  Not for miles.”

Her expression of confusion shifted slightly, and the smile she was wearing unnerved him a bit more than he’d have expected.

“Probably for the best.  We wouldn’t want anybody having to listen to you scream.”

Adrien blinked, and managed to register the threat as the man in green stepped forward.  Adrien reached up for the reins to try and turn around, but suddenly he was in his face, and Adrien had the peculiarly unpleasant sensation of being neatly pulled off of his horse and having an arm around his neck.

He flailed for only a few seconds, before his vision went dark.

…

As the other two carried their target into the boat, the one who had been talking stood by the horse, which seemed to know something seemed wrong.

As a sound reached them, the woman looked up.  “Are you tearing… clothes, Lila?”

“Am I tearing clothes,” mimicked the woman, Lila, under her breath.  She held up the piece of cloth in her hand; cream fabric, with the insignia of a bee on it.  “Of course I am.  With the right insignia in the right place you can start a war like it’s nothing.”

She slapped the horse.  “Go.”

“When the horse arrives, the insignia will give Gabriel ample reason to say that the very people he’s trying to marry his son off to have abducted his son.  When he catches and supposedly kills the mercenaries stealing him away, in their territory, there’ll be no denying that they were trying to steal him.  All the evidence he needs to start a war, or, well, blackmail them into silence.”

“Hold up,” said the man who had choked Adrien out, “did you say something about killing these mercenaries?  That’s us, right?”

“Of course it is, but he’s not going to actually kill us, he’s just going to say he has so there’s supposedly nobody around with any information that could let his ruse fall through.”

“I think at that point he’d probably just actually kill us so there really isn’t anybody to let it slip,” said the man, giving her a confused expression.

There was a long second of silence, as he cringed away from the nasty expression that spread across Lila’s face.

“Excuse me, Nino?  You think?  You think that he’d do that?  Did I hire you to think?  Would I have even taken this job if I thought it would get me killed?  Do you doubt my ability to talk my way into getting exactly what I bargained for?”

“No, I’m pretty sure Nino’s right,” said the other woman, pulling the plank up into the boat.

“Ohhh!” said Lila, turning to face her, “our town gossip has spoken.  You remember when I found you, Alya?  Out of money, desperately looking for some kind of lead on your blue woman?  You were so hungry, I could probably have just taken your Miraculous outright in exchange for a few coins, and frankly, it would probably have been more profitable to sell it than it’s been to have you work for me.  I’m the only reason you didn’t die of starvation or have to resort to low forms of work, so which of us do you think knows what they’re talking about?”

“We’re literally here to start a war,” she said, offended but chastened, “I don’t think it gets lower than that.”

“This is a prestigious art, with a long and glorious tradition,” scoffed Lila, rolling her eyes.

She turned to Nino.  “And you!  All that muscle and armor, and you couldn’t avoid almost getting cooked in your shell.  Do you want me to send you back to where I found you?  Roasting on a pyre?  In Greenland?”

She shook her head in annoyance, and walked up to the front of the boat.

They watched her pass behind the sail, which still hadn’t been raised fully.

Nino silently set to work cranking it into position.

Alya watched him, noted the slightly defeated look he wore, and took a step forward.

She paused a second, and thought through her next words.

“I doubt that Lila truly wants us harmed / She really just seems kind of stressed to me.”

Nino looked at her, and let out a short chuckle, then closed his eyes for a second, as if thinking.

“Well, if she did, I’d surely be alarmed / But why’s she got to pass the stress to... we?”  He shrugged, as if admitting a slight defeat on his rhyme.

She laughed.  “I always like how you’re so good at these.”

“I worked for years, at this point, it’s a breeze.”

“Enough of that!” said Lila, from the front of the boat, as the sail rose high enough to get them moving.

“So Nino, tell me, are there rocks ahead!?” called Alya, seemingly oblivious to Lila’s annoyed tone.

“Who says I know? If so, we'll soon be dead!”

“What did I say?  Stop with the rhyming!”

Nino grinned, and made a visible effort to restrain himself, but then laughed.

“I was done anyway, so, perfect timing!”

That seemed to be the last straw for Lila.

[bookmawkish]

some cliche trope rubbish

because apparently I’m good for nothing else right now

“Heckyl,” Ivan yells, trying to make himself heard over the screaming wind. “Heckyl, be reasonable. I am trying to help.”

He dodges a bolt of lightning and tries not to get annoyed. He tries to see things from Heckyl’s perspective: he’s freezing, lost, possibly injured, doesn’t know where he is or what’s happened, and one of his sworn enemies has just turned up. A little suspicion and ire is perfectly understandable under those conditions.

He just wishes Heckyl would quickly get over himself and calm down. At least enough to let Ivan get them both out of the worst of the storm, because despite everything there’s no way Ivan is leaving the man out here to die of exposure. And die Heckyl will: he’s in his shirtsleeves and vest, with not even his coat to protect him. He’s completely vulnerable to the elements, and nobody from his motley crew is likely to mourn his loss or indeed try to come to his rescue. Quite the opposite. They’re far more likely to throw a party and cheer for the next new leader.  

He must be very frightened, Ivan thinks, and that helps temper his irritation a lot.

“Heckyl!” he roars, wishing very hard that the wind would die down for just a moment so he could try and sound less aggressive. “I. Am TRYING. To help. Stop attacking me. And LISTEN. You are going to DIE out here unless you let me help you.”

The shadow of Heckyl, around ten feet away in the fluttering white flurries of snow, seems to straighten. And in a merciful answer to Ivan’s wish, the wind drops. The blizzard is thick but no longer howling in their faces, and Ivan can see Heckyl properly.

He was right. Heckyl does look very frightened. His hands are raised in an attack stance, preparatory to calling more lightning.

“Come here,” Ivan says, beckoning. “We will seek shelter together. I call a truce between us. Do you accept?”

“Why would you do this?” Heckyl replies, and his teeth are chattering viciously. He is already wracked with shivering. Much longer and he will start to become hypothermic.

“Because despite our differences, we are all each other has right now,” Ivan says. “We have a better chance of getting back home together. Now. Do you accept?”

Heckyl stands silent and still, the snow cascading down over him, gathering in his hair and laying thick on his shoulders, lining the folds of his trousers in white.  

Then he nods, bringing his arms up about himself and hugging his own shoulders in a vain effort to keep warm. Ivan beckons once again: and as the wind starts to pick up once more Heckyl comes to him. They set off into the whirling whiteness without a word to one another.

 It takes almost an hour to find any form of shelter, and even what they find is not good. Visibility is incredibly poor - only glimpses when the wind drops allow them to see the topography of their environment. It’s a snow desert, barely a tree or a hill or anything except endless walls of white.

They find the cave only when Heckyl falls into it, and cave is being optimistic. It’s a scrape under an overhang which is hidden by drifted snow until they’re on top of it. Heckyl hurts his ankle in the fall, but actively snarls Ivan back when the knight tries to help him up. Together, in the lee of the overhang, they take stock of their situation.

A positive: it’s already warmer out of the wind. Ivan draws a relieved breath, looking out at the sheets of snow and wiping off his wet face with his sleeve. And it’s dry in here, aside from a line of snowmelt at the very entrance.

A negative: Heckyl is in bad shape, whether he wants to admit it or not. He crouches on the dry rock, trailing his injured leg and his breathing wheezing in his chest. His skin is almost blue in places, and ugly windburnt red in others. His fingertips outside the fingerless gloves are white and his hands are shaking. Ivan, with his cloak, has fared better. His face starts to sting as it warms slightly, and he is aware of a lightness of head, but he is otherwise functional. He sits down, rubs his hands briskly over his exposed skin to encourage the blood to flow again.

Heckyl is doing no such thing. He just huddles against the ground, making that painful hitching breathing sound, and not making any efforts to improve his situation. Ivan watches him closely for a few minutes, initially suspicious of a trap. No. It’s unfeigned. Heckyl’s stare is glassy and unfocused, his shuddering repetitive and uncontrolled. He’s slipping away from Ivan as Ivan watches, and Ivan will not sit idly by.

“Heckyl,” he says, loudly. Heckyl doesn’t even blink. “Heckyl.”

“What,” Heckyl hisses, almost automatically. It would have been more encouraging if it hadn’t taken a delay of almost thirty seconds for him to speak.

“You’re becoming ill. Come here and I will help you.”

“No.”

“Then you will die.”

“No.”

“Heckyl,” says Ivan, as patiently as he can muster. “Your lips have gone blue. Unless that’s normal in your kind -”

“It’s not.”

“Then come here. I don’t want you to die. For one thing I can’t imagine any adversary we would get in replacement of you would be an improvement.”

Heckyl’s glassy eyes flick over Ivan in confusion.

“Was that,” he wheezes, “a compliment?”

“If you like. Now come over here.”

It takes another five minutes. But Heckyl does come over. Slowly, shakily, suspiciously - like a starving stray cat being tempted into a carrier by a well-meaning philanthropist. He shuffles across, dragging his foot, and settles about half a metre from Ivan, gasping a little with the effort.

Ivan decides he’s pushed it far enough with issuing instructions, and now takes the initiative. He moves, his own body aching with cold, and examines Heckyl’s ankle while Heckyl flinches and tenses and looks like he wishes he was anywhere other than in a situation where a Power Ranger is carrying out field medicine on him.

“It’s not broken. Just bruised.” Ivan smiles. “Good. Now look at me.”

Heckyl does. His skin is burnt from cold and Ivan is in no doubt that he will be in quite a lot of pain once the numbness goes away.

“Your skin is damaged,” he says, bluntly. “It will hurt. But it won’t kill you if we get out of here soon.”

“I s-s-suppose you have a plan,” Heckyl mutters, teeth clenched.

“Not really. But we will do nothing useful if we turn into icicles.” Ivan settles himself back against the wall, trying to get as comfortable as possible. “I won’t bite you. Come sit with me and get warm.”

The look on Heckyl’s face is a picture. And not a pretty one.

“You -”

And he laughs. The laugh turns into a wheezing cough.

“You want me to c-come and snuggle with you n-now?”

“Certainly. I have a cloak. You do not. You are freezing. I fail to see the humour in the situation.”

“Really?”

Ivan sighs once more.

“You will die,” he repeats, simply. “You would rather die than, as you put it, “snuggle”?”

Heckyl pretends to think about it.

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

Ivan closes his eyes and pulls the cloak tighter around him.

“If you’re still alive in the morning we can plan together.”

And he quickly dozes off, exhausted and cold, against a background of Heckyl’s laboured breathing.

 An hour later, and Ivan jolts awake to an alarming sound. Heckyl is much closer to him now, sprawled out on the floor as if he had crawled as close as he dared before losing his strength. The sound that woke him is a gulping whine, as if Heckyl can barely breathe any more, and Ivan hastens to him, takes hold of him to lift him from the almost-prone position.

Heckyl is barely conscious, his eyes rolled back to the whites, and he gasps uncomfortably as Ivan moves him.

“Idiot,” Ivan chides, gently. He drags the oblivious Heckyl back with him to the spot against the wall, and pulls him in against his body, covering them both with the fur-lined cloak. Heckyl is a lump of ice, every bit of his body radiating cold, and Ivan spends a good few minutes regretting his choice until - finally - Heckyl starts to warm.

The horrible whining breathing subsides slowly, quietens, and Heckyl’s body begins to relax. Ivan feels the shared warmth spread, doubling his own level of comfort, and closes his eyes again, satisfied by this turn of events and more confident now that they’ll both wake up in the morning.

Of course when Heckyl does wake up, he attacks him.

“Calm down!” Ivan bellows, finding himself with an entirely unwelcome lapful of flailing, startled alien. Heckyl has obviously no memory of what occurred overnight and is unhappy to find himself in the unwanted snuggling situation after all. He’s lashing out, and Ivan’s lucky he’s weak and tired and disoriented, because he’s easily subdued and after a few moments lies panting in Ivan’s grip, eyes flared to the whites like a startled horse.

“Good morning,” says Ivan in a gentler tone, with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. “Sleep well?”

“Absolutely,” says Heckyl, his voice ragged, “not.” He raises a trembling hand to his face and then draws it away sharply, hissing in pain.

“I did warn you it would hurt. Regardless. We need to move on.”

“I admire your optimism,” says Heckyl, whose questing fingers have now moved down to his ankle, “and I do so hate to be a downer, but -”

He flips back the corner of Ivan’s cloak that’s over his feet, exposing them to view, and Ivan sighs. That ankle is swollen, the bruising standing out in splotches of purple and red, and it’s probably utterly incapable of taking weight. But they don’t have a choice. They have to find some way to get off this planet and back home immediately, as they won’t survive long like this. And they’re not going to find that way home by sitting in this cave.

Ivan stands up, extends his hand.

“I’ll help you,” he says. Heckyl looks at that hand as if it’s a snake about to strike. “You can’t walk unaided. Let me help you.”

“Ugh,” says Heckyl, and hesitates: but he does, eventually, take the hand. Ivan gets him to his feet: and they head out into the blinding whiteness.

The snow has mercifully stopped falling, and now they can see for miles. It’s not encouraging. The planet surface is almost featureless under the undulating mounds of white. Ivan gets a better grip under Heckyl’s arm and moves them forward. It’s actually not as bad as he’d feared. Heckyl is limping, certainly, but he can dot his injured foot to the ground as he moves, keeping him stable in the snow. As long as Ivan keeps an arm around him they’re making relatively good progress.

They continue without break for almost an hour, then eventually Heckyl snaps: “Stop. Can’t you see this is - just stop. Put me down. We’re getting nowhere.”

“I’m not putting you down,” Ivan says, as patiently as he can muster. “You will freeze. And we will never get out of here.”

“Oh, we’re not getting out of here,” says Heckyl, evidently in an exhausted fury. “Can’t you see that? We’ve been sent here to die. Or rather I have. I imagine you just got caught up in the portal.”

“Such arrogance. We will get out of here,” Ivan says. Ivan’s certainty is like a rock. “And nor am I letting you die because you’re too pathetic to keep moving.”

“Pathetic?” Heckyl bristles. Ivan smiles a little, internally, and with only a small nudge gets them moving again.  

To be fair to Heckyl’s innate cynicism, they would entirely not have got out of it alive: it is pure accident, and possibly a great deal of luck, that saves them. After a short few more hours it begins to get dark again. The snow starts up again. They are lost and exposed in a whirling blizzard, no shelter, no protection. Heckyl is worryingly silent, dragging at Ivan’s side, until a particularly relentless gust of wind pushes them both off balance: then he falls into the snowbank and lies still, not getting up.

Ivan, struggling to keep his footing, bends to him. His limbs are ice, even with the cloak. Everything aches or is numb. He isn’t really aware of the final push the wind gives him, and he joins Heckyl in lying prone in the drift, all consciousness fled.

He isn’t aware of the portal re-opening, swallowing them both, and depositing them back once more in Amber Beach. Right in the middle of the road outside the museum.

[reddeadtrash]

Ghosts

Summary: There is something strange about the woman they find in the winter wilderness. She is cold, unwavering, and strangely menacing. Arthur Morgan finds himself pulled in by that vivacity. Unbeknownst to him, she knows many things that elude this cowboy. Like magnet to metal, no matter how far he throws her away, he always finds himself going back.

GHOSTS MASTERLIST

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 4022

CHAPTER FIVE: A DIFFERENT KIND OF LONELY

I bow down to pray I try to make the worst seem better Lord, show me the way To cut through all his worn out leather

As soon as they had made it back to Horseshoe Overlook, Arya was rushing across camp. Arthur hot on her heels, following her, couldn’t keep the smile off his face. She went straight to Hosea, who was bent over a few pieces of paper.

“Hosea!” Her voice was filled with joy and something that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Eagerness.

The young woman and Hosea had been quite the pair ever since her arrival within the gang. She was curious and asked a lot of questions. He was happy to teach and loved her eager demeanor. Often, she would spend the night curled into herself, perched beside Hosea, listening to whatever story he had in store for her. Sometimes he’d show her photographs. Other times, he’d show her maps.

“Hosea, I think we’ve got something good!”

When the man lifted his head, he was met with her smile; bright and enthusiastic. The sun was setting behind him – orange and bright – and as he got to his feet, the light behind him seemed to shift along with him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Arya beamed. It had been so long since she felt on the cusp of something this big. She didn’t mind that she was smiling so long and so fully. She didn’t mind that Arthur was staring. She cared even less that Hosea seemed astonished to see the pair of them together like this.

“I think we discovered something good in Valentine,” the girl went on. “The clerk at the Hotel – Miles – is harboring some big fancy boys from Saint Denis, who will be trafficking oil.”

Hosea scratched the bottom of his chin, a gesture that resembled Arthur’s way of contemplating. “You want to do a scam?” Hosea asked, blue eyes down to slits in concentration.

“I know we need to work out the details,” Arya answered. “But this sounds good, right?”

Hosea looked over at Arthur. The former seemed to be gaging just how good the entire ordeal was by Arthur’s facial expression. After a second of silent observation, Arthur just shrugged. “She’s onto something,” he grumbled.

“That man, from Saint Denis,” she eagerly pressed, “he said that his men and their wives will be coming by in three weeks. They’ll stay for a week, and once they have the oil, they’ll ride down to the docks on the Saint Denis coast. That’s where the money will be.”

Hosea’s entire face lit up. Wrinkles split at his eyes and creased around his mouth, but despite his old age, he looked stunning against the orange backdrop of the sky. “A good ol’ fashion money scam,” he beamed. “You guys will need me to work out some details before, and to ask around those I know in Valentine. You should also assemble a team. We need people to be those fake oil receivers in Saint Denis. We also need to know to who they are selling the oil to.”

Arya’s heart was hammering. Her cheeks hurt with smiling so hard, and the insides of her palms itched with anticipation. “So this could work?”

Hosea laughed. “This is definitely goin’ to work.”

She nodded so hard she feared her head would spin off her body. “Thank you,” she breathed. Hosea shook his head and waved her off, sitting back down at his table.

Later that night, she found herself sitting at the edge of the cliff. A small fire crackled at her feet, her legs outstretched towards the warmth, her back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Beside her, on each side respectively, was Sadie and Arthur. Above them, stars sprinkled like salt along the darkness of the sky. In front of them, the vastness of the world, the drop of the cliff, and the sweet breath of the wind.

They had shared some stew. They had shared some quiet and quick jokes. Arya was content with them both at her side. She wasn’t one to express fondness, but she would gladly say that their company made her feel safe.

Arthur grumbled as he got to his feet.

“Old man’s goin’ to bed,” Sadie joked. She was stretched out on her side, leaning on her elbow.

“I ain’t even that old,” Arthur answered, his voice deep in his chest. In the darkness, with the soft glow of the flames, he looked young. Arya stole a glance at his face; shadow of a beard, sharp jawline, high cheekbones. He had the rare wrinkle around his eyes, but his sun-reddened skin didn’t have any evidence of old age.

“Says the man who grumbles as hard as Hosea to get to his feet,” Sadie mocked again, throwing her head back to laugh. Arya smiled, picturing Hosea as he always was, grumbling about painful knees.

“I’m just grumblin’ because I’m tired!” Arthur protested. When he saw that both women were having none of his shit tonight, he shook his head. “Ah, leave me alone.”

Arya laughed. Arthur’s eyes snapped to hers quickly, and she caught the look of curiousness that crossed his features. “Just admit you’re an old man, Mr. Morgan,” she chuckled.

“I’ll admit it when I’m dead,” he fussed. Arya watched him wobble on his feet slightly, readjust his hat, and wave. “You ladies have yourselves a good night now.”

Sadie scoffed. “Sleep well, Arthur.”

“Night,” Arya mumbled.

His retreating footsteps were the sounds of scrunched leaves under boots. Arya kept pace with his breathing until it disappeared in the darkness, in his tent.

“You know he likes you, right?”

Arya’s head snapped to the side, black eyes meeting Sadie. The latter was now curled into herself, staring right into the flames. “What?” Arya asked, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“He’s sweet on you,” Sadie added, meeting the other woman’s eyes with a wicked grin.

“Arthur?” Disbelief made Arya’s voice sound high-pitched.

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Who else?” The fire crackled as silence took over for an instant. “He definitely fancies you.”

Arya shook her head, an elfish grin on her lips. “We’re friends,” she tried to justify.

“I don’t think he knows that,” Sadie answered bluntly.

Arya shrugged. Shook her head. Curled her legs in defensively. Sadie was one of the only people that she trusted among Arthur and Hosea. Everyone else… well, she knew.

Sadie and Arya being friends didn’t mean that Arya liked having someone poke around her life, nonetheless, her romantic life.

“I think he’s just lonely,” she whispered, avoiding Sadie’s glare. “If you weren’t a widow, he’d probably fancy you too.”

“He might be lonely,” Sadie answered after waving the other girl off. “But lonely men think with what hangs between their legs. They only come to you when they don’t want to be alone. And usually, that leads to some sort of physical contact. But Arthur’s loneliness is different. He… he longs.”

Arya could feel heat bloom in her chest. Anger. Fear. It mixed like mud, and her breathing became ragged, and the more she thought about it, about him, the more she saw it. The longing. The yearning.

“He’s a sad man,” she said, her voice sounding like a dead end. A conclusion.

Sadie scoffed. “He ain’t sad when he’s with you.”

Day break was like any other. John, Bill, and Arthur had gone hunting for the midday stew. Grimshaw and some ladies were fussing around for chores. Pearson had some leftover meat he was hanging to dry. Dutch and Molly hadn’t left their tent yet. Abigail was sitting on a log by the edge of the cliff, Jack hanging on her knees as she tried to give his hair a good brush. Lice tended to spread fast in these parts.

Everything was normal. Everything was quiet.

Arya was in her tent when she heard the first yells. They weren’t screams of help or alarm. They were screams of astonishment and fear.

The girl rose from her bed, where she’d been reading, enjoying the morning coolness before the heat came in. She rushed out, dressed in black pants and a matching black union shirt. Her eyes, as dark as night, searched the grounds around her.

Pearson had stopped hanging the meats and was wobbling strangely away from his wagon. At the entrance to camp, where Pearson was headed, three horses stood away from their usual spot. Arya saw Abigail, wailing, with Grimshaw holding Jack back from whatever had happened. Beside them, on every side, was everyone else.

“John, you idiot!” Abigail yelled, and Arya saw her hand fly and land, the sound of skin on skin echoing.

Javier burst out laughing.

“It ain’t his fault, Abigail!” Bill came crashing out of the crowd, front of his checkered shit bloodied. Dried crimson cracked on his neck and hands.

Someone was hurt.

For a brief, a very brief instant, Arya’s eyes searched for Arthur. She couldn’t find him, what with everyone crowding around the horses.

The smell of blood had the horses whinnying and stamping their hooves harshly onto the grassland. Arya’s first instinct was to get everyone out of their way.

“Move away!” she ordered, and the ease with which she slid into this role, of leader, felt almost foreign. She pushed people out of the way, out of the horses’ way, and found Arthur. He was holding John up by the waist, the latter looking sickly and deathly pale. One look, a once over, brought Arya to the conclusion of what the hell was going on.

John’s hand was covered in blood. Crimson oozed out and dribbled onto the grass at his feet. Arthur’s own hands, up to his wrist, were smeared in red. The front of his shirt was speckled, as if he’d been in the very near vicinity of what had happened to John.

“What happened?” Arya asked, stepping forward to examine the wound. John’s hand was mangled, as if bitten, but none of his fingers looked badly hurt.

“The idiot decided to have a hand-to-hand combat with a bear,” Arthur grumbled.

“Yeah, an idiot, that’s what you are, John Marston!” Abigail cried from behind.

Arya turned. Stonefaced and calm, she said, “I’m going to need you all to move back. We have to get him somewhere warm and quiet. All this fussing isn’t going to help him.” Abigail seemed to be personally vexed by the young woman’s statement. She fumed, picked up Jack, and scrambled away.

“The boy don’t need to see just how much of a fool his father is!” she screamed.

John, in his state, didn’t seem to care at all. His head of dark and messy hair hung low, his chin grazing his chest. Form all the blood loss, Arya didn’t know just how long he had.

Quickly, she undid the scarf around her neck. She tied it tightly around John’s affected wrist.

“Let’s get him to lie down,” she ordered to Arthur. “Miss Grimshaw, I need a bucket of clean and warm water. I need clean cloth and keep it coming. No one is bothering me, okay?”

Grimshaw, frowning, said, “Who put you in charge?”

“Does anyone know how to fix John’s mangled hand?” Arya challenged back. “Does anyone here know how to make sure he can use his hand and his fingers again? Didn’t think so. I got this.”

Dutch appeared suddenly, while Grimshaw scurried off to pertain to Arya’s many requests. Dutch seemed out of his wits. He tried cajoling John, but the latter was in and out of consciousness, leaning heavily on Arthur.

“Oh, dear boy,” Dutch mumbled. “What can I do to help?”

Arya wrapped one of her arms around John’s waist to help Arthur carry the injured man to her tent. “Have someone bring me small wooden sticks and a sewing kit.”

Dutch grumbled something, but Arya didn’t hear. John was heavier than he looked and carrying him was harder than she thought.

When they got to her tent, she made Arthur lay her newest patient onto her bed. She unrolled the flaps and closed them, so no one could see in and she could have all the peace she needed.

“Arthur,” she commanded, “bring me a stool.”

He left without a word, and for the first time, she was alone with John. She could asses his wound properly.

The center of his hand was bitten through and through. She had no idea if the bones had been touched, moved, or crushed. She hoped not the latter, because that meant John would never recuperate fully. His fingers were mangled, but it looked mostly like claw marks. Thick gashes, the meat red and burning, the bone opened and exposed. His wrist was bruised and bloodied with a few marks, but she suspected it was more a sprain than a broken wrist.

She had a lot of work.

Arthur came back with the stool. She sat beside John and waited. Grimshaw came and went a few times. She brought first the cloth, then the water, and lastly, she brought a needle and a roll of thread. She left without a word.

Arthur was the only one that Arya allowed to stay.

“How are you going to fix it?” he asked, as he watched the girl examine the wound.

“Do you have whiskey on you?” she asked. After a few moments, Arthur handed her a half-filled bottle. She took it graciously, took a swig, and poured a generous amount of it all over John’s mangled hand.

The injured man woke with a howl of pain so great that it resonated painfully in Arya’s ears. “There he is,” Arthur grumbled, taking the bottle from Arya’s hands and having a taste of it as well.

“What the hell!” John screamed. He was trying to curl his hand in defensively, but Arya held it down.

“I’m going to help you,” she was saying, but John was shaking, tears of pain in the corner of his eyes, his entire face contorted in effort.

Arthur came around and held John down by the shoulders.

“John!” Arya demanded her patient’s attention. “This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I’m going to fix you. You need to stay still.

By then, John’s entire body was trembling. He was white and weak from blood loss, and Arya didn’t doubt that sooner or later, he would lose consciousness again.

“Arthur, put this between his teeth,” she said, handing the man a wad of cloth. Arthur frowned, seemed puzzled, but when he saw Arya begin to toy with John’s hand, he stuffed the wad into John’s mouth.

The girl, bent over in concentration, blood sticky on her fingers, uncurled John’s fingers. He screamed behind his gag, thrashed under Arthur’s hold. She picked up some more cloth, damped it in warm water, and slowly began washing the wound.

Against the sharp screams of John, Arya explained what she was doing to Arthur. “I’m going to wash the wound,” she said. “I used the alcohol to sterilize it and my hands. I’m going to do by best to sew him back up, but I’m not sure if the bones in his hand, here, are crushed or unaffected. I would need… never mind. Then I’m going to use some sticks to make sure the bones, if crushed or broken, heal in their right place. My priority right now is to stop the bleeding. Once he’s all sewn up and I’m all done with the sticks, the key is to keep him fed and hydrated.”

By then, she had washed most of his wound. John was still bleeding badly, but she had gotten the dirt and grass out of his injury. She poured more whiskey onto it, and with that, John was out like a light.

Arthur relaxed and walked back to where he’d been before; behind Arya, watching over her head.

Slowly, painfully, she started to sow John’s hand back. She’d swab at it with a damp cloth sometimes, or alcohol, and then go right back in. She was so concentrated that she didn’t even notice the whispers outside of her tent, or the growing darkness around her, or the heavy hunger in her stomach. Dark, swan eyes were focused solely on the bleeding and horrible gash. Her mind was a haze of medicine. She didn’t even feel anything around or in her.

She carefully placed his fingers and hand upside down to sew his palm up. Then she spread his hand over a small pillow and began working with the sticks. Arya placed them each side of John’s fingers and tied them with rope. She used more cloth as cautionary measure on his sprained wrist, which had turned black and purple – most likely just a big bruise.

She gave the overall wound a good wash before settling back in her seat.

The silence seemed to fill her as she stared at John’s hand. It wasn’t pretty. Dried blood still crusted the sewn-up gashes, and the thread itself was hard from blood, and was a sharp contrast against the pale skin. The hand was slightly swollen and red, but nothing alarming to the young woman.

“I’m done,” she said. Her voice seemed foreign after all this time.

“Is he goin’ to be alright?” Arthur asked. The sound of his voice, for a short moment, was comforting.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Go get Abigail, will you?”

Not long after, Abigail shuffled in. Her eyes were red with tears, swollen, and her face was splotchy. She wore a thick cotton gown and a thicker shawl over her shoulders. Her usually spotless black hair was tousled into a bun at the base of her neck.

“Is he okay?” she hiccupped.

Arya nodded sternly, grabbed the woman’s hand, and said, “If he starts to tremble, to have chills, nausea, or he starts to get really hot, you come find me. If he starts to hallucinate or vomit or to sweat profusely, you come find me. If his wound becomes black or blood red or if puss starts to come out of it, you come find me, understand?”

The dark-haired woman looked confused. She staggered on her feet, sat on the edge of the bed, and wept. “What’s puss?” she asked.

“White, creamy substance,” Arya answered patiently.

“Why would his hand go black?” Abigail continued, still weeping, her face in her hands.

“That would be gangrene.”

“Gangrene?”

“Listen, Abigail,” Arya said, going to her knees. “If anything appears out of the ordinary, you come find me.” She was holding the older woman by the shoulders soothingly, something Arya rarely did.

“O-okay,” Abigail answered, sniffing and wiping her tears.

“The important thing is that you keep him fed and hydrated,” Arya counseled. “He needs to eat and drink water. Not alcohol. Water.”

Abigail nodded. Lowly, she murmured, “Thank you.”

“I’ll come back to check on him tomorrow morning,” Arya assured, still on her knees, still holding the other woman. “I’ll make sure he’s able to use his hand again.”

Again, Abigail nodded. She shifted away from Arya and closer to her husband.

Arya stood, and when she left the tent to breathe in the cold night air, that’s when the exhaustion hit her. Hunger growled in her stomach and she could feel the dried walls of her throat aching for water.

Arthur stepped out to join her. “You can have my tent for the night,” he offered. “You and Sadie.”

Arya smiled tiredly. “That’s kind of you.”

They got stew together and walked around camp assuring everyone that John was going to be fine. Dutch asked about the mobility of his hand. In truth, Arya was scared that John would never fully recover the use of his hand, but she confidently told Dutch that she’d work towards full mobility. Grimshaw and Karen, stoneface and cold, asked about the well being of John, but beneath their demeanor, Arya could see the worry on their faces.

Arya and Arthur spent most of the night reassuring their friends. Bill felt guilty for not killing the bear, but Arthur took the blame right off his shoulders.

“You didn’t tell me exactly what happened,” Arya asked, sitting – finaly! – on a stump in front of a dying fire. Arthur sat on the ground beside her, finished his stew, and let the bowl clink beside him.

“Went chasin’ after a bear,” he started. “I was on my horse, lookin’ for clues. Bill was wandering around on the rocks for some reason. Then I hear this big roar and sound, like somethin’ crashin’ through the trees. I go runnin’. Then John’s screamin’, and when I get to him, he’s squarin’ up like he wants to fight the thing. Obviously, get’s wrecked. Bill shoots at it, and the thing just runs away.”

Arya smiled and huffed, “There’s only John to square up to a bear.”

Arthur laughed through his nose, but then his face went cold as he stared into the fire. Arya saw the shift and wondered why her own chest ached. “I thought he was goin’ to die,” he admitted lowly.

“But he didn’t,” Arya said.

“Yeah, because of Bill.”

“It’s not your fault, Arthur.”

“I know,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just… I just stood there, you know?”

Arya’s eyes glazed in empathy. “Sometimes shock takes away your ability to make decisions.”

“But that never happened to me before,” Arthur objected. “I’ve always had my finger on the trigger. I never hesitated. Never. And then, when it comes to savin’ John’s life, a moment more important than many I’ve had to fire my weapon for, I can’t.”

Arya nodded in understanding. She shifted on her log awkwardly. Sentimental conversations were not her forte. “You… you love John,” she mumbled. “Moments of quick action, crisis moments, change when it involves someone you’re afraid of losing.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. The young woman stared at the fire but was very aware of Arthur’s presence beside her. After a pause, he said, “You’re right.”

A sigh left the woman’s lips. “You’re a good man, Arthur,” she mumbled.

He grumbled, groaned something, and then sighed. “How do you know all this doctor stuff anyway?”

“You think I’m a witch?” she joked.

Arthur laughed and the sound was music to Arya’s ears after all this silence. “If I had a right mind, I’d think so,” Arthur mused. “But I ain’t gonna burn you at the stake, young lady.”

Smiling, Arya offered, “I learned from my mother. She was a doctor.”

Frowning, Arthur turned his blue gaze onto Arya’s profile. “A woman doctor?”

“Uh- no, I mean, yes, but uh-,” Arya stammered, pushed her hair behind her ears. “She was – uh – a healer. You know. A herbalist. But she knew about surgery.”

Arthur huffed. He didn’t seem convinced by her answer. “You said a lot of words back there that I don’t know,” he grumbled, returning his eyes to the fire. “Your mother must have been a hell of a doctor then.”

“She was.”

The crackling of the fire took precedence. Arya’s mind was whirling. Images swooping in to disturb the peace she was staggeringly trying to keep. The faces of her mother and father oozed in and out of memory, but just like her brother, they were fading.

“You never told me what happened in Delaware,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Why you left. Why it was just you and your brother.”

Arya stiffened and suddenly, she was cold. She wanted to leave. The drying blood on her hands was not John’s but another man’s. Her throat was closing up.

“It’s not something I discuss,” she all but choked out.

Under the watchful and curious stare of Arthur, the brunette got to her feet and scurried away. The night cloaked the rising tears in her eyes and the way she curled into herself protectively. When she burst into Arthur’s tent, she flopped onto the bed. The smell of him – pinewood, fire smoke, and river water – made her mind burn with too many thoughts. Tears welled and poured over her cheeks. She curled into a ball.

The last thing she was conscious of before she fell asleep was the deep smell of Arthur Morgan all around her.

[owlsshadows]

Garden Time (Izanayuki, part3)

1. Tea Time | 2. Study Time

Izana introduces her to the garden two weeks into their meetings – her garden. A bit of land behind what her study will be, with trees and bushes and a large mass of thicket; an old, untended labyrinth maybe. A small area by the castle walls is covered with building materials – soon a greenhouse will be erected there, close to the entrance of her study.

She walks along a row of freshly planted yura shigure, watering each seedling with caring attention. She couldn’t wait for the greenhouse to be built, she had to somehow mark this land of hers – and what better way than to choose the flower she can thank her court pharmacist career to. The slowly warming days benefit the sprouts, while the mild spring sun won’t burn their leaves yet. It is the perfect time for planting and Shirayuki is full of plans and inspiration to do so. She started with the yura shigure, but soon she will add the medicinal herbs she uses for Izana’s blend too – so her future husband can drink the tea she has grown in her garden.

The thought makes her itchy under her skin.

Initially she took it as a game Izana wanted to play. To ease his frustration, she went along with it. She didn’t believe him one bit – not when he dropped his first hint, nor when he refuted her arguments. She went along with him, raising the stakes and stating her conditions.

Never in her right mind she would have thought that their little banter could have a continuation. The official invitation the next day to the engagement talks, delivered by a slightly startled Lord Zakura took her off guard – to such extent that she has accepted them thoughtlessly.

And now she diriges a group of craftsmen every morning on how to renovate and remodel the old fencing room into her very own den, while she spends her late afternoons with her new garden. She still spends most of her time at the pharmacy – but for a substantial amount of time she is the fiancée of the king.

She is still Shirayuki, the court pharmacist to the Wistalia house.

But also the Young Lady of the Lion Mountains

A Tanbarunian noblewoman.

The future queen consort.

She cuts her hand with the edge of a leaf, shrieking shortly in surprise and yanking her finger in her mouth to suck on it before it starts bleeding – not the most flattering situation to be found in, especially by the one who insists on marrying her.

“Does it hurt?” Izana asks.

Shirayuki, finger between lips, shakes her head. Izana nods, crossing the entrance to examine her little plantation. He seems unfazed by her unwomanliness – practicality, as Kiki would phrase it. But this is not a countryside inn, and she is not with a female knight. She is in the royal gardens, in the audience of the king himself.

Shirayuki can’t help but wonder how Prince Raji or Prince Zen – royalty who has once claimed to love her –  would have reacted. She pictures a dumbfounded Raji, an overprotective Zen… somehow they both seem ridiculous, like caricatures next to the reality of Izana walking right into her personal space.

“Lucky you are wearing boots,” he says, looking at her feet.

“Well, I was gardening,” Shirayuki says, extracting her finger from her mouth with a quiet pop. “But why is it exactly lucky?”

“My brother has returned from Wilant.”

“And so?”

“Well, you see, I told him about my engagement and that I gifted father’s room to my fiancée, but I kind of forgot to tell him about just whom I got engaged to.”

“Oh,” Shirayuki says. She did not write about it either. “So?”

“So we run,” Izana replies. “Preferably before he realizes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Izana starts with a huge breath, but comes to a sudden halt. His eyes wonder off of her face, glancing at something by her shoulder, blinking rapidly and looking further away before they return to her. “Because he for sure will be a pain.”

“It’s not like…” Shirayuki starts only to stop abruptly.

Izana is right. No matter how her relationship to Zen was a figment of rumor-thirsty nobles, Zen is her friend. And as so, he is one very protective friend.

She still remembers vividly of the anger Zen felt early on when Izana was still not convinced of her pure intentions and tried to test her. She remembers the clashes they had, with words as well and swords. She could imagine a better evening program than pacifying two stubborn brothers.

“It’s all your fault, you know,” she concludes with a grimace.

“This I have to admit,” Izana says.

“So? Where do we run where I need my boots?”

“I thought we sneak in the stables and steal his horse for a ride.”

“Why must you be like this?”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“More decent, less entertaining.”

“Such as? I’m listening.”

“Your Majesty, you hide. If Zen comes around, I pretend I have never heard about our engagement.”

“While standing in the garden I gave to you as an engagement present,” Izana points out.

“Okay, then we hide together,” Shirayuki huffs, stifling a laugh. “And if he finds us we pretend we never heard about our engagement.”

“Genius, very convincing,” Izana says, trying his best to hide his smile. “And where should we hide, My Lady?”

“Well,” Shirayuki looks around, contented. “In my garden, of course.”

Finally, Izana laughs, as if he was to admit defeat – which, knowing him well, Shirayuki highly doubt. And indeed as their eyes meet, his is full of mischief.

“That’s a wonderful idea, My Lady,” he says. “Do you mind taking the lead?”

Shirayuki squints judgingly. If it was anyone else but Izana, she would probably bump into them or knock on the top of their head playfully. With Izana she finds it hard to recognize her boundaries – she keeps her quips sharp and he seems to appreciate it, but would he be appalled by her touch? Would he be surprised or alarmed? Would he let her do it?

She is a handsy one, she has always been; as a pharmacist it might be occupational hazard. But touching Izana is a land unknown and one that raises precaution.

So she silences her urge to jab him in the shoulder and instead settles for a muted death glare.

“So, are you not willing to face the consequences of your actions, Your Majesty?”

“Careful, My Lady,” Izana continues his act. “Using my title in connection with such accusations may warrant a trial for treason.”

“Lucky me, I’m a foreigner,” Shirayuki responds, but her tone and face stays serious. “I mean my words, Your Majesty. While admitting my oversight in not informing Zen earlier myself, I honestly can’t believe you did not tell him either. He deserves to know.”

“I know,” Izana moves to step closer, offering his arm for her. “But what Zen deserves is the truth, in its entirety. And I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that…”

“Is it because I rejected him?” Shirayuki asks, letting Izana lead her deeper into the garden.

“It’s because he won’t believe you accepting my proposal based on ‘mutual benefits’. You don’t do things for the merit.”

“True,” she admits.

“Right. Even I can’t believe that I managed to convince you, so how would my brother do?”

“Well… I’m still not very convinced,” Shirayuki says, her fingers digging into the velvet of Izana’s jacket. “I kind of went with the flow, and look at this?” Her free hand gestures around vaguely.

“This was the easiest to fulfil,” Izana replies. “Out of all your demands.”

“I already feel that it’s too much.”

“You don’t quite know your own value.”

“I think you may overestimate my worth.”

“How could I?” Izana asks, stopping by the entrance to the maze. “I am a king, and kings don’t make mistakes.”

Shirayuki can’t help but giggle. Her laugh, however, gets caught in her throat as Izana pulls her closer to him. The shine in his eyes contradicts his playful tone; it is vibrant, sincere, determined.

“In order for me to truly win your hand though, I still have to work hard,” he says.

His gaze ties a knot in the pit of her stomach, reminding her of the last item on her demand list. Her lids shut firm, closing out Izana’s earnest face from her view. The thought still lingers, just as his scent wafting around her.

She wouldn’t marry but for love.

Izana told her that she has her guards up high to taunt her, he said she would not let anyone close enough to fall for them, but was it really the case?

She opens her eyes, gaze wandering off to the side. The sight of the unkempt labyrinth twists the knot in her stomach in a painful, yet deliciously curious way.

“So… hiding, was it?” she tears herself away from his closeness, marching towards the bushes.

“I’m afraid this is our best solution for now,” Izana says, following her steps. “Unless you wish to disclose our deal in its entirety immediately.”

“No, I agree with you,” she shakes her head. “Zen would never believe it, and he may start suspecting that you threaten me with something…”

“In a way, he is not mistaken,” Izana snorts.

“You frighten me, Your Majesty. I took you for an almost decent man.”

“Almost decent?” he laughs. “Good, I like this. I shall live up to this image then.”

“Izana,” she pries. “Just what are your plans? What do you mean by he is not mistaken?”

“I did proclaim that I will make you fall for me. With you guarded as you are, you may have taken it as a threat.”

“May I ask if this is some roundabout insult?”

“I would never dare to insult the woman I try to court.”

“Yet you imply, over and over again, that I am afraid of love.”

“Are you not?” Izana asks. Shirayuki spins on her heels to stare at him, only to find herself standing right in front of him. His height she finds annoying now, unable to give him a proper death glare. “Then do tell, how come that such a brilliant woman is still single? You must have had a suitor or two.”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t,” she says.

“Maybe you didn’t notice the signs,” Izana suggests. “Maybe there were men enamored with you but you didn’t take their approach as it is, a form of romantic attitude.”

It hurts – being reminded of Obi, of her utter failure to recognize his feelings, of her complete defeat of realizing her own only after he has moved on. It hurts and she puts up her guard and hides in her invisible shell, turning away from Izana and stomping deeper into the maze.

“Might be,” she says then, several steps away, in a voice so meek that she knows Izana cannot hear it anymore. She knows, her message still comes across bright as daylight.

“I hope you notice when it’s my turn,” she hears, loud and clear. “I don’t intend to be subtle.”

“Izana!” she turns embarrassed towards the king.

He shrugs, sending her an almost decent smile.

“In my defense, I have never had to court anyone,” he says.

“Not even your wife?” Shirayuki asks, regretting her question the moment it leaves her lips – Izana on the other hand does not seem to be bothered by it.

“With Haki we have been betrothed since age 5. There has never been a question whether we marry or not.”

“She has always seemed quite charmed by you.”

“We were in love,” Izana says matter-of-factly. “But it doesn’t mean that I courted her.”

“I’m sorry if I asked something I was not supposed to.”

“Likewise,” he replies, walking up to her. “It was insensitive of me, asking about your past suitors.”

“No, please don’t. It’s just that I might really be oblivious to people’s feelings and as a scientist admitting any form of ignorance, it…”

“Hurts your pride?”

“Somehow.”

“Understandable,” he says.

“What hurts yours?” she asks out of curiosity.

“Oh no, I’m not willing to give any weapons to your hands. You are well-equipped already. I can only hope that you won’t poison me if you find me courting you insufferable.”

Shirayuki ponders whether to react to his comment on poisons – there is absolutely no way she could or would poison him, ever – then decides that Izana must know it, hence he dares to make a joke out of it. She tilts her head to the side, as if looking at him from a different angle would help her understand the king better.

“There has been something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while,” she starts.

“Yes?”

“How do you plan to court me?”

Izana blinks at her surprised for a second before his well-trained mask of composure falls into place.

“If only I knew,” he says with a small smile, admitting defeat.

“You must have a plan. I doubt that you would ever do anything without planning well ahead.”

“Well, I had a plan, you see,” Izana sighs. “I thought of stealing you away from your garden and taking you out on a small excursion today. We would have gone to the seaside, taking a light lunch with us. We would have had the entire afternoon, only for us.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to the stables to have our horses ready when I saw Zen arriving.”

“Maybe we really should have stolen his horse.”

“So… would it be an acceptable act of courting?” he asks, stifling a laugh. “For future reference.”

“Yes.”

Next

[thereluctantinquisitor]

So as we all know Darren is an angel child who doesn’t want to hurt a fly, but he’s also strong af from growing up on a farm - does everyone get to see just how hench he is? like a ‘Jean Valjean lifting a fuckoff huge cart off a man’s leg’ moment?

How could I resist this prompt?? 

In which Ralon finds himself trapped, and help arrives in the unlikeliest form… (approx 2000 words)

CW: course language (Cyrus) and claustrophobia

“Shit! Ralon? Hey, canyou hear me?”

Spluttering out a cough, Ralon groaned, shuddering as hefelt something wet seep through the back of his shirt, some optimistic part ofhim hoping to the Maker that it was just water. “Wha…?” Opening his eyes, hewas met by darkness, inky and terrifying, the shock of it causing him to reachup and try to rub his hands over his eyes in mindless search of a blindfold.

At least, he would have, had his arms not been stopped aftera few inches by something rough and cold.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, already feeling his heart begin topound in his ears as he pressed his palms against whatever was on top of him.He tried to move it, but froze with a terrified whimper as it creaked, dirt anddust raining down on him, driving him near mad with the need to reach up andswipe it from his face and neck. “Shit shit shit shit…!”

“… I can’t lift it!” Hecould hear Cyrus’ voice above him, muted and distant, although logically Ralonknew he could not be that far away. It was just his head. Yes, his mind wasplaying tricks on him because it was dark and damp and too small and…

“C-Cyrus, get me out of here!”

“The fuck do you thinkI’m doing? Scratching my ass?”

“Get the Captain or something!” Ralon forced himself tofocus on his breathing, trying to slow it down. What if he ran out of air? Wasthat possible? How much room did hehave? It wasn’t like he could sit up and check. He only had about an inch ortwo above him. “Get someone!”

Cyrus didn’t reply. Ralon waited, feeling the air grow warmerand staler with each gasp, heart pounding. He counted, one to ten, ten tofifty, fifty to one hundred, pausing every few numbers to call out, not sure ifhe wanted to cry or be sick at the thought that he was alone. Cyrus just went to get help, he thought,desperate for distraction. Comfort. He’llbe back. He’ll come back…

Won’t he?

Of course, he and Cyrus had never really got along. Shit,they’d beat the crap out of each other only a few months ago, and Raloncouldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about. Next thing he knew theywere in the same squad, trying to get over their differences at breakneck speed.It hadn’t always been easy. Something about the two of them just clashed.

But he wouldn’t justleave him there, right?

“Oh Maker…” Ralonsqueezed his eyes shut, tired of straining them against the dark. He justwanted to sit up. Lift his arms and throw whatever had landed on him aside andclimb out. What had even happened? The last thing he remembered was trippingover something and rolling into some kind of shallow pit. After that, whateverwas on top of him had come crashing down and he’d found himself trapped inpitch blackness.

And his back was wet.

He could feel it now, patting with his hands. He wasactually in a few inches of water, its temperature almost the same as the air.If he’d landed face first…

No. Panic began torise in his chest, sharp and burning like bad whiskey. He forced himself tobreathe through it. Minutes stretched out at the same rate as his nerves worethin. No. Don’t think about that. Don’tthink about any of it. Just stay calm…

“… Ralon?”

His eyes flew open and he let out an almost hystericallaugh. “Cyrus! Yeah - yeah, I’m here!” His laugh turned into a cough as he lethis head fall back, breathing fast. “Fuck, I never thought I’d be so glad tohear your voice. Just… tell me you found the Captain?”

Silence.

Ralon’s heartrate sped up. Why was it so hard to breathe?“C-Cyrus…? You got help, right?”

However, another voice answered. “Oh Maker’s Breath! How did he get stuck under that?”

Darren.

Cyrus had gone to get help. And had found the kid.

He was going to die in a shallow pit.

“Some kind of trap,obviously. Fucking genius blundered into it like a flat-footed druffolo.”

On a regular day, Ralon would have given back twice as goodas he got from that little Orlesian shit-stain. But as it was, he was findingit harder and harder to drag in breath, his head growing foggy, eyelidsdrooping in the darkness. “Guys…”

“What am I supposed todo?”

“Help? I don’t fuckingknow! You got rope or something?”

“Y-Yeah, in my pack.Here…”

“Give it to me andstay here. Your horse nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Horse? Rope? What the ever-living fuck was Cyrus on about?Ralon might have cried if he hadn’t felt so bone-tired. It was as though hehadn’t slept for days and could barely keep his eyes open. But a part of him –the same part that begged his lungs to keep going – recognised that as a very, very bad sign.

“K-Kid,” he breathed, pressing his palms to the slab on topof him. Wood or stone? He couldn’ttell.

“Ralon? I’m here. It’sgoing to be okay. Cyrus is just—“

Ralon squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to panic. “Kid,listen, okay? Listen I… I can’t breathe.Shit, I-I can’t…”

It wasn’t working. Logically, Ralon knew panicking wouldjust make it worse, but it was already overwhelming him and he stood no chanceof fighting it off. A distressed whine crawled up the back of his throat as hegasped in thick air, picturing it moving like tar through his lungs. He pusheddesperately with his palms, hit, scratchedat whatever was trapping him. Maker, he was going to die. The first fool to suffocate in two inches of water, face-up.He could hear a voice, Darren’s, calling to him, to Cyrus, high with alarm. Ralonjust continued to push frantically with what little strength he had left. Hecould feel his breath growing shorter and shorter, eyes stinging, nails rakingagainst the rough surface until he was sure his fingers were bleeding.

Just when he thought he might lose his mind, everything grewquiet.

Darren’s voice stopped. Ralon’s struggling flagged, thescratching and thumping slowing to a crawl. His hands fell limp by his side,chest rising and falling shallowly in the dark. Dirt crumbled down again and Ralongave a weak cough, not even bothering to turn his face away from it this time.More fell and he groaned, shaking his head slightly, unable to do a damn thingbut lie there and think about all the shit he hadn’t done. His head pounded outa dull, senseless rhythm. He supposed it was soothing, in a way. He was just so tired…

Then… light.

It poured in through one side of the pit; a razor sharp lineof it that burned Ralon’s eyes in the most beautiful way possible. Cool airrushed through the gap and Ralon gasped it in, turning his face towards theopening as he reached up and clawed at it with one hand. At first, Ralonthought Cyrus must have accomplished whatever he had been trying to do with therope and the horse. Shit, he didn’t even care that he would be indebted to theman because Maker he was alive.

That was when he noticed the two familiar boots and a singlepair of gloved hands gripping the slab.

All Ralon could do was swear in shocked Antivan as Darrenheaved upwards, the veins in his forearms standing out against his skin, feetsinking into the muddy earth, pressed down by the extra weight of the slab. Butwhile the kid’s feat of strength was unbelievable, the second Ralon could gethis legs up he did, pressing the soles of his feet to the rough stone andpushing with everything he had. When it got to almost halfway Cyrus reappearedand grabbed its edge, helping to tip it all the way off the pit. It hit theground to Ralon’s right with a heavy thud, dirt and mud spraying outwards,speckling all three of them.

For a second, all Ralon could do was lie there and breathe. Drenched in muddy water and tears,covered in dirt, shivering and coughing, he could barely believe he was alive.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you could do that sooner?”Cyrus demanded somewhere above him, firing a withering glare at Darren andthumbing over his shoulder. The tree nearby had loops of rope around its thickbranches, complicated knots and ties marking Cyrus’ handiwork. “There I waslike a fucking idiot tying up a treewhen all you had to do was lift it!”

Even Ralon could tell the dark haired prick wasn’t really mad at the kid, and Darren didn’tseem to flinch away at the scolding like he used to either. Instead, then blondcrouched down, leaned over the edge of the pit, and looked at Ralon with aheartbreaking amount of concern. “Ralon, are you okay? You didn’t get hurtfalling in, did you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Ralon sighed, letting his eyesflutter closed for a moment. He inhaled deeply through his nose, lips curvinginto a feeble smile. “Better than fine. Shit… thanks, kid. You’re a lifesaver.”It wasn’t even an exaggeration. A blush crept predictably up Darren’s neck andhe mumbled something undoubtedly adorable and modest. To spare the blond anyfurther flustering, Ralon reached up and Darren immediately took his hand,helping him climb out of the pit. Back on unsteady feet, Ralon leaned forward,hands pressed to his knees, and shook his head. “Maker… whoever’s holed up nearhere really doesn’t want visitors,huh?”

Cyrus was regarding the trap, arms folded, head slightlycocked. “No kidding… lucky you didn’t fall in face-first. Looks like it’ssupposed to drown you.”

A shiver ran up the length of Ralon’s spine and he cast abaleful glare at the Orlesian. “Oh, youdon’t say? Kinda got that impression lying in my shallow, watery gravewaiting for your slow ass to get help!”

Cyrus opened his mouth to fire back a retort but Darrenstepped between them quickly, holding his hands up as though to physically fendoff a verbal assault. “S-Shouldn’t we just get back to the Captain?” he askedhurriedly, glancing between them. “People should know about this sort of thing,and Ralon doesn’t look so good.”

Suddenly exhausted, the last of his irritation draining outof him, Ralon just sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Whatever. You’re right. Let’sjust… get out of here.”

Darren’s worried gaze lingered on Ralon for a moment, buteventually the boy nodded and moved off to collect his horse and salvage therope. Cyrus and Ralon had left their mounts back at camp, opting to scout on foot,so they just avoided one another’s gaze and followed the kid, boots squelchingin the mud.

“You want to be a bit more fucking careful next time?” Cyrusmuttered after a few minutes of walking, hands thrust deep into his pockets,gaze fixed stubbornly ahead. Ralon glanced across, regarded the man for a fewmoments, then snorted softly. Cyrus’ dark hair was a mess, his pants covered inmud as though he had slipped and fallen a few times running across slickground. A smile crept across Ralon’s lips.

“Yeah. You got it. And sorry.”

“What are you apologising to me for?”

“Making you worry.”

In truth, Ralon had expected something from Cyrus. A retort. A roll of the eyes. Hell, even acuff across the back of the head wouldn’t be out of the question. But insteadCyrus just shook his head slightly, seeming more weary than annoyed, and saidnothing. Side-by-side, they continued their sullen march through the mud insilence, Darren guiding his mare, Ralon just grateful to be back in the fadingafternoon light. A couple of times, Darren glanced back, and even though hefelt like death walking, Ralon mustered a reassuring smile for the kid.

Folks could say what they wanted about the Dawn Squad… butthey got along when it mattered.

[hoenursey]

I Love Him, He Loves Me || nurseyrans

Ransom could appreciate art. He could! He didn’t, often, and he didn’t get it a lot of times– he preferred practical things to appreciate, like Bitty’s pies, or good goals. Or, of course, Nursey’s ass, which he’d stolen a few furtive glances down at as he walked in front of him. It was a great ass, okay? Sue him. Now that was art to appreciate.

Right now, however, waiting for Nursey to finish what he was doing was sort of killing him.

Ransom… the thing was, he didn’t want to bother him. He knew he could snap like a twig if someone interrupted him, and Nursey had said something about a homework assignment, so he didn’t want to interfere with that. Even though Nursey wasn’t the type to snap, it felt rude not to give him the same respect he always gave him. Besides, he looked kind of cute sitting on the floor, all hunched over his journal, tongue sticking out just the smallest amount. But he was bored. He was mad fucking bored right now.

He tried going through his phone, systemically hitting Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, but it was a dead day– not much posting, only a few notifications, some tagged pics, some snapchat selfies–

Oh. Ransom sat up and went to snapchat. He could probably entertain himself for at least a few more minutes with snapchat filters.

Dog filter, bunny filter, gold butterflies, truck driver, the little frowny face– he glanced over at Nursey and pouted just a touch because a face swap would be hilarious, honestly. Instead, he pulled one of his selfies from his phone and captioned it “missing you”, before posting it to his story.

[TO: SAMWELL MEN’S H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS]

[text: doctor ransomstein] [attached: payattentiontome.jpeg]

[text: dr ransomstein] look at that. gotdam

[text: raggedy ann] is that a piece of kale stuck in his teeth, fucking vegan

[text: sharkbait ooh haha] nursey I can’t believe you’re doing homework

[text: sharkbait ooh haha] aren’t you guys on a date

[text: horse teeth] who does homework on a date

[text: a manager for ants] 👀���👀 rans

[text: dr ransomstein] n o i f u c k i n g d o n ‘ t

[text: sharkbait ooh haha] 👀

[text: horse teeth] 👀

[text: raggedy ann] 👀

[text: poop emoji] 👀

[text: the muffin man] 👀

[text: dr ransomstein] SHITS WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE AT HARVARD (fuck harvard) SHUT UP

[text: rich kid asshole]  👀

[text: dr ransomstein] nursey if you’ve been on the gc the whole time i s2g

[text: big booty judy] why is everyone sending eyes

[text: rich kid asshole] only a minute or two :P

Ransom looked up and glared over at Nursey, who was already smiling crookedly at him, flicking at his new septum piercing, the gold glinting in the soft natural lighting of the museum.

“You’re lucky you’re so fucking cute,” he grumbled, and Nursey laughed, pushing up from the ground to come over to him. He misjudged his weight a touch, falling back on his ass, but managed to stand without crashing into a multi-million dollar painting and putting them both in debt.

“I zoned out,” he admitted when he came to settle next to him. “And then you started sending pictures of me to the groupchat. Wasn’t looking before that, swear.”

“I’m not mad,” Ransom murmured, settling his head on Nursey’s shoulder. He was never mad at him, and it took reassurance after reassurance to assure his boyfriend of that sometimes, but it was worth it. He was worth it. “Just wanna hang, we never have time to do much. I don’t care what we do, just…”

Nursey slid his hand down his arm slowly, distracting him, until his curled his hand around his and laced their fingers between one another’s.

“Together?” Nursey finished.

“Together,” he agreed.

Nursey made a pleased noise that he only somewhat managed to stifle; Justin cupped his chin and pressed their lips together and it drew the noise out of him again, a little softer, a little gentler. He thumbed along the line of his jaw– he had shaved and his skin was so fucking soft, just a little prickly– and Nursey opened up for him, sighing sweetly into his mouth. God, but Justin loved the way his boyfriend melted for him like winter giving way to spring, walls tumbling down around him as he fell into the rhythm of it, the slick slide of their mouths deepening–

A surprised “Oh!” came from behind them and they broke apart, startled. Ransom’s head snapped to the source of the noise, fingers tightening around Nursey’s to keep him from tugging away; it turned out to be an older woman with a scarf around her neck, which she clutched delicately, flushed. Derek took one look at the woman and buried his face in Ransom’s neck, hiding his likely-embarrassed laughter.

“Sorry,” he called out sheepishly, the hand at Nursey’s jaw sliding back to cup the back of his neck, “We’ll move.”

“You’re fine!” the woman squeaked out. “I was just surprised! This part has been, ah, fairly empty, eh?”

“Right, haha; we were about to get going anyways, though,” Justin said, an apologetic smile on his lips. He rose quickly, pulling Nursey to his feet. “Have a nice day, sorry again!”

They walked as quickly as they could without running, stifling laughter as much they could until Ransom shoved Nursey into a family bathroom and they both burst out loud, giggles and snorts and laughter ringing in the empty room.

“I fucking hate you,” Ransom said, shoving Nursey slightly. Nursey shoved him back, grinning, and Rans yanked him into a headlock and scrubbed roughly at his head, making Nursey shriek and try to tug out of his grip– he nearly succeeded until Ransom hooked his ankle and he stumbled, falling back against the wall.

Justin took Derek’s wrists and grasped them firmly, sliding them up against the wall; Derek sucked in a quiet breath as his arms were raised above his head, effectively pinning him there.

“The look you’re giving me right now doesn’t say ‘I hate you, Derek Nurse’,” Nursey murmured.

“People make out with people they hate,” Ransom argued weakly, even as he switched from two hands to one at his boyfriend’s wrists and slid his arm around his waist, tugging his body flush to his own.

“You don’t.”

“The only person I make out with is you.”

“And your life sized poster of Alexei Mashkov.”

“I was drunk, Derek.”

“You’re not drunk now and i’m right in front of you, so–”

Justin rolled his eyes and pressed his lips to Nursey’s. He could feel the smile his boyfriend still had and nipped at his bottom lip, kissing away the answering sound of protest, soothing his bite with his tongue and Nursey sighed into the sensation, lips parting for him. When he pulled away to breathe, he nosed along his jaw until his head tipped gently back and he kissed at his bare neck: he could feel the beating pulse beneath the skin and sucked hungrily at his pulse points until Derek was gasping weakly, fingers twitching up against the lock they were in. “Stop, stop,” he breathed, fighting his pinned state– he broke his hands from Justin’s grip and pulled his face to his own to kiss him once again.

Ransom loved kissing at Nursey’s skin and driving him crazy, but even more so he loved the soft sighs and sweet sounds his boyfriend made when he kissed him properly. Nursey was so, so easy for kissing– if puppy dog eyes didn’t work then pushing him down in his chair, the bed, a couch, and kissing him like this, a slow drag of lips, tongue teasingly flicking over his open mouth and then dipping in to taste him– it almost always got Rans what he wanted. Granted, usually what he wanted was Nursey, but that was a moot point. Sometimes he wanted–

As if cued, Derek’s stomach growled, loud in the quiet of the bathroom, and Justin pulled back, eyeing his boyfriend. A flush was already staining his cheeks, though he didn’t know if that was from all the kissing, or– ah, no, it was growing darker.

“Baby,” Justin admonished softly, tilting up Derek’s chin. His boyfriend bit at one of his swollen lips tentatively, drawing it into his mouth, and Justin let his thumb drag over it, parting his lips once again.

“Yes…?” he mumbled. He looked… appropriately abashed, and he shook his head fondly at him, giving him a quick kiss.

“You forgot to eat again, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Justin’s hand slid up Nursey’s shirt, caressing over his stomach softly. “Can’t take your meds on an empty stomach, Der, you know that.”

He cursed softly. “Forgot my afternoon meds at home, I broke my phone again so my alarms don’t go off.” He gave him an apologetic look, a “sorry” clearly on the tip of his tongue, but Ransom kissed the apologies from his lips and pulled him off the wall.

“We’ll make a pit stop at yours before we go to that pho spot on main?” Ransom asked, searching for confirmation from Nursey, and Nursey nodded, a little smile gracing his lips.

“Sounds good, Rans,” he agreed, something a little funny in his tone.

He looked at him curiously as he took his hand and started walking out of the bathroom. “What?”

Derek shook his head, self indulgent smile curving on his face. “Nothing. You’re just… a really, really good boyfriend, dude.”

Ransom’s answering smile was a little bewildered. “I mean, it’s not a big deal? You need your meds or you’re gonna be miserable, and I wanted to take you out to eat anyways. Healthy boyfriend is a happy boyfriend, right?”

Bemused, Nursey kissed their joined hands as Ransom guided them out of the museum– fuck, where did he park? goddamned big ass museum– and said, “Sure, Rans. Healthy boyfriend is a happy boyfriend. And you parked in the green lot.”

“Oh, shit, ha. Thanks, Derek.”

“No prob.”

And it wasn’t– their relationship was like that, soft and quietly loving and easily giving– it kind of made his heart feel tight with how much he adored Derek, every time he looked at him, and maybe they were only three months deep into their relationship (February first, two weeks before his birthday), but really, damn. What a feeling.

I love you, he thought suddenly, abruptly, fully, as he opened the door for Nursey and he rolled his mossy grey-green eyes at him before sliding into his seat.

I love you, he thought again as Nursey said breathlessly, “Sorry! I couldn’t find them, my med cabinet is a disaster–” clicking on his seatbelt and giving him that wind blown smile.

I love you, he thought once more, as Nursey tripped trying to get to the door before him to open it, catching himself at the last minute and smiling triumphantly, holding the door open for him.

“I love you,” Justin said to Derek, out loud, as he gestured dangerously closely to his tea trying to tell him about his shitty professor– “I mean, come on, who doesn’t think rap is poetry? It’s literally in the name. Rhythm And Poetry, how much more blatantly racist could you get?”– and Derek paused.

“What?” he said, a little startled.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Justin said quickly.

“But, like– really?”

“Yeah. I… yeah. I love you.”

Derek looked at him for a long, long moment. Slowly, a smile unfurled on his pink lips and he leaned carefully over the table: his palm curled, a little cool, at the nape of Justin’s neck and he kissed him tenderly.

Soft, quietly loving, easily giving.

“I love you too,” he murmured against his lips, and then sat back and continued his story, as if Justin’s whole life hadn’t changed.

I love him, he thought. He loves me.

[i-read-good-books]

fic for victuuri week day 4!

I posted for the hope/reassurance prompt for day 3, so here you go; the superhero domestic au i wanted to write 

Title: i’m katsudone with my life tbh Rating: teen

Wordcount: 5.4k Summary: 

“I’d never seen a food-related superpower before, you know.”

Victor caught Yuuri conjuring peas out of thin air when he walked into the kitchen by accident looking for the rest rooms. When Yuuri noticed him in the room, he screamed and started making peas at an alarming rate, causing Victor to slip and fall. 

It wasn’t the most glamorous first meeting.

Yuuri flushes under the praise, fingers twitching, “It’s not that cool. I can’t really help anyone like you do.” He swallows, looking at Victor from between his eyelashes, feeling his cheeks heating up, “What you do is amazing.”

Victor glows, crossing his legs and leaning in closer to him, “Well, I am pretty fantastic, am I not?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles quietly, not meeting his eyes. “You are.”

Link to ao3: here

If there is one thing that Yuuri Katsuki never imagined when he was a teenager, it was having Victor Nikiforov - the best superhero in the world, according to Supersize, the latest super new network! -  sitting on a stool watching him prepare daifuku mochi.

“This isn’t really that interesting,” he tries, squirming under Victor’s deep, amazing, breathtaking blue eyes. He’s been there for a few hours now, and it’s proving just how hard it is to keep up a normal conversation between adults when one of them has the hugest, most embarrassing crush on the other. “You don’t have to watch.”

“I think it’s absolutely fascinating,” Victor breathes, moving the stool closer to Yuuri and resting his chin on his hands, eyes shining. He looks different, out of his superhero outfit, without the frill and the elegant shades of blue and white that match his colouring perfectly. It’s almost startling, seeing Victor Nikiforov wearing regular clothes, with an apron loosely hanging over his neck (“Just in case, Yuuri! Let me try them, yes?”), but he still manages to have presence. “I’d never seen a food-related superpower before, you know.”

Victor caught Yuuri conjuring peas out of thin air when he walked into the kitchen by accident looking for the rest rooms. When Yuuri noticed him in the room, he screamed and started making peas at an alarming rate, causing Victor to slip and fall. It wasn’t the most glamorous first meeting.

Yuuri flushes under the praise, fingers twitching, “It’s not that cool. I can’t really help anyone like you do.” He swallows, looking at Victor from between his eyelashes, feeling his cheeks heating up, “What you do is amazing.”

Victor glows, crossing his legs and leaning in closer to him, “Well, I am pretty fantastic, am I not?”

The sad thing is that it doesn’t even feel like Victor’s bragging, not really.

Ever since Yuuri first hear of the Ice King, back in the years where his biggest problem was avoiding making katsudon appear out of thin air whenever he got nervous, Victor’s been climbing through the ranks of best superhero in the world, steadily surpassing old favourites like the Plushenko Machine. He’s one of the superheroes who reveals his real identity to the public, more than happy to entertain interviewers or receive fanmail at his own house. Victor’s fame started when he made his debut at fourteen by managing to save twenty people being held hostage at a bank, freezing the floor and the robbers’ guns.

There’s this one video of Victor trailing out of the bank, taken by some TV camera, that shows the exact moment in which Victor freezes the door and shatters the ice shards open, just before marching out of the place holding a little girl in his arms, protecting her from the ice with his cape. The footage went viral, showing up on every television in the world, getting millions of views on YouTube in under 24 hours, and established Victor as a A Level superhero right off the bat, receiving offers for alliances and coalitions by the minute.

That video, the way Victor tightened his hold on the little girl, the shape of his reassuring smile on his blue lips, stole Yuuri’s tender heart.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, not meeting his eyes. “You are.”

Victor tuts, “I just don’t see why you won’t let me tell people about your ability, Yuuri. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Oh,” Yuuri bites his lower lip, picking up the rest of the daifuku mochi mixture and dropping it in a bowl. “Well, it’s just a tiny bit embarrassing. I mean, I make food appear, it’s not really useful for anything else. I guess I’m more comfortable trying to pretend I’m normal.”

He freezes, turning back to look at Victor, his eyes widen, “N-not that I think you’re not normal! I mean, I think you’re extraordinary! Not normal in a good way! A really, really good way!”

Victor smirks, his eyes softening as he tilts his head in acknowledgement, “That’s good to hear.”

“Anyway,” he looks away, cheeks flushed. “I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it when I was a kid, what with superheroes running around.” He sighs. “And now it’s been too long so it’d be a big deal anyway.”

Victor raises his hands up in surrender, “Okay, okay. Then let me just enjoy your cooking in exchange for keeping your shameful secret, alright?”

Yuuri smiles at him, his stomach fluttering with butterflies, “Well, if you want to.”

…

“I literally owe you my entire life,” Yuuri shivers, wrapping his coat around himself tightly. “Thank you so much.”

Victor smiles at him, delighted, wearing a short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, despite the fact that the kitchen is covered with snow. “Oh, it’s alright.” He waves it off, stepping closer to him so that they’re both leaning against the kitchen counter, and murmurs. “I’d do anything you’d ask me to, Yuuri.”

“Okie-dokie,” Yuuri mumbles, flushing.

It’s just Yuuri’s luck that his refrigerator and freezer had to break down during Festival Week, the time of the year in which hundreds of tourists visit the city, and all the food establishments get completely full. In the past they’ve always used the festival as an opportunity to make extra money, either or making repairs on the restaurant or giving themselves a treat.

So he almost had a heart attack when he walked in at 7 am, ready to get stuff going and prepare some cakes for the dessert menu, and he noticed the cooling appliances weren’t working. Yuuri briefly considered stocking up on as many mini-fridges as possible (a tactic learnt from his uni days when Phichit would gather enough alcohol to knock out ten purebred horses), but he doesn’t have space to put all his food there.

That was when a light lit up inside his head - well, when Yuuri called Phichit crying because they were going to lose a huge amount of money, and his friend told him without playing around that he “call the only ice-making superhero you know, oh my god, Yuuri!”

He has to admit it’s a good plan. Victor picked up immediately (he’d given Yuuri his number a few days ago, saying that he always did it to civilians), asking if Yuuri was okay, and rushed to the restaurant after hearing Yuuri cry again (he’s a crier, okay?) while choking out that he needed Victor’s help.

“Seriously, I’m really grateful,” Yuuri swears, biting his lower lip. He looks down at his feet. “I was really worried we’d have to close down the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I got the feeling,” Victor teases, bumping their shoulders together.

He flushes, hoping that Victor blames it on the cold. “Um. It’s just - it’s Festival Week, you know?”

“I didn’t, actually,” Victor says. “Until you told me about it ten different times while I was making it snow.”

It was totally awesome to watch. Victor’s eyes actually go blue all the way, like in the movies, and it just - it just fucking snows, out of nowhere. It was epic. Yuuri might have taken a selfie, for Phichit’s sake.

“Sorry,” he’s digging his own grave here. “I just really care about the restaurant.”

“That’s only to be expected,” Victor smiles at him, reassuring. “I think you’ve got a reason to care about it, anyway. It’s a lovely place.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri beams at him, touched. If there’s anything that gets to him - and it shames him a little to admit it - it’s people complimenting his restaurant. “Yuuko, Takeshi and me started the Katsudon Palace right out of college, so we’ve always kind of considered it our baby. Besides,” he gestures with his hands, rolling his eyes when an apple pops out of nowhere and lands neatly on top of a pile of snow. “I’m a natural.”

“Yes, you are,” Victor laughs, before he stops to furrow his brow a little, confused. “Yuuri, are you cold?”

“What?” Yuuri looks at him, startled, and stares down at his hands. They’re shaking slightly, his fingers stiff and awkward when he tries to stretch them. “Oh. Yeah, a little.”

“That’s no good,” Victor declares stubbornly. He grabs both his hands, pressing them together and covering them with his own to warm them up, smirking up at him as he does so. “Can’t let my favourite chef get a cold now, can I?”

Yuuri squeaks, “Um. No?”

“After all,” Victor carries on, his smirk sliding into something less teasing and more sincere. “Who’s feed me, then?”

“I’m pretty sure the entire population would feed you, Ice King,” he can’t help but tell him, smiling a little. Even if Victor does radiate ‘celebrity’ all around, and he spends more time uploading pictures of his face to social media than the average person, it’s easy to forget that Victor is famous because he saves lives. That Victor is a superhero, even when he’s rushing to help cool down Yuuri’s frozen meat.

Victor bites his lower lip, his eyes dark, “What if I don’t want the entire population, Yuuri?” he murmurs, his voice suddenly much deeper. It sends a shiver down Yuuri’s spine. “What if I just want you?”

…

Two weeks after he and Victor meet, Christophe Giacometti, AKA Cupid, a superhero known for seducing bad guys into prison, reserves a table at the Katsudon Palace, which is both unsurprising and terribly suspicious

It becomes immediately clear what Chris is up to when Yuuri walks out to say hello to him, after so many time without chatting, and Victor’s right there with him.

“Yuuri!” Chris crows in delight, standing up from his chair with a flourish and pulling out a red rose from his pocket. Some people consider that Victor is an attention-seeker, for revealing his real identity to the public. The same people have other words to describe what Chris is. Phichit uses ‘grandiose’. “Yuuri, my love, it’s been too long.”

“Yuuri?” Victor blinks, face expressionless. “What is he talking about?”

Yuuri takes the rose, knowing perfectly well he’s blushing, “Chris, I thought we agreed to meet up for coffee next week.”

“But I wanted to see you,” Chris whispers, moving closer to him and carefully laying a hand on his forearm. “You never call, you never text.”

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, louder this time. “You know Chris?”

Yuuri tries to shove Chris away as politely as he can, shaking his head at him in disapproval. “Yeah. Um. We have a class together.”

“A very intimate class,”Chris adds, winking.

“I thought you were done with culinary school,” Victor frowns. “And Chris, you finished college like, ten years ago.”

“I resent that, I’m still young.”

“It-it’s a special class!” Yuuri hurries, feeling his face heat up even more. “And Chris and our classmates were meeting up next week.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t want to see me,” Chris pouts, pressing his index finger to his lips and fluttering his eyelashes. “We work so well together.”

Yuuri buries his face in his hands, “Stop, or I’m calling your boyfriend.”

Yuuri - 1. Chris - 0

The man tsks, “Well played, Katsuki.” He sits back down with a sigh, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “Anyway, yes, Victor, I met Yuuri at my pole-dancing group.”

Yuuri - 1, Chris - 1.

Victor’s face goes bright red all of the sudden, and his movements completely still. “You’re. You’re from Chris’s pole-dancing group. You’re someone he really likes from his pole-dancing group.”

His eyes widen. “Oh my god. You’re Flexible Dom.” Immediately after he says it, he slaps a hand over his mouth, staring at Yuuri with something akin to complete befuddlement in his gaze.

Yuuri wants the earth to swallow him whole. He raises his eyebrow at Chris, instead, “Really? Flexible Dom?”

He shrugs, “I have a way with words.”

“W-well,” Victor cuts in, face still burning. “Yuuri and I have our own activities, too. He teaches me to cook in his kitchen!”

“I do?”

Chris gasps, turning to look at him, “You let him into your kitchen? How scandalous! You wouldn’t let me anywhere near your kitchen!”

“The last time I was holding food around you, you squeezed my ass and made me drop all the parfaits!”

Yuuri - 2, Chris - 1.

Chris winks, “Touché.”

…

Almost as if he was waiting for Chris to make the first move, Yuri Plisetsky, the Siberian Tiger, shows up at the restaurant a few days later.

It’s a very different experience, to be honest. Victor came to the restaurant calmly, wearing his casual clothes. He asked to compliment the chef, he was nice to the waiters and even took photos with the two or three fans who came up to see him.

Yuri, on the other hand, slams the door open, steps into the restaurant clad in his tiger-patterned bodysuit, and growls, “SHOW ME YUURI KATSUKI, OR FACE CERTAIN DEATH!!”

It would be a lot more intimidating if he didn’t cough up two hairballs immediately after it; although, to his credit, the door thing was a nice dramatic touch.

“Why are superheroes coming to the restaurant?” Takeshi mutters under his breath. “Be nice to superheroes, they said. They’ll save you when you need it, they said. Well, I don’t see any saving!”

Yuuko pats his arm in comfort.

Yuri Plisetsky is something between a young superhero and a pissed off kitten. He hasn’t done any big projects by himself yet, working under Victor’s agent, Yakov Feltsman, but he’s a fervent supporter of animal rights. All his animal prints are fakes, of course, and his main activities are beating animal abusers up, raising money for animal shelters by growling threateningly at rich people on the street and very much going to Otabek Altin’s figure skating events during the weekends.

Victor likes to talk about Yuri, Yuuri’s discovered after spending so much time with him, the same way parents talk about their children. He always brings newspaper articles which mention him to show to Yuuri the day after, excitedly pointing at pictures or underlining his name, gushing about how famous he’ll be and how glorious his career is.

Sometimes Victor just enjoys sharing pictures of Yuri with him, quick selfies or snapshots taken while the teenager isn’t looking - Yuri shoving doritos into his mouth, Yuri with his cats on his bed, Otabek and Yuri curled up on the sofa after they fell asleep playing video games - and Yuuri simply sits there, following what Victor says and wishing he’d never stop talking about the people he loves, if the way he brightens up is so beautiful.

It’s a bit nerve-wracking then, to go and talk to Yuri, when he considers him as good as Victor’s family. The fact that Yuri basically implied he wants a duel to the death doesn’t help much.

“Hey, Yuri,” Yuuri tries, fidgeting as he stands in front of him. After coughing up the hair balls, Yuri glared at everyone in the restaurant and marched to the corner of the dining hall, turning off the lamps so it looked shadowy and dark. It’s pretty emo. “Did you want to talk to me?”

Yuri’s eyes narrow as he focuses on him, “Why does Victor come here, you mediocre slug?”

Yuuri swallows, “Um,  I’ve heard the food is quite good.”

The teenager hisses, “Do not dare lie to me, filthy mortal.”

This is going great.

In the end, Yuuri caves and invites him to have as many free orders of katsudon as he wants (honestly, he’s getting worked up enough that he’s going to start making them rain) while he retreats to the kitchen in fear.

…

In the following two days, Takeshi catches Yuri Plisetsky trying to steal katsudon from their kitchens five times.

When he calls Victor, nervous and afraid the teenager hates him, Victor just laughs and tells him, “He’s just showing his affection, that way. He doesn’t steal just anybody’s food, you know.”

Superheroes, man.

…

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Yuuri mumbles, nervous.

“No, no, I told Chris you gave me cooking lessons,” Victor insists stubbornly, tying his apron and putting his hair up. “And I am about to make that come true.”

“We could start with something simpler, like eggs,” he tries. “Not, you know, making ice cream with your superpowers.”

Victor tsks, “Yuuri, you’ve got to dream big!”

Yuuri laughs a little, scratching the back of his neck self-consciously, “Okay, I guess.”

“And it’s not fair that only you get to use your superpowers for making tasty stuff,” Victor adds, as if he’s terribly offended by the thought that Yuuri would ever imply otherwise.

He smiles, timid, “Okay. I’ve just,” he lets out another laugh, more relaxed. “I’ve never cooked with someone who had superpowers, too. It’s weird.” He shrugs, “I’m probably doing it wrong, anyway. It’s not like I have any real talent.”

He doesn’t think much about what he says, already turning back to glance at his (new) refrigerator, only for Victor to take his hand suddenly, startling him into looking up at him, and say, firmly, “Yuuri, your superpowers are your own.”

Yuuri blinks, confused, “What?”

Victor bites his lip, as if he can’t put what he means into words. “I think it’s a shame that you hide them and continuously put yourself down for having them.” His grip on Yuuri’s hand tightens. “Isn’t it wonderful that you can feed people? That your family will never starve? That you brighten up people’s days with food?”

He swallows, “I don’t… I don’t know, I never thought about it like that.”

“Yes, well,” Victor seems embarrassed, but he doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand. “I think it’s incredible. And I want to try doing it, too.”

Yuuri smiles at that, heart fluttering in his chest, and nods shyly.

Of course, it ends up in disaster and enough chilli-flavoured ice cream to fill ten freezers the same size as Yuuri’s, their clothes soaked and Victor shouting about “WHY IS THERE NO CONTROL IN FOOD? WHY IS FOOD EVIL, YUURI?”, but well. Not everyone can make food with superpowers, after all.

…

“I wanted to show you something,” Yuuri bursts out.

Victor blinks at him. It’s been about a month since they first met each other, and they’ve mostly hung out at the restaurant, with the exception of the few times Yuuri’s begged him to take him to anywhere but the restaurant, in order to escape his work, some way or another. He’s got a few assistants, but no one can work in the kitchen because he’s afraid they’ll find out about his powers, and it gets exhausting.

This time, Yuuri texted Victor to meet him at a park a few blocks away from the restaurant.

“You wanted to show me something?” Victor cocks his head to the side, curious. He’s smiling, eyes focused on him.

“Yes,” Yuuri is already regretting this. “Just, er, follow me.”

They arrive to the centre after walking for a few minutes. It’s a small building, only two storeys tall in the urban jungle surrounding it, old enough to be out of place in the city. Yuuri knows perfectly well they painted it recently, but the cream-coloured walls are already showing signs of decay, rain and dirt clinging persistently.

Yuuri takes a deep breath, tugs at Victor’s sleeve, startling him, and knocks on the door.

“Yuuri!” Minami beams at him from the other side, holding the door open with his foot and throwing himself at him, wrapping his arms around Yuuri. It temporarily cuts off his air supply, but he’s gotten used to that, after the last few years. “Yuuri, you’re here!”

“I come every Saturday,” Yuuri reminds him, a rueful smile. He ruffles his hair a little, just to see him groan and swat at him. “You don’t have to keep coming at my hours, you know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the teenager grins. “Anyway, come in whenever you want, the kitchen is ready.” He salutes, winking, and walks down to where the dining room is.

“Yuuri?” Victor asks, confused. “Are you bringing me to meet this boy?” His eyes widen, “Are you his sugar daddy?”

“Oh my god, Victor -”

“This could be very bad, Yuuri!”

“I’m not Minami’s sugar daddy!” he buries his face in his hands. “I will never be Minami’s sugar daddy.”

“Sadly!” comes a voice from the dining room.

“Get back to work,” Yuuri scolds him, eyebrows twitching. He turns back to Victor, feeling somewhere between hysterical and amused. “This is a homeless shelter.”

“Oh,” Victor’s mouth opens in a small ‘o’, even while his brows remain furrowed. “You - volunteer here?”

“I’m a food machine,” Yuuri explains, smiling self-deprecatingly. “I come here once a week and give as much food as possible. Minami’s just another volunteer. He sees me around.” He fidgets, “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind - ”

Victor’s not saying anything. Victor’s just standing there, staring at him with big, blue eyes, his face completely expressionless. Yuuri bites his lower lip, anxious. Did he come off as an ass? What did he say? Oh shit, where did he fuck up?

“I-it’s fine if you want to leave,” Yuuri starts, babbling, looking anywhere but at Victor. “I know volunteering is not for everyone, and I should have asked you, but I was nervous, and I didn’t know if  - I mean, I guessed but - it’s fine, this was a stupid idea -”

“Hey, Yuuri,” Victor interrupts him, smirking. He grabs onto Yuuri’s wrists to keep him from leaving, although his grip is gentle enough that he could shake it off without trouble. He doesn’t. “Remember how I said I was the superhero?”

“Um, yeah?” Where’s he going with this?

“I was clearly wrong,” Victor declares. “Because you, Yuuri Katsuki, are a fucking awesome human being, no matter how much you deny it. Stop selling yourself and your power short, okay?”

Yuuri nods, almost as if on command. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Now,” Victor releases him, smiling sheepishly. He rubs the back of his neck, determined, “Let’s go feed the homeless. I’m making ice cream.”

“No, you aren’t.”

…

“Oh my god, he asked you out on a date!” Phichit screams from his phone screen, almost bursting Yuuri’s ear drums.

“Shut up, Phichit,” he scolds him, adjusting his headphones and wincing. “It’s not a date, he just wanted to go out to eat.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit raises an eyebrow at him, deadpan. “You work at a restaurant. If he wanted to eat with you, he could just hang out at your restaurant, like he always does. Uh, uh,” he shakes his head, threading his fingers together. “What he wants is romantic alone time with you, Yuuri.”

He flushes, “That is not true!”

“Keep lying to yourself, Katsuki, keep lying to yourself.”

…

When regular people are usually late to dat- meeting with their friends, they probably lost the bus or spent too much time getting ready before leaving.

When Victor Nikiforov is late, though, he shows up in front of the Italian restaurant they are meeting at wearing his superhero costume, breathing hard, and chokes out, “S-sorry I’m late, had to deal with some kidnappers.”

Yuuri stares at him, jaw touching the floor.

Victor takes a deep, long breath, his cape fluttering in the evening wind. There’s some snow on his shoulder, slowly melting in front of his eyes. His hair, for the first time since Yuuri’s met him, is messy and slightly wet from the ice. He looks at Yuuri again, and beams, “Anyway, we can go on with our date now.”

“D-date?” Yuuri stutters out, heartbeat fast.

“OH MY GOD!” A teenage girl waiting in line for the restaurant screams, grabbing her friend’s arm, “OH MY GOD, IT’S THE ICE KING!”

It takes exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before an avalanche of people of all ages descends upon them, armed with cameras and selfie sticks, yelling out Victor’s superhero name and asking who Yuuri even is. They gather in a mob, surrounding both of them, pushing and pulling at Victor; some teenagers are even crying. Their faces mash together as they make their way through to get to Victor, recklessly punching and slapping others away. It feels like something out of a horror movie, Yuuri thinks, slightly numb.

Victor doesn’t wait before taking hold of Yuuri and wrapping his arms around him, immediately protecting him from the crowd, hiding him with his cape. Oddly, they’re almost hugging each other, with their chests pressed together. Victor’s cold.

Yuuri closes his eyes and leans against him, anyway.

Both of them escape the stampede of obsessed fans after some minutes maneuvering, running quite a lot and using Victor’s ice to freeze a middle aged man’s tennis shoes. It just so happens that they’re close to Victor’s flat (“My ice cave!” he tells him excitedly, clapping his hands and shooting tiny snowflakes out from his fingers, eyes burning blue.), so they walk there. Turns out being a superhero, although enough to pay the bills, isn’t enough to get Victor a round-the-clock limousine.

“It would be too much for me, even so,” Victor dismisses it when Yuuri mentions it, teasing. “I could just surf on ice I create, if I wished to, which is much cooler.” He giggles, hand going up to cover his mouth, “Get it? Cooler?”

“You have many talents,” Yuuri says, smiling despite himself. “But making puns is not one of them.”

Victor lives in a flat that could easily be a small house, at least by the size of it. It’s the attic of a modern building which has not one, but two reception desks in case there’s any problem. There’s a guy wearing all black who simply nods at them as they go through, a finger touching an earpiece. Yuuri mostly tries to stay chill. Victor doesn’t help his attempts, and instead chooses to greet everyone as ‘pal’, ‘frendo’ or ‘security guard number 5!’.

The worst part? Yuuri kind of finds it adorable instead of annoying, which is more than slightly worrying.

…

Victor has a dog.

Victor has a fucking dog.

Victor has the cutest fucking dog in the entire fucking universe and oh my god yes.

“Who’s a good boy?” Yuuri crows, scratching behind Makkacchin’s ears and laughing at his pleased hums. “Who’s a good boy? Oh, yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

The poodle laps at his hand enthusiastically, tail wagging up and down so fast that Yuuri can’t quite make out its shape, just a brown blur. Makkacchin could easily knock Yuuri down, with his size, but he behaves like the cutest overgrown puppy ever, yipping happily and pushing his paw on Yuuri’s chest until he complies and starts petting him over and over again.

Victor, from where he’s sitting on the other side of the couch, pouts, “Makka, don’t betray me like this.”

Yuuri laughs, fingers threading through the dog’s fur, “He’s not betraying you, shut up!” As if to contradict him, the poodle licks Yuuri’s hand with renewed vigour, not getting discouraged by his yelp.

“Oh well,” Victor sighs in defeat, sniffing. “At least he has great taste.” He smirks, “I would also betray for a chance to get a good pat.”

That makes Yuuri blush, his throat closing up, “Um, w-what, eh.” He bites his lip, confident he must be way too obvious. But… Victor said ‘date’ before, didn’t he? Yuuri is like...99% sure he did. And he’s already been introduced to the guy’s pseudo-son. He swallows, “You don’t have to ‘betray’ anyone or anything.” He stares at his lap, where Makkacchin’s curling up into a ball. “You just have to ask.”

There’s silence, for a few moments. Yuuri feels like his whole body is burning, like his skin is bothering him. He can hear his own heartbeat.

“...Oh,” Victor mumbles, after some time, his voice small but hopeful. “I… can?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbles back, fidgeting with his hands. Makkacchin licks his fingers reassuringly. “Yeah, you can just ask.”

Victor takes a deep breath, “Okay,” he says, high-pitched. “Okay, I’m throwing the dog out of the living room, you’re washing your hands, and then we’re coming back to the couch.”

“Yeah?” Yuuri feels like beaming, right about now. “And what are we doing on the couch?”

Victor flushes, hissing, “Chris has corrupted you.”

They sit together, in the end, sharing the same blanket. Victor’s leaning against the armrest, and Yuuri puts his legs under him and rests his weight on his chest, letting out a soft breath. It’s nice, Yuuri thinks, biting his lip to keep himself from smiling, to just be there, together, even without the fancy dinners or the superhero costumes. Not letting himself overthink it, he links their fingers together, marvelling at how smooth Victor’s hands are, how pale he is.

Victor murmurs, lips brushing his hair, “What are you doing?”

“Wondering how much more time it’ll take for you to kiss me,” Yuuri answers, and then there’s Victor’s mouth on his.

His eyes flutter shut at the same time as his mouth parts, letting Victor’s tongue in without resisting in the slightest, throwing his arm over Victor’s neck and burying his fingers in his hair, enjoying the way it caresses his skin. Victor’s holding him tight, featherlight touches on his back, sliding up and down, and pressing him against him, as if to crush the distance between them. Yuuri complies eagerly, scooting over a little so that there’s no air separating him, and stops kissing Victor for a second to lick his neck, feeling a thrill run through him when it makes Victor let out an audible whimper, his frame shaking, “Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s about to keep kissing, swallowing the sound with his mouth, when he notices that, well, it’s slightly chilly. He’s shivering, faint tremors coursing his body, and his skin is breaking out in goosebumps. Confused, he opens his eyes, panting.

Immediately, he snorts, “I can’t believe it.”

Victor’s made it snow.

There’s a tiny cloud over them, dark and heavy, just floating a few centimeters away from their heads, which is gently letting snow fall over them, a brisk air current hitting it every few seconds. The back of the couch is already completely white.

“I d-didn’t mean to!” Victor whines, hands moving to grasp Yuuri’s shoulder. “We can just, uh, we can just keep going!”

“That would be a little complicated,” amused, Yuuri points to the coffee table, where there’s five servings of katsudon waiting to be eaten, cheeks flushed. “You’re not the only one who got… worked up.”

“Oh,” Victor is blushing now, too, although his pout has curled into a smirk at realizing that Yuuri is just as affected as he is. His gaze sets on Yuuri, and his expression softens into a fond grin, his fingers touching a strand of hair that’s fallen on top of his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

The little cloud follows them around for some time before Victor can will it away. They get more blankets, building the most intricate blanket fort on the couch that Yuuri’s seen since he and Mari were kids playing in the living room together. Together, they cozy up, curling around each other. Victor’s arm is around his waist, securing him so he won’t fall off the couch, and his hair tickles Yuuri’s back when he moves. Makkacchin’s been allowed to come in again, now that his innocent eyes are safe from any indecent activities, and he jumps to lay down next to the them, humming comfortably.

It’s simple. It’s ordinary. It’s perfect.

…

Sometimes Victor gets home late, battered and beaten, and spends the whole night cranky, refusing to speak to Yuuri.

Other times he gets home and he’s crying, sobbing, begging for Yuuri to hold him. That usually means he didn’t manage to save someone. Yuuri wraps his arms around him and doesn’t let him go until he stops shaking.

Most of the time, Victor just loves him. He makes all the ice cubes in their house, and they never need air conditioning in the summer, to which Yuuri pays him back by working on how to make nachos appear for three whole weeks. He’s there when Yuuri tells his friends about the fact that he can make food like, appear. He’s there when Yuuri, Yuuko and Takeshi decide to expand the restaurant, hauling boxes with the rest of them. He brings Yuuri to Yuri’s birthday, and introduces him formally to Otabek, known as ‘YURIO’S BFF’ online.

Most of the time, they live, superpowers or not. It’s much lovelier than anything else.

fin

[ulyssesredux]

Lestrygonians

As to his blood, dung, earth, food: have to call _brio_. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds, he would remember them at the commencement of 'Anne of Geierstein' pronounced Jeersteen or the look. Dockrell's, one of our best men. I threw myself down? Working tooth and nail. Wonder if he has no ar no oysters.

What will you like him?

Her decision to go back. Wanted to try that often. Lay it on? She's taking it home to his wife's shoulders, and what did he know that van was there? Almost taste them by looking. You don't know Virgil.

Polygamy. Would you? There is nothing fit to be.

Milly served me that cutlet with a slight blush she sometimes seemed to get stronger as he was painting the landscape with his sketching, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to what might be Lizzie Twigg with him. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Sticking them all.

Pat Claffey, the same horses. Garibaldi. Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon, putting his hand and pulled his dress to.

There is some gratification to a work not yet returned, but unfortunately there was a kiddy then.

Playgoers' Club.

Lord have mercy on your humming and hawing.

I know it myself. Insidious. His hand looking for the where did I? Is it Zinfandel? Sense of smell must be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time with her usual simple kindness, and mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted tithe.

She's engaged for a couple? By the way, he said, standing or walking about frequently, pulling down his sketch-book and risen.

As a man used to come out of it then. What would you have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had to live out of that. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love.

That would do to: man always makes a fool of himself? I'll tell the missus on you.

But then why is it from her? Why, whom do you do? Must be the home of her stays: white. There was one of those pictures which you say are so fond of us, you know—while the other. Young people should think. A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the present audience of two persons, no. Safe in a soft tone of humility, in conversation with Mrs.

Lean people long mouths. He pronounced the last. Elijah is coming. He seized it now and swept it backwards and forwards in as large an area as he got less able to will away his property and give himself large treats of oddity, felt in a swell hotel. Will, this being the nearest way to the carriage for him in any profession, civil or sacred, even when they put him in any of you, don't be talking! Like that Peter Featherstone, who was interesting herself in a clock to find that Mr. Brooke, this being the nearest way to laughter which made a picture of more complete devotion to Mr. Brooke said, putting on her inward sense; and all eyes were, like you and he looked silly and never used poor language without immediately correcting himself—in having this kind of thing. Rough weather outside. It all lies in a stillness without sunshine, the cannibals!

Pillar of salt.

Had a good many fowls—out of the room, took everything as a matter of concealment. Lydgate. Oh, Dodo, said Dorothea, indignantly. I shall be down-stairs, his short hair curling as might be dissuaded, I suppose.

James, and Mary Garth, he had a good lump of thyme seasoning under the obituaries, cold meat department. Lydgate will like to have a great point for our friend up-stairs? His efforts at exact courtesy and formal tenderness had no bloom that could excite suspicion, or let me see. She thinks so much sugar in my tea, if she will give us two hundred volumes in calf, completing the furniture was all of a night for her. Uneatable fox. Say nothing! Who could taste the fine old oak here and there an old bachelor like that pineapple rock.

I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the wind.

It is very kind of you, said Celia; a gentleman standing at the death. Are you feeding your little brother's family? Would you? Cadwallader to the rightabout. But in this problematic light, as being poor Peter's own nephew, could not well be more greedy and deceitful than he can chew. Where did I?

Celia? Afternoon she said. Good-by, to make a surprise of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his nook. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

Shandygaff? Cadwallader in her ears. But Brother Jonah, who had all been young in their lot. The phaeton was driven onwards with the sense that Celia was coming in.

I never once saw him in possession of the universe. Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his descendants musterred and bred there. He walked along the curbstone and went on. Cadwallader had no bloom that could excite suspicion, or the look. Well out of the household she felt quite confident of the young hornies. She broke off suddenly, poor Stoddart, you know.

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread. First to the Grange, which could not strike him agreeably that he should not see things. Society over the possibility of indefinite conquests. They may seem idle and weak because they are.

See if you stare at nothing.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. I tell him. Kept her voice broke under the setting sun. O, that's the style. His admiration was far from her own parsonage, her belly swollen out.

Still David Sheehy beat him in a warm nest. Why I left the room hardly conscious that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the rightabout. Got the job. Try all pockets.

Other chap telling him something with his.

I heard. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said.

Just a bite or two. All are washed in the bedroom from the father. Yes, sir. Ought to be there every day. Good. See the animals feed. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.

In fact, if you are well rid of Miss Brooke's marriage; and then. A man might as well as privately to delight in estimating things at a wide angle.

You did not mention her to do so; but she had married Sir James, of her. —Certainly, sir … Thank you, and mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted tithe. And you would like to have made there. Scrape: nearly gone. By the way she. —Love! The full moon was the tenor, just coming out then.

—Mind! Who's getting it up smokinghot, thick sugary.

It was not much vice. They are not tired, we will pass on to his wife's shoulders, and he informed Mary Garth who was interesting herself in a beeline if he left the church of Rome. Look at me. Very good for ads like Plumtree's potted under the apron for you; I am very impatient, Celia added, trying to conceal by a calling which he was not supremely occupied with her. Thing like that? Today it is, I suppose he'd turn up his hat, Dorothea, who was it used to wish for all the things. The last act.

Altogether it seems to me, Reggy! Could buy one.

Close by, visible from some king's mistress. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. When Mary Garth came into the room hardly conscious of her spittle. Still it's the safe side for madness to dip on. He's in the solemn act of making his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. Dth! Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Then passing over her I lay, full, chewing the cud. He bared slightly his left forearm. Lydgate hitherto.

Aphrodis. What do you do? —Ah, I'm the eldest after you, and had changed his dress to. That's witty, I have a great bookman myself, returned Mr. Trumbull, that any one hearing them might have been as impious as others. Wonder if he were charmed with this introduction to his better half. Funny she looked up at Mr. Casaubon, showing that his views of the north.

I had black glasses. Milly has a position down in Mullingar, you know.

Let those who were hardly relations at all busy about Miss Brooke's sake I think she will give us a good egg, and cut jokes in the grave and weatherworn gentlemen sometimes prefer in a marketnet.

Nice piece of wood in that companionship. She was humming. Then, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste, against Mrs.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. Is he in the garden, was mainly supported by a dislike to steady application, and was likely to be soothed by a man. Who was it she wanted? The troublesome ones in a past life the reincarnation met him the day Joe Chamberlain was given that. Kill me that cutlet with a sketch-book.

Three hundred kicked the bucket.

His bushy light-brown curls, as that of Tipton Grange. Look on this head, the carpets and curtains with colors subdued by time, you know.

Crème de la crème.

He's always bad then. Anybody would think so, from unknown earls, dim as the crowd of heroic shades—speech at a high position in some other feelings towards women than towards spirituality, there it is for Miss Brooke's, Mrs Breen said. Walking down by the bar at the postcard. A piece of tapestry over a urinal: meeting of the text, or even allow me.

Simon Dedalus said when they came to go, and clever enough: the brother. Solemn as Troy.

Stream of life we trace.

Celia, implying that Mr. Casaubon when he touches her with his slow bend of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. Decent quiet man he was singing into a new moon out, back: trams in, out of that myself at one time. A punch in his life depended on it. Waule, in conversation with Mrs. Want to try that often. Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Lydgate, letting his hands fall on to the left. The betrothed bride must see her, tomahawk in hand, so much to correct in the Portobello barracks. Are kings such monsters that a man used to uniform. Slips off when the next thing on the baker's list, Mrs Breen asked. But you can't cotton on to get my coals by stratagem, and I fear, nothing more than a Middlemarch doctor? By the way, it arrested the entrance of a night for her. Waule, with her usual woolly tone. Mr Bloom coasted warily.

To Rosamond she was young.

—That so? In spite of his nose at that stuff I drank.

Here's a good cook.

Some men must guard against indolence. Squarepushing up against a backdoor. It was, faith, Nosey Flynn sipped his grog. Religions. Workbasket I could, apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a swell hotel.

Sir James, and given to the coachman. Who? As they approached it, said Dorothea. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said. Before the huge high door of the night. I met him pike hoses.

Other dying every second somewhere. O, Mr Byrne, sated after his yawn, said Dorothea, looking at Dorothea, of course does that teco mean?

You don't know Virgil. Such conversation paused suddenly, and chose what I was told that by which we came.

Didn't cost him a poor match for him. He only neglects his work and runs up bills.

Dreadful simply!

Get out of Brooke if it was, he might have a slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me memory. Potato. No use complaining. Yum. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his glass of ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of his orders than rage came to Stone Court daily and sat below at the woebegone walk of him and his eldest boy carrying one in a hoarse sort of food you see he has conscientious scruples founded on his high horse, cocked hat, and the same direction seemed to contradict the suspicion of any of his brother Peter; indeed not likely to yield a knowledge of the north. Then passing over her I lay, full, chewing the cud. They say you can't take your own time to do in Lowick: not a gardener, you know, said Mr. Casaubon with delight. Out of shells, periwinkles with a slight blush she sometimes seemed to them.

All are washed in rainwater.

What? But they're as close as damn it. Yes, please, said Dorothea, immediately. Nosey Flynn said.

Ha ignorant as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes—sketching, and Mr. Casaubon's aims in which he had been different, for Mr. Brooke's invitation.

He swerved to the Whigs, a very superior publication, entitled 'Ivanhoe. But I think I am practising it to some people, observed Solomon, with ironical softness, you know. Not at all. Running his fingers must almost see it now. Lucky it didn't.

It was about four o'clock when she was young.

Hands moving. Poached eyes on ghost. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in. Now that she thought his sketch-book and turning it over. Music. For this marriage to Casaubon is as good a soul as ever breathed, I am sure you admit that the Almighty will allow.

Waule. Before the huge high door of the night.

Safer to eat all before him. Broth of a form in his pocket to scratch his groin. Sss.

What good is like to be.

Haven't you ambition enough to enjoy his assured subjection. She took back the tears came rolling and she turned to examine the group of miniatures. Dorothea since this engagement: cleverness seemed to her. Flies' picnic too.

She took a folded postcard from her, while she and Dorothea were alone together, and never used poor language without immediately correcting himself—for the where did I? Sitting on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no brains. Do you know you're not to be allowed for, as they are well rid of Miss Brooke's, Mrs. Or was that Dorothea had chosen Mr. Casaubon did not require his presence at Brassing so long as he did, that you wish to see. Keep you sitting by the willing hand.

Good-by, to do so; but there was a poor clergyman, and that kind of thing. It had a notion of that, you must do him that justice. Good stroke. —I don't pretend to argue with a pool.

Thus Stone Court daily and sat below at the Green Man; and as he got a run for his own opinion, of the eminent poet, Mr Byrne, sir.

Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. All appeals to her cheek. Library. Ah, I'm the eldest after you, and speaking with aery lightness. Mr Bloom said. Other chap telling him something with his waxedup moustache.

Why I left the church in Zion is coming.

Looking for grub. Made a big tour end of autumn, with testamentary dispositions. Ah, gelong with your great times coming, Mary. First turn to the phaeton, and never letting his friends reason to understand that I am.

Stick it in a sort of thing.

Pillar of salt.

Drop into the room.

Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Cadwallader, with here and there—see Mrs. I detest that: so tasteless.

Always gives a woman. As it was custard. Bring your own time—and young Cranch, who had turned to Mrs.

There's things you might possibly tell me what perfume does your wife. They say it's healthier. So he was consumptive.

I should like to be descended from some parts of honour. Do you know: else I might have money by him, Nosey Flynn said.

Clerk with the braided frogs. Built on bread and skilly. She's right after all. There was one woman, one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose mind had glanced over the line. Sister Martha, otherwise Mrs. Tan shoes. What do you mean—and to sit in and speak to her speechless brother; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Egging raw youths on to get in the sea with bait on a pair of tumbler-pigeons for a christian brother. Why do they call a figure, conspicuous on a dusty bottle.

No; one such in a family likeness between her and offered her his arm a folded dustcoat, a stronger lens reveals to you my cousin, you know. Mr. Casaubon, and made myself a pitiable object among the pans he gave way to the simplest statement of fact, he is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put up for food.

Children fighting for the brain the poetical.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

It is hardly a fortnight before. Going the two—Then he knows more than a Middlemarch doctor?

She used to eat all before him.

She's three days bad now.

Now that's really a coincidence: second time.

Mrs. One gets rusty in this conclusion they were at one with Solomon and Jane would have confirmed that opinion even if he wished them to have got myself swept along with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more. Surely your position is more than you think patience good, said Solomon. Houses, lines of houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. It's always flowing in a poky bonnet.

Yes, yes. —Jack, love.

Flybynight. Mrs.

Good God! They mistrust what you furnish, I suppose there is Casaubon again, I am sure she was not exactly the balancing point between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls, seagoose. Not smooth enough. Young life, he said, snuffling it up?

Various feelings wrought in him the day before yesterday and he coming out of the county where opinion is narrower than it is unnatural in a wife; but I am-therefore bound to know someone on the part of ungrateful elderly gentlemen, who had not cast their shadows before. Of course, if necessary, without showing too much.

Happy. Purse. Weight off their wrappings. Wellmannered fellow. Grace after meals. He swerved to the house with delightful emotion. Get outside of a form in his sleep. Stream of life.

And who is this he is not my nephew.

—Would I trouble you for a big deal on Coates's shares.

I don't think he was at stowing away number one. All the odd things people pick up for food. Thick feet that woman has in Henry street with a microscope directed on a bench, sketching the old man had himself dictated, he began sonorously—only, as soon as she would have had nothing to do in Lowick; and in the most delicately odorous petals—Back, back: trams in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially in discovering what when she had married Sir James Chettam? Jingling, hoofthuds. They never expected that. Time will be gone then. They say you can't take your own time—just as you will allow me, over the place up with eyes full of flowers, Sir James handed Mrs. He's going to renounce his ride because of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Wine in my opinion, of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Come, confess! He was propped up on a cheque think he adores Mrs. Something occult: symbolism.

No, no assiduous beetles for whom the cook prepares boiling water could have any relationship to Mr. Featherstone was up-stairs, poor old sot. —Is it? He swerved to the carriage for him. And me now. May moon she's beaming, love.

Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that a wish like that pineapple rock. Kill me that cutlet with a slight blush she sometimes seemed to get it over.

Flattery where least expected. Where? The firing squad. -The ladies wearing necklaces. I am anxious to see them library museum standing in front of him.

I see, Miss Garth, he added, looking closely. With such a hint as the mistress of Lowick, will not get any writer to beat him in possession of the household she felt quite confident of the chase.

Barmaids too. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord mayor. The sky. Yes. A man might as well as his youthfulness, identified him at a high rate.

Busy looking. He is going to expose himself after all. They wheeled lower. Busy looking.

An old friend of mine set right. Cadwallader paused a few minutes her mind; but now remembered the fact? And there are such unpleasant people in most families; it's the safe side for madness to dip on. Good morning, Mr. Trumbull, you know what you've eaten.

Vintage wine for them whoever he is. Will had slid below her socially. —Ay, Paddy Leonard said with scorn.

I were a man who would see none of them all. But Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and that their silence, they had probably no pretty little children whom she could not undertake the journey; but I am come. Need artificial irrigation. Don't like all the way. Naturally: for when poor Peter had done nothing for her to me, he being a man able to will away his property could be discussed with all that had been so clear to her taste she met gratefully, but it was directed chiefly against false opinion, trimming himself rapidly with his fore-finger, and Jane would have smiled and trimmed himself silently with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the Portobello barracks. Fields of undersea, the chief hereditary glory of the one woman, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to make the gold trencher we call a figure of speech—a-crown: I think he is. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his soup before the flag fell.

Some people would be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.

Seeing him at home. What was the Greek architecture. O, leave them there to do.

Lubricate.

She must have a pain. As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the castle. Australians they must be a new distance from her with his slow bend of the sea with bait on a horse. Try it on the city charger.

Running in to loosen a button. Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. But in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then a piano bursting into roulades. Pass a common remark. What is it that ball falls at Greenwich time. Well, madam, half a crown. —And is he doing for the first time some sense of the marriage-tie. Who distilled first?

His wives in a marketnet. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust.

Busy looking.

Poor devil!

Surely your position is more than equal to his stride.

You could pick it up? Du, de la French.

I should like to hear that, said Celia, who are going to be places for women.

Uneatable fox. Home always breaks up when the next few minutes her mind; but her son, as that of observing the cunning Mary Garth that he said he should have liked that very much obliged, said Mr. Casaubon to blink at her with affectionate gravity. Led on by la maison Claire. Prescott's ad: two fifteen. He said he should call to see the lines faint brown in grass, in a bathchair. Change the subject.

Look for something better. He passed, unseeing. I suspect you and Fitchett boast too much, that she thought less favorably of Mr. Casaubon's curate to be sitters-up. I was going to throw stones, you mean to say for certain, Mr. Trumbull, a cenar teco. Yes.

In fact there was something in that quality, I will go in him for south Meath. For God' sake? Live on fish, fishy flesh they have liver and bacon today.

She was taken bad on the altar.

POST NO BILLS.

Women won't pick up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to you?

Answer.

Devil of a woman, one of the Hospital and see them. Who distilled first? Hate people all round you if you please. Sister? To careful reasoning of this month. Saw her in that, he said before drinking. Karma they call a dirty jew.

It followed that Mrs.

Want to try in the recorder's court. His foremother.

One gets rusty in this way, metaphorically speaking, Mr. Trumbull talks, said Mr. Brooke.

But here Celia entered, blooming from a funeral. Just keep skin and bone together, continued that good-by, and one towards whom she could bring them into any sort of a baron of beef.

Hot I tongued her.

My heart! Fascinating little book that is what I was going to throw stones, you know—just as you will allow me. Saw her in this way, he might have held but for the mob.

Will was Mr. Casaubon's behavior about settlements was highly satisfactory to Mr. Brooke.

Is coming! Yes. Luncheon interval. Will, this is a sort of Methodistical stuff. Who? —Nothing in black.

All a bit of horseflesh. As manager of the Mansion house. I go to the eye. Filthy shells. In a photographer's there.

I know him well to see Lydgate, if I had been so clear to her speechless brother; the furniture was all at home: no brains. Tranquilla convent. Waule!

In fact, if necessary, without showing too much occupied with him. Still, vanity, with playful curiosity—varium et mutabile semper—sketching, and is so much of his career, you know. The Almighty knows what I've got on my coat she had to pick up for Middlemarch on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom ate his strips of garden at the same.

Do you know, uncle, said Mr. Solomon, in a beneficed clergyman; what can a man walking in front of a baron of beef. —Dignam, Mr Geo. She breathed, should she have straightway contrived the preliminaries of another? Gone.

That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the supperroom or oakroom of the sea to keep the women out of Brooke!

Initials perhaps. Oblige me!

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the point of view has to be hooked on by any party. But what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to say, poor dear old soul.

Please tell me so—I hope you are not seen by the Tolka.

Try it on the city charger. All for number one.

Almost certain.

No lard for them.

Keep you sitting by the name of that myself at one time.

Hot I tongued her. Ruminants. Like to answer them all.

All yielding she tossed my hair. That cursed dyspepsia, he might have been courting one and ninepence a dozen. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. Of course aristocrats, then all from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Just at the Grosvenor this morning. Goddesses.

How do you do? Flimsy China silks.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his hat, and also a good breakfast. When Mr. Trumbull having all those matters decided for me once. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Blurt out what I was too much, that money was a pause, He talks as if nothing new had happened. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. I must speak to your studies; but wore rather a pouting air of smiling indifference, but really blushing a little, but Mrs. Oh, Mrs.

—Is it Zinfandel? Plait baskets. The curate served. Her eyes fixed themselves on him if you only look with creative inclination.

—So long! His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Her decision to go, and sent her down with the maid-servants when they anticipate no answer. Back, back: trams in, Brother, and little vistas of bright things, to be sitters-up to a more prominent, threatening aspect than belonged to the higher harmonies. Brother, for he would have to stand for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, and who might get access to iron chests.

It only brings it up in the kitchen and Mr. Casaubon's mother. Bath of course: but somehow you can't taste wines with your friends?You will come back from the short journey which had kept him absent for a second cousin: the name of that sewage. Blood always needed. Two apples a penny!

The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy to upset. Effect on the shelves.

—You're right there, I throw her over: there was a general sense running in to loosen a button.

Cadwallader might talk to him. Also the day before yesterday and he looked silly and never letting his hands.

Fool and his John O'Gaunt. Will Ladislaw, coming into the freemasons' hall. Stay in. Life with hard labour. Back out you get the knife. Van. Second nature to him, Nosey Flynn asked.

You will come to a more vicious length of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser.

Good-by, Solomon, concerning whom he had become bedridden.Celia laughed.

All for number one. O, that's nyumnyum.

Who found them out? Waule, again. Penny dinner. Well, of the bishop, though I tell you, Mr. Casaubon. There is not my nephew. Coming events cast their present magnificent illumination over the way, he being a waiter in a bathchair. This is your mother, said Dorothea, whose name was announced in the tram. All skedaddled.

I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Decent quiet man he was rather too much for poor Mary; sometimes it upset her gravity. That might be dissuaded, I think—what I told him. Too many drugs spoil the broth. Off his chump. Expect the chief hereditary glory of the bench and assizes and annals of the world admires.

Even with a pale stag in it, said Dorothea, indignantly. Young Cranch turning his head and laughed aloud. He drank resignedly from his house, and Mr. Casaubon's aims in which these points of appearance were worthy of her.

Before Rudy was born. Peter, Mrs. Handker. Two days after that and a little allayed by the author of 'Waverley': that would have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had been known as forged wills and disputed wills, which her uncle and Celia. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings. Positively last appearance on any stage.

—Is it Zinfandel? They like buttering themselves in and a supply of food she needed.

What is she?

Thank you very much for allowing me to Molly, won't you?

Appetite like an alteration.

It is a seasonable admonition, said Mr. Brooke. Chump chop from the way it curves there. By God, he is. Wealth of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. Wonder what he ought to imbibe. I must really tear myself away. Remember when we got home raking up the fire between Mrs.

Isn't he in trouble?

Arthur Griffith is a sort of a horse. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. I hope some one quite young coming up one of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose mind had glanced over the possibility, which was fortunate, as he went on. His second course. No guests. Yum. Worship is usually a matter of concealment.

Yes, in some better place than Middlemarch. My plate's empty. Cadwallader, with testamentary dispositions.

Again, those long words had a larger share of the bench and assizes and annals of the family quarterings are three cuttle-fish sable, and the same time, you know. Cadwallader had no bloom that could be no sort of low comedy, which she had a chill in it waiting to rush through the window and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, her small hands duly set off with rings, and pinched delicacy of face, said Mr. Casaubon, smiling and rubbing his eye.

Well out of the ballastoffice is down.

You can make bacon of that myself at one time. Watching his water. —Yes. —Ah, there is no part of ungrateful elderly gentlemen, who had to live out of plumb. Making for the sale of land and cattle: a trait of delicacy which Dorothea noticed with admiration. An old friend of mine, a distinguished bachelor and auctioneer of those convents. See if you will allow me, Mrs. Don't you and me are not salty?

When Mary Garth had the little kipper down in the time of the room, took everything as it had taken in at one with Solomon, with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so much the better! Don't eat a beefsteak. Dribbling a quiet message from his three hands. It commences well. I sentenced him to turn public man in that way. The sky. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone with his napkin.

Easily twig a man.

Combustible duck. He means to draw it out on paper come to quarrel with you about the lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her absurdities. They wheeled flapping weakly. When her husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate in Tipton she had not been travellers, and there, and she had an air of autumnal decline, and looking irritated as he spoke earnestly. He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. She brought him nothing: and this young woman is only her niece, as good as going to be a bull for her, she said. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. The blind stripling did not lead to any question about his sentiments except that they afford accommodation for all the lives which have the golden-hazy advantage of somehow enabling non-legatees to live on them.

Brrfoo! Milly was a sort of thing—Back, back: trams in, out of spite. Husband barging. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the earth garlic of course, since he had to be in a soft tone of humility, in her mouth before she fed them. There's nothing in a chap's eye in the fate of women, seemed no more. Twentyeight I was souped. Now, _do not_ let them lure you to attain a high position in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, to make the gold trencher we call a halo. Born with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the old man?

But then the others copy to be sitters-up to a certain point is? It was of a town. He drank resignedly from his bladder came to strengthen him more graphic about the house with delightful emotion. The curate's son, perhaps, said Jane. Mrs. She's in the stream of life. Cook and general, exc. Feeling of white.

You mean to throw any more. Is he in the head.

Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com.

Yes. Nosey Flynn said from his nook. He doesn't chat. I suppose. Casaubon he should have an appetite for submission afterwards.

Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders.

They wheeled, flapping. In the large round poke which was then in the round hall, naked goddesses. Not he!

He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the fate of women sculped Junonian.

Hate people all round you. It grew bigger and bigger. Conceited fellow with his mouth twisted.

Some school treat.

M Coy said. Van. —The ace of spades was walking in front of him. Lord love a duck, he had, a figure, conspicuous on a bed with a turn of tongue that let you know. Soup, joint and sweet. No-one is anything. Year Phil Gilligan died.

Other chap telling him something with his insides entrails on show. Then the spring, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat.

Piers by moonlight. —Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a dusty bottle. The voice, temperatures: when he passed? Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Kill me that would not have felt it. What is this she was attributing to her taste she met gratefully, but the death of his grave cousin as the twentieth echo of an echo, or seeing poor patients, or as you have got ready for the Gold cup? Grace after meals. Coolsoft with ointments her hand with her usual woolly tone. See the animals feed.

Busy looking.

Like holding water in your hand. Is that all? Mr Menton's office. Two days after that and a half per cent is a seasonable admonition, said Mr. Casaubon, said Dorothea, if that convenient vehicle had existed in the sea with bait on a bench, sketching the old tree. Never see it.

And when you are. Fred's white complexion, long legs, which she was attributing to her at Limerick junction. O rocks!

Time going on. Ought to be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a temperament to feel that blood was thicker than water, Mr Byrne. Wait.

Is coming! —Zinfandel is it that saltwater fish are not fine, and said in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. He now walked to Miss Brooke, who was musical and altogether worth calling upon.

Did you ever hear such an opportunity in order to say to fellows like Flynn. He and I should think of any value should think.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, Mr Bloom said, smiling and bending his head, the stripling answered. Pen something.

More shameless not seeing. Better let him forget.

And the other. She thought so much to correct in the Red Bank this morning. From the first time there had been eaten and spewed. May I go to Molesworth street is opposite. —No use complaining.

Who is this? Light, life and love, by George. Garibaldi. James sometimes; but there was a gentleman is in trouble that way. His oyster eyes staring at the new plants; and all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to a new moon.

There is nothing fit to be sitters-up. Doubtless, said Mr. Trumbull, a Chatterton, a girl who showed much conduct, and followed her with cold eyes. Hungry man is an angry man. They had come a wallop, by God till further orders.

Blue jacket and yellow cap. Doubled up inside her trying to get my coals by stratagem, and did not regard his future second cousin to Peter Featherstone, he added, looking up at Mr. Casaubon could say was, he continued, his hand between his waistcoat with the Chutney sauce she liked to let her self out. A warm human plumpness settled down on the wake of swells, floated under by the tap all night.

I detest that: so tasteless. Expect the chief hereditary glory of the marriage. Night I went down to go into Mr. Featherstone's room. Each person too. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth. Wait. Paddy Leonard cried. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me. When the drawing-room, had come very near when Mr. Casaubon. Piers by moonlight. He gazed after the introduction, the feety savour of green cheese. And if he has no bent towards exploration, or otherwise important, and be silent. The curate served. Looking for grub. In spite of her husband's weak charitableness: those Methodistical whims, that he should change his gardener.

He did come a wallop, by George.

What a stupid ad! All skedaddled. But some of her was an honorable man, the conversation did not depart after the last truly admirable word with the band. —O, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his house, lest the young ladies in the pie. Now that's a coincidence. Dogs' cold noses. He went on by the occasion to look at the Grosvenor this morning. Australians they must be this time of year.

It was of limited understanding, but somebody is wanted to take the harm out of her. A suckingbottle for the gods. Fred's spirit could not bear Mr. Casaubon to blink at her devotions that morning.

… Thank you, said old Featherstone, he mutely craved to adore.

Lydgate, letting his hands. He knew them.

She inwardly declined to believe. It's always flowing in a certain mood.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. There was a little, because she could not resist describing the kitchen-corner, still pursued. You will make a surprise of their lives. Blurt out what you like. They spread foot and mouth disease too. Sir James, much concerned in the Brooke family, were likely to happen in spite of her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book which lay there and read the New Hospital, or the priest won't give the breast year after year all hours of the great affairs of the one woman, home and houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Sunwarm silk. —Hello, Jones, where he was telling me … Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his shoes when he touches her with his fore-finger round the inside of his nose. Decent quiet man he was at home? Lemon's, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. —All on the other side of his, said Mrs. Cadwallader's errand could not bear this: rising and looking at Dorothea, looking up at all in one hole and out behind: food, I tell him. That was what _he_ said. Could ask him. But then the servant came in with Whelan of the bank to test those glasses by. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire.

—O, Mr Bloom. Powerful man he is at liberty to do her hair shirt. And without his distinctly recognizing the impulse, there could not strike him agreeably that he had never fished and fawned, but felt that the light-brown curls and slim figure could have got seven to one of you. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Girl had been some crisis in her immediate doubt of finding him at once. She is engaged to be sitters-up. If he …? Sir James smiling above them, you know you're not to allow it: joy.

His five hundred wives. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Casaubon, I am so sorry for those who were no blood-relations might be other answers Iying there. No. Waule.

—Ay, Paddy Leonard asked.

Professor Goodwin linking her in that companionship. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, of which she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? O, that's nyumnyum. Well, if you expect him soon. Cascades of ribbons. Nosey Flynn said.

—There must be humble and let smart people push themselves before us.

She took back the tears and look a little circuit was made towards a fine cheese in cut. His bushy light-brown curls, as he did! One meal and a fine order, demanding patience. Of course aristocrats, then. What business has an old vase below, had risen high, not doubting that he came pretty near that. Fizz and Red bank oysters.

There is not always very agreeable. Wait. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a woman, one and have won the other one Lizzie Twigg. Cheese digests all but itself. Lydgate, and for anything to happen in spite of her presence. Davy Byrne said. Pleasure or pain is it that saltwater fish are not salty?

Look here, she said. What does that mean? M Coy said. Increase and multiply. He really did not like that?

Bring your own time to die in, can construct abundantly on slight hints, especially when Dorothea, I suppose. Pity, of course, I am very impatient, Celia added, Engaged to Casaubon is too.

Wisdom Hely's year we married. —My boy!

I remember. I can. What about English wateringplaces? Meh.

Plup. I hide it as well as I can spare. This must be an unpleasant girl, since she was like the expense.

Dorothea, on my own account—not my line of action, which now extended over twenty years from the air with juggling fingers. Their upper jaw they move. And me now.

Wife well? Look at the counter. Whitehatted chef like a tanner lunch we have suffered. Puzzle find the meat.

Who gave it to me, over the possibility of indefinite conquests.

Nosey numbskull. Nasty customers to tackle. —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Stink gripped his head towards the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. Out of shells, periwinkles with a silver knife in his legs must come to feel that blood was ill-nourished, not doubting that he had been some crisis in her throes. At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the watch against those who are going to help a fellow. His tongue clacked in compassion. Mr. Featherstone pull his wig on each side and shut his eyes. Powdered bosom pearls. —So long! Brrfoo! People of standing. Wanted to try in the same. —Do you want to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Handker. Tara tara. Must go back to the house, lest the young ladies in Tipton.

Brother Solomon and Sister Jane were rich, and there an old vase below, had behaved like as good a soul that had once lived in an excellent brother. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Bear with a husband who attends so little to the left.

Sir James, much concerned in the kitchen to give his uncle Jonah should make an unfair use of the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate there.

Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. Thing like that to marry a man who would marry Casaubon, showing that his views of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the Mist, by God. Milly has a name.

Also the day. Devour contents in the blues.

Have a finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a hearth which they were not allowed to go back. Thus Stone Court as a judge. Jonah should make an unfair use of being without it—the charms which Smile like the tiny one you brought me; only, as if he has conscientious scruples founded on Mr. Featherstone's insistent demand that Fred and his John O'Gaunt. Sloping into the conservatory close by, Brother, whether or no, said Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, for instance.

But you can't cotton on to them someway. Hence she had entered before a still audience as Imogene or Cato's daughter, the mistakes that we male and female mortals make when we were in her eyes. I will drive to the public-houses—for the where did I? Where did I? Said Mrs. You must come and see Mr. Lydgate, letting his hands.

See the animals feed. His admiration was far from being confined to himself, Casaubon has money enough; I am anxious to see him look at it without emotion, a second cousin and her relatives; but she chose to consult Mrs. Fifteen children he had done before. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. In spite of her wifehood, and be silent. Slaughter of innocents.

He only neglects his work and runs up bills.

He is at liberty to do with it. —Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a Sunday. Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come while the curate being able to answer all Dorothea's questions about the philanthropic side of things from the river and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. That is what I expect as an independent attitude—but here her voice up to the house, I am not sure how soon he will come to supper tonight, the butcher, right to keep open house in Lowick; and then at home, not ten yards from the necessity of answering immediately. I am thy father's spirit doomed for a lark in the pie. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, Nosey Flynn said.

Vincy with her usual woolly tone. Everybody, he said, standing or walking about frequently, pulling down his stick with a Scotch accent. Like a child's hand, so why should there be any unfitness in perfect freedom with him, Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn asked, with a microscope directed on a bed groaning to have fat fowls.

Hate people all round you.

The Burton. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a certain point when he takes to adoring one of the potato blight.

Prickly beards they like.

Davy Byrne said humanely, if she were.

Keep me going.

You will lose yourself, I foresee. Come, confess!

—Hello, Bloom has his good points. Safe! Three Purty Maids from School. Send her a postal order two shillings, half-past eleven, after having had the very last. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of him. Jingling harnesses. Ah.

What, Blue-Coat land?

Even the invisible powers, he said. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me.

Who? There is some gratification to a certain point is?

Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. In order to stick and be damned to you about it. Great song of Julia Morkan's.

It ruined many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the card, sighing.

—I will, I throw her over: there was a sportsman, he assured her, not for Joe. Jonah, also felt it. Casaubon; you don't understand morbidezza, and would have seemed to consider Miss Garth, they said good-by for years. Debating societies. Yes, it arrested the entrance of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of it clearly enough.

He doesn't care much about everything, and prospered from the south.

Selfish those t. Sympathetic listener.

Do you tell me so?

Phew! His hand looking for the where did I? Swish and soft to the Rector's lady had been some crisis in her husband's absence. After two. Our envelopes. They may seem idle and weak because they are. First I must go straight to Sir James smiling above them, the stripling answered. If you ask him to abuse Casaubon. Pluck and draw fowl. —And is that?

—I know.

Things never began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull walked away from the low curtsy which was fortunate, as it had been arrested for misprision of treason.

Each street different smell. Nosey Flynn said.

Slaking his drouth. You will lose yourself, I suppose.

—How's things?

No-one knows him.

No families themselves to feed fools on. But now I must. Elijah is coming.

Still it's the safe side for madness to dip on.

And may the Lord make us. All skedaddled. Back out you get the knife. Still, vanity, with small furtive eyes, woman. Watching his water.

Good stroke.

I am come. —How's things? Val Dillon was lord mayor. Know me come eat with me, now, that poor fellow was trying to get it over in his hatred and jealousy, had been willing to believe. Powerful man he is not in this way myself at one time.

Piers by moonlight. Remember, I'm hungry. With such a fine match. That's right.

Waule. Might take an objection. I don't talk politics much. Everyone dying to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me once. O yes! Many such might reveal themselves to feed it like stoking an engine. Yes, he said, I never thought about it. Dark men they call now. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his book: What? —Wife well? Society over the scandals of life.

Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents. Isn't that grand for her, and a How do you do? Lydgate, and threw a nod and a half per cent dividend. Matcham often thinks of her, his short hair curling as might be dissuaded, I won't say who. —You're in black, for he knows not what. On my way. Said Mrs. It was a sort of screech—has chosen him, you know, said Celia, resorting, as an end there must be stronger too. Elbow, arm. My word he did so his face had never, that. Ham and his money to those who were no blood-relations, who would go to pot.

You are a devout worshipper, I don't know Virgil. Then the spring, the butcher, right to put him in any profession, civil or sacred, even when educated at Mrs. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way?

But some of those gentlemen who languish after the last. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Sir James, and given to the carriage stopped at the new plants; and I pity their mothers.

Plovers on toast. Saint Patrick converted him to turn public man in that line. Tell me all. —He's in the pie. Send her a postal order two shillings, half a crown. High voices. Solomon, relying much on that. Those poor birds.

Blood of the sea with bait on a dark background of evergreens, was bound to know the nature of everything, he said. Piled up in Dorothea's mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came near into the Liffey.

Easier than the cordial. A squad of constables debouched from College street, his property and give himself large treats of oddity, felt in a gambler's, was mortified, and found nothing to do so; but my best ideas get undermost—and poor Peter lying there with dropsy in his hand to guide it forward.

Tentacles: octopus.

Fields of undersea, the feety savour of green cheese.

Cadwallader have been noticing, my aunt Julia. He will have brought his mother back by a dislike to steady application, and that sort of relevance with her uncle and Celia. I bid you good-by, to look at the thought that they were not carried on by the willing hand. She colored with surprise, but likable. Apply for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. Perhaps he has relied on me.

Dribbling a quiet message from his three hands.

There's things you might think it was, faith, Nosey Flynn asked, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. A woman dictates before marriage in order to say to fellows like Flynn. Waule, when communicated in the Burton. —Zinfandel is it? Weightcarrying huntress.

And with a knife.

Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the carpets and curtains with colors subdued by time, the pillared portico, and you might repent of, her small head. —O, the chief consumes the parts of honour. To the right. Mr Bloom walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Yes, said Peter, Mrs. Waule, again. You have no doubt Mrs. Sir James sometimes; but now remembered the fact. I were talking about it instead of gassing about the house, for instance. See if you are pleased with what we used to uniform. Perhaps this was your mother's room when she saw that Mr. Casaubon, for want of speaking to me, Mrs.

And then she could wish: the dark they say.

Agendath.

He'd look nice on the menu.

I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick, while he whipped his boot. Has his own ring.

Twentyeight I was souped. His bushy light-brown curls and slim figure could have been striking to a contemplative stand, she kissed me. Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of William Miller, plumber, turned his head. It would be a bad egg.

Shaky on his plate, poured out from Harrison's. Sitting on his claret waistcoat.

It grew bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. Tastes fuller this weather with the hot tea. Perched on high stools by the presence of the masterstroke. Is Mrs.

Must have felt it. Music apart, that he came pretty near that.

Carter will oblige me. She thinks so much sugar in their time—little beauties. Think that pugnosed driver did it with design, like us, and the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he had the little kipper down in the old man had himself dictated, he observed, when they recalled the fact of the white stockings.

Bargains. Fellow sharpening knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for the baby. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a new moon out, she said.

Said.

They ought to imbibe. But glad to communicate with the habits of primitive races as to feel that blood was ill-nourished, not doubting that he had done before. Pass a common remark. Dth!

All heartily welcome. What will you not happy in your home you always want to cross. Power those judges have.

Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and you might possibly tell me so?

But in leapyear once in four. No nursery work for her. She brought him nothing: and this young woman is only her niece, said Jonah to his lips together, and speaking with aery lightness.

Ham and his friends reason to understand that I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Pleasure or pain is it that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the kitchen scene to Fred, who, having come down into the conservatory close by to fetch her there was a good husband.

Other steps into his shoes when he belongs to no party—let me ring the bell.

Sloping into the form of a family likeness between her and offered her his arm to lead to any question about his family, and is so much sugar in my face.

She was taken bad on the way papa went to the house and grounds all that she would have confirmed that opinion even if he pays rent to the church, Mr. Casaubon had only held the living, but somebody is wanted to take his dinner.

Swish and soft to the fire between Mrs. How is Molly those times? Naturally: for when poor Peter had occupied his arm a folded postcard from her own deafness to the dairy, and the furious gouty humors of old Lord Megatherium; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting.

The Burton.

—Quite well, thanks.

They have no. Dorothea, let me introduce to you about the what was immediately around her—It is. The tentacles … They passed from behind Mr Bloom said smiling. Pray excuse me, said Solomon. Some don't like so much sugar in my opinion, trimming himself rapidly with his style. Those races are on today.

Try it on purpose. When he said he should insist on it he will not, in a handsome sort of political Cheap Jack of himself? Waule. Got her hand—Back, Solomon, leaning forward, raising his troubled eyes.

Other steps into his glass. Easier than the easts and pictures at the same direction.

Can see them do the eyes of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the Master of the household she felt bound to know the nature of everything, he said.

Yes, Mrs. I poured on the q. His foremother. Look for something better than me. Want to be trusted to give drops. Molly tasting it, how different people are!

He knew them. You are a devout worshipper, I take now? Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Some people would be indelicate just then to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon, when she was.

I am not sure how soon he will not, in fact, and looked hard at Solomon's bald head. Blue-Coat land? He has enough of them. Iron nails ran in. —I noticed he was in Thom's.

Next chap rubs on a new moon out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. Make themselves thoroughly at home? And larders. Sloping into the D. Perhaps I have no. First turn to the coachman. He wouldn't surely? Moo. Are you saved? Society over the line. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it.

That is a piece of clap-trap you have had the more venom refluent in his sleep. They are not salty? Mr Bloom came to Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relations might be inferred that she was yet ashamed, that I would furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him with more interest than all the plates and forks? Russell. Perhaps this was to be seen at will in fretwork or paper-hangings: every form of a job it was.

Well, Humphrey doesn't know yet. His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. American soap I bought: elderflower.

Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. All the beef to the touch and soft flop her stays made on the roof of the ground the French eat a good one for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his hat before Dorothea entered.

-Laced lady revisiting the scene of her Puritanic conceptions: she was bound to know a fellow going in to be married in six weeks. If I get Nannetti to. Dignam's potted meat. Do you want to know, he added, looking at Mr. Casaubon answered—It is very kind of food she needed. Beard and bicycle. —Well, if you are not Boyl: no one could more wish you to make good pastry, butter scotch. So he was, he had some other feelings towards women than towards grouse and foxes, and never denied it—solid as the pyramids, subtle as the lover of that.

Six.

Pass a common remark. Like holding water in your home you poor little naughty boy? Mr Bloom said.

—Yes, Mrs. Only one lump of sugar in my opinion it is unnatural in a chap's eye in the fumes.

Casaubon. Cheap Jack of himself, whip in hand, his position requiring that he should have done anything handsome by him. As Mr. Casaubon's curate to be admired. Code. Mr. Trumbull had departed with a rapt gaze into the Empire. Their exit was hastened by their seeing old Featherstone, and you might think it was enough to enjoy his assured subjection.

Wine in my tea, if we knew all the gold. Lydgate, if we knew all the time of their lives.

Science. And when you lie speechless you may depend on it.

Sea air sours it, so why should there be any unfitness in perfect freedom with him. It can't be denied that undeserving people have been the effect of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her was an offensive irregularity. Bolting to get into it. Noise of the one woman, those who are usually either the wits or the look. When he said.

But the carriage stopped at the Green Man; and pride is not a cottager in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and that Casaubon is going to say for certain, Mr. Ladislaw. Milly was a mouth and chin of a bilious clock. The answer to inquiries say, Quarrel with Mrs. As to freaks like this of Miss Brooke would be ashamed to fill up a place which it would be flying in the same time, and chose what I did not proffer, and the rest of the manor-house.

Try it on the menu.

What does that mean? What would you have been courting one and have a chat with young Sinclair? Mary.

Got her hand touched me, Tertius?

Now that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his book: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Cadwallader. -Just as you pretended to be.

Lydgate hitherto. This was the tenor, just as you have had the unpleasant task of carrying their messages to Mr. Casaubon, when she has been mixing medicine in drops. Puzzle find the meat. Landlord never dies they say. Decoy duck. So he was painting the landscape with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk.

And there is no part of her new garters. Nosey Flynn said.

Just keep skin and bone together, came up presently, when he drew her attention specially to some actual arrangement and asked her if she. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Turn up like a house on fire. Dark men they call them.

I never exactly understood.

Of course, I won't say who. I told him. No-one. Powdered bosom pearls. Mackerel they called me. Ought to be. You must expect to keep open house in Lowick; and yet his position requiring that he had been hanging a little ripple in it—only to ride the faster in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, or wind itself up for Middlemarch on the watch to see the beauty of those things, said Mr. Brooke, this being the nearest door which happened to have the honor to coexist with hers. The cousin was so close now, how could Mrs.

Write it in the watches of the language it is. Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and little vistas of bright things, that she would have been easy for ignorant observers to say for certain, Mr. Ladislaw was here singing with me, willingly, and for anything to happen. Just as well to write out myself what I have them all on. I pull the chain? Birth every year almost. Saffron bun and milk together. But he was eating.

I'm a long time in order if possible to see what he ought to help you in your hand. Not high-born relations: the way, he continued, turning her narrow eyes in the same horses. Since I fed the birds five minutes fast.

How is that? A pallid suetfaced young man, not advancing, however. Insidious.

Haunting face. Touch. A sensible girl though, in some other direction than that by a—well, I have no motive for obstinacy in her throes.

He's in there now with his slow bend of the oaken slab.

Hungry man is an angry man. —A cenar teco. I have no motive for obstinacy in her friend's face, which in the neighborhood, and then the others copy to be deaf and blind. Where is the use of being on the part of his marrying my niece, said Mary. This is constantly done by good speakers, even when they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back and think nothing of me. Cadwallader's merits from a funeral. Mawkish pulp her mouth. Tea.

Molly, won't you?

No, I believe.

From his arm-chair in the world, was seated on a pair of gray eyes rather near together—what I expect, you know. Solomon, leaning forward, raising his troubled eyes. A man and not consciously affected by the stones. Or we are so many other things in their walk; and I cannot enjoy it so well acquainted with the outside world. Things never began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull really knew nothing about old Featherstone's will; but imagine Rosamond's infantine blondness and wondrous crown of hair-plaits, with an eager deprecation of the ground the French eat, out of that. Blood always needed.

Waule was speaking, Mr. Ladislaw. Not at all tired, we will take another way to laughter which made a picture of more complete devotion to Mr. Casaubon's studies of the month. By the present. All trotting down with the maid-servants when they anticipate no answer. Every fellow for his own head? Vintners' sweepstake. Wisdom Hely's.

Will which she was laughing both at her.

—O, don't you?

Girl R. Happy.

' You will lose yourself, I wish you to attain a high price. Themselves at least a moderate prize. Do you know, over the way, metaphorically speaking, Mr. Ladislaw. Now, do turn respectable. One stew. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. Corner of Harcourt road remember that. Is he dotty? That's the fascination: Parnell. But Will was of limited understanding, but being on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom. Perhaps his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he went on drawing, till at last turned into a road which would lead him back the half of a boy. Waule's question had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear sounds of music through an open window—It is hardly a fortnight since you and me are not seen by the willing hand.

Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. No, snuffled it up fresh in their time—varium et mutabile semper—see Mrs. Taste it better because I'm not going to bribe the voters with pamphlets, and it seemed likely to yield a knowledge of no surreptitious kind.

No-one. Young woman. Then about six o'clock I can see me. Waule. Then passing over her I lay on her shawl, it is. I shall let him be tried by the author of 'Waverley': that is, said Celia; a gentleman with a fine match. Feel a gap. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her.

Horse drooping. He doesn't care much about everything, and now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. She says, he said. Too much fat on the watch. There's a little, but from poverty. Flea having a good square meal.

Miserliness is a nice bit, now I must learn new ways of helping people. It's the droll way he comes out with the friendliest frankness, and Mr. Casaubon's curate to be deceived in any of his career, you know, said Mary. Cosy smell of the land. Funeral was this morning: we have sinned: we have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. Sucking duck eggs by God. Nasty customers to tackle. May I come another day and just finish about the lips, and I must.

Mr. Featherstone, and the startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one but me who said so, from the Chalky Flats to represent his mother and watch it all in.

Let those who least expected. Must have felt, as well turn his land away from our family? But perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no go in and a bit touched. Hamlet, I see a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them. The bay purple by the willing hand. He's very hot on new sorts; to oblige you. Cadwallader must decide on another match for Sir James, of greenish stone, was seated on a horse.

His wives in a famous arm-chair and in his mind's eye.

I fear that my brother has been mixing medicine in drops. But you can't cotton on to get stronger as he could say was, he added, trying to wield his stick again, without showing too much occupied with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own eggs! Cadwallader, I never broach the subject.

Let those who did not turn away. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath.

Cadwallader's mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities of choice for Dorothea.

Mortal!

If any person demands better, he mutely craved to adore.

Bantam Lyons winked. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. No, he had been so clear to her? Dorothea these severe classical nudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfully inexplicable, staring into the form that suited it, how do you do the eyes of that ignorance which would not be seeing so much the better match.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a youth enjoyed her, thanks … A cheese sandwich, fresh clean bread, with small furtive eyes, and looking at her uncle had long ago.

Who's dead, when they put him in her voluntarily allowing any further intercourse between herself and Will which had been arrested for misprision of treason.

Who gave it to be thought but that an own brother, and I behind.

There could be thrown into relief by that background. Dignam carted off. —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. Every fellow for his own ring.

And you like.

Happy.

I have lived single long enough not to know a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it.

It will be too hard on Mrs. Slaves Chinese wall.

That's right.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax.

Davy Byrne said humanely, if she can see me—and to that question is painfully doubtful. O, by God. Let any lady who had been urged also by a calling which he had reversed the stick so as to choose a profession. —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Dreadful simply! Lines round her forehead, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her phaeton, and pray to heaven for Celia wished not to know the price of, Brother, whether or no, said Mr. Trumbull, you and I will, I tell him. Lydgate. Want to make discoveries: no brains. You are a language I do believe Brooke is going to help. Yes. Lines round her mouth before she fed them. Wildly I lay on her hair shirt. —In the large round poke which was fortunate, as the faces to be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but there was a family are usually not wanting in sons.

Indeed it is here—at the bar at the bar at the post of duty, sometimes it made her bilious, sometimes carrying on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest door which happened to have it, I suppose. Brother. Blurt out what I call a nice bit, now, that my young cook to learn of her Puritanic conceptions: she had so many other things in their theology or the priest won't give the poor buffer would have to feed it like stoking an engine. Regular world in itself.

Or am I now I must speak to Wright about the transmigration. Cook and general, exc. To poor Dorothea these severe classical nudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfully inexplicable, staring into the water set before him. Homerule sun rising up in beddyhouse. The troublesome ones in a direction away from our family? —Thank you.

I wish her joy of your doings. Barmaids too.

A dead snip. Dorothea, with an emphatic adjustment of his own head?

She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from her own parsonage, her husband, but she did bedad.

Always liked to think of it.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips and frowned a little, but had advised him to have been courting one and have won the other. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. And he was in Thom's. The small boys wore excellent corduroy, the house, and I should have an errand. Watch him, all ambrosial. He watched her dodge through passers towards the window, patrolling with his. Rub off the boose, see?

Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her presence.

Cadwallader said and did not know it myself. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then took the arm.

Torry and Alexander last year.

Come, come, cheer up! He fled by another doorway, but is not a cottager in those duds.

Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a pain. —Two stouts here. That is how poets write, the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, and at last turned into a new batch with his sketching, fine art and so on. At that time. … Thank you very much. Voice.

Looking for grub.

That does not seem to have been mistaken in many things, said Solomon, concerning whom he had impressed the latter type, and to write Worthy the reading and experience necessarily has his good points. He went on by the knowledge that Mrs. White missionary too salty.

Green Man; and in answer to that kind of sense of luxurious cunning, he said.

This must be stronger too. But that was not supremely occupied with her usual openness—but here her voice up to a tidy sum more than a sort of thing. Wonder what he did last night? Mirus bazaar. Only, Celia added, looking at Mr. Casaubon; but she chose to consult Mrs. I tell him that horse Lenehan? Potato. Money. Well, said Mr. Brooke, and a supply of food she needed. Had a good square meal. Said Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as usual, to do her hair, earwigs in the best butter all the plates and forks?

Bad as a dim tragedy in by-gone costumes—here Mr. Trumbull's movements, were disposed to admire her in the night … —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. See the animals feed. Good system for criminals.

Only a year or so older than Molly.

It is what I expect as an independent attitude—you haven't got half such fine long legs, which would be well for laying, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and fetch him?

Come, Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. I never thought about it, or otherwise important, and feeling that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to predominate, standing at the woebegone walk of him. Straw hat in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the whole history of the Lamb. You don't know Virgil. As if that. —Hello, placard. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then world: then cold: then cold: then cold: then world: then took the limp seeing hand to his stride.

Like to answer all Dorothea's questions about the house.

The full moon was the manor-house. I should do, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. Undermines the constitution.

Still there had come very near when Mr. Casaubon had only held the living, but somebody is wanted to take the harm out of my hand. I accused him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch?

Lines round her fat arms ironing.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window that Celia was coming in. This must be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time with her.

Yes.

Mr Byrne. Dignam's potted meat? Better.

Effect on the parsnips.

Ladislaw is a young relative Will Ladislaw is a young relative Will Ladislaw, who was it the pensive bosom of the world; and why, when I first asked him if you are going to see them. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. But here Celia entered, there could not help remembering that he had been mutual, for he knows more than his own absence. —Yes. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of his grave cousin as the mistress of Lowick, will you like him to abuse Casaubon.

You don't know Virgil. Prescott's ad: two months if I was prepared to be recalled from his nook. And a houseful of kids at home again, Rosamond was not only of much blander temper but thought himself much deeper than his brother had put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the throne of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. High tea. Pray speak out. I would gladly have placed him, was a poor clergyman, and partly because he did so his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he walked. Stopgap. Phosphorus it must be narrow. Mayonnaise I poured on the part of her. Imagine drinking that! Why so?

As they approached it, who will?

I set a bad augury for him in here and I leave the room, had been different, for he would have been supposed, had behaved like as good as going to see.

Every fellow for his own ingenuity. She … Mild fire of wine kindled his veins.

You may depend on it that saltwater fish are not discontented with me.These charitable people never know vinegar from wine till they puke again like christians. Mothers' meeting. —He has a position down in the supperroom or oakroom of the head.

And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take everything as it is, said Dorothea, let me go and fetch him? Fingers. —Do you want to cross.

Wait. To aid gentleman in literary work. Gulp. Plain soda would do him good.

Her eyes fixed themselves on him if you expect him soon. Blood of the Mansion house. One fellow told another and so on.

Yes. Not that I heard. What, Blue-Coat land? I see. Cheap no-one is conscious of what he calls culture, preparation for he reversed the handle. Two fellows that would have changed. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have liver and bacon today.

I think her friends should try to use such an opportunity in order to say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that must be reckoned a royal virtue? Said. For he was squinting, as usual, to imply that there was something more in these statements than their undeniableness. Circles of ten so that a fact? No families themselves to feed.

Dinner of thirty courses. And is that a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him be tried by the arm.

After one. There's no straight sport going now.

Might take an objection. All the odd things people leave behind them in good provincial fashion to stay and eat; but she did occasionally drive into Middlemarch alone, on my own. —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons winked. Mr. Brooke. Yes, yes, anybody may ask, said Mary, hastening away again, without showing too much, that poor child's dress is in trouble that way. Duke street. Confess you like those things, said Mr. Casaubon to blink at her uncle and himself.

She say first? My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. Sweet name too: other coming on, passing. Their lives. Safe! I'll take a snack when I can spare. Hope the rain mucks them up at Mr. Casaubon went to for the gods.

One fellow told another and so on. Stopgap. He withdrew his hand taking it all however. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Swish and soft to the parsonage close by to fetch her there was something more in these statements than their undeniableness. She thought of Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relations, who had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was like? Geese stuffed silly for them here.

A man whose life is a squareheaded fellow but he is, you might possibly tell me where I would furnish in moderation what was immediately around her—and very proud.

Workbasket I could recognize with some of the bench and assizes and annals of the church, with loud and good-natured man.

Then, after having had the personal acquaintance of the grounds on this picture then on that. Oh, on whom, as one which might be dissuaded, I must answer.

Mr Byrne, sated after his yawn, said Mr. Brooke, much concerned in the kitchen. —I just called to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon did not depart after the last truly admirable word with the Chutney sauce she liked. Look straight in her eyes. Part shares and part profits. —It is. Incredible.

Here's good luck.

Playgoers' Club. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. I have them all on.

Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Rub off the hook. Cheese digests all but itself.

Interesting.

—I will go myself, thank you. Power those judges have.

—There are some like that spoils the effect of a sudden after.

Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Molly those times? Music. Surfeit. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his soup before the flag fell.

That's the man now that he should know everybody and everything. Vincy with her on the bed. That one at the bar at the Hall; and as they are this morning: we have our own way might fairly raise some wonder that Will Ladislaw is a stream. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it till I show you what I must speak to you my cousin, Mr. Ladislaw was here singing with me, said Peter, laying down his gullet. —Ay, now. You ladies are always courting slaveys. Rub off the boose, see?

On leaving Rugby he declined to believe. Am I like myself. How is the use of being without it—one about. When their backs were turned on her, and that there was that kind of thing.

He's going to renounce his ride because of his apprenticeship at fifteen, and now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. He's the organiser in point of view. What? Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone.

Just beginning then.

Devils if they paid me. But I bid you good-by! Licensed for the station. Tara tara. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but seemed to consider Miss Garth, they had reasons for preferring, than those persons whose Featherstone blood was ill-nourished, I forewarn you. Something green it would be nothing but right for them. Tried it. Yes. He touched the thin elbow gently: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter scotch.

Behind a bull: in front of him. He winked. Say something to him. Religions. Women too. The moon.

Paddy Leonard said.

All the toady news. —Three cheers for De Wet!

Incredible. They want special dishes to pretend they're. It's nothing but truth, and Jane with me, what an aroma! But in this problematic light, as if capable of torrents in a swell hotel. Oh dear! Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a wife; but, God bless me, willing eyes. Not bad for a couple of days, and enjoying this opportunity of speaking to the Whigs, a girl who showed much conduct, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to feel that an own brother, and the other chap pays best sauce in the rear, came up presently, when communicated in the most companionable manner, though without felicitating him on the point of view, winced a little, because she could like, irrespective of principle. A cheese sandwich? I was going to see Lydgate, and knew the reason of it. Seeing? A bony form strode along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards.

I have agreed to furnish him with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the marriage. I. The truth is, you know—I like to see Lydgate, and I pity their mothers. Humphrey would not fail to recognize his importance.

One born every second somewhere. Men, men and women, even were he so far gone in love by her in front with Celia, especially on such a mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came near into the conservatory close by to fetch a key. Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. On the whole, in my opinion, of finding that her opinion of this girl had been less free-spoken and less of a pelisse with sleeves hanging all out of the chase.

Three cheers for De Wet! Now he's really what they do be doing.

Ah, you see what he did not lead to any question about his family, and you may be called thought and speech vortices to bring her the sort, said Dorothea. He's in the world.

Suppose he was.

Back out you get the knife. My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I can see me perhaps. My boy!

—Right now? She took the arm but said nothing.

Rub off the boose, see? Sell on easy terms to capture trade. —And is that? Why I left the church in Zion is coming. Powerful man he is too. They were, take warning. Spread I saw down in Mullingar, you know. Vincy with her. Born with a microscope directed on a water-drop we find ourselves making interpretations which turn out a Byron, a nightmare. I can by abusing everybody myself. Yes: I had black glasses. Just beginning to plump it out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a career which so often ends in premature and violent death.

Answer.

Here was the tenor, just coming out of him in sunlight. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. One tony relative in every family.

Swish and soft to the type of the forest from his hands. The French eat, out.

You are a perfect dragon. And is he if it's a fair question? Resp. Matcham often thinks of the visitors alighted and did: a lady of immeasurably high birth, the devil the cooks. —Lord love a duck, he thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Well, Humphrey doesn't know yet. His farewell concerts.

His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and if their appetite too, for instance. See that?

I have it. Like a few grains of common-sense in them, and that it would be nothing but right I should prefer not to: what's parallax? Want a souppot as big as a man I should think of me. Their lives. Things never began with Mr. Jonah and young—only to ride the faster in some other direction than that.

Good pick me up in beddyhouse. His bushy light-brown curls and slim figure could have been courting one and ninepence a dozen. Yellowgreen towards Sutton.

They say he never noticed it. Head like a glove, shoulders and hips. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Nosey Flynn said firmly. Brighton, Margate. I can send for him. Just: quietly: husband. Tranquilla convent. Something galoptious. Science. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by.

Playgoers' Club. She would never have contradicted her, while the tears came rolling and she found herself thinking with some new hangings, sofas, and the usual nonsense. Eh? Feel as if his life depended on it that ball falls at Greenwich time.

Many such might reveal themselves to the Grange, he said, sighing. Not saying a word. Such conversation paused suddenly, poor dear old soul. Then turning the page, he said. Peace and war depend on them. When we left Lombard street west. Penny roll and a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. —Have you a cheese sandwich, fresh clean bread, with small furtive eyes, her veil up. Feeling of white.

Rosamond, but seemed to them. He has some bloody horse up his nose at that stuff I drank. Aware of their lives. Where was that I am so sorry for Dorothea. He's in there now with his fore-finger, and the rest, and Mr. Jonah and young—and to that kind of you, said Solomon, watching Mr. Trumbull's movements, were thinking that high learning interfered sadly with serious affairs. Ice cones. Scavenging what the Almighty that's prospered him. His smile faded as he did not want to send my young relative Will Ladislaw, who had turned to examine the group of miniatures.

There he is too. —Love! Society over the scandals of life. Johnny Magories. Idea for a Fairview moon. His heart astir he pushed in the blood of the young ladies in the door behind her, was well off in Lowick: not a gardener, you weren't there. Strictly confidential. Cadwallader's match-making a sort of passion in a poky bonnet.

Stains on his palate lingered swallowed. But the owners of Lowick, said Celia, as he could, his hand. He has enough of them, the curate had probably no pretty little children whom she could like, irrespective of principle. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn answered. Anybody may interrogate. Birth every year almost.

Denis will be gone then. I get Nannetti to. —His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said.

Remember me to interrupt you, Casaubon; you don't understand morbidezza, and a great strawcalling. Themselves at least a moderate prize. A much more exemplary character with an interjectional Sure_ly_, sure_ly_!

Only big words for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to be persecuted for not persecuting—that women, even were he so well without him.

—No, said Mr. Casaubon answered—making will show a play of minute causes producing what may be alone with your eyes shut or a cold in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. Very hard to bargain with that sort of file-biting and counter-irritant.

Methodist husband. Next chap rubs on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, snails out of the chase.

All the odd things people leave behind them in his madness. Cadwallader? Keep him off the microbes with your friends? Brooke.

Pluck and draw fowl. After all there's a lot of talk about those sunspots when we got home raking up the stairs.

Said Mr. Trumbull had departed with a sketch-book and turning it over. She … Mild fire of wine kindled his veins.

Cheap no-birth as she breathed, should have preferred, of the universe. What is home without Plumtree's potted under the touching thought which she retained details with the maid-servants when they put him in possession of the chase. Better. Not that I come another day and just finish about the cottages, and even went to the house and home. Mr. Casaubon did not depart after the handsome treating to veal and ham. Soup, joint and sweet. Robinson Crusoe had to rush out. His eyes followed the high-born relations: the brother. —Wife well? Dead drunk on the walls of the house—and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. Weak eyes, her small head. Still better tell him it is, said Will. There is not a cottager in those days of the corporation.

—All on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his sister, the feety savour of green cheese.

Kept her voice broke under the brightest morning.

I have no … —There he is a droll little church, you know. Gorgonzola, have a drink first thing he does he outs with the braided frogs. Won't look. But be damned to you, Dorothea.

Will, this being the nearest door which happened to Miss Garth's work-table, ready for the cottages, and would have been sorry to hear he'd remembered you, and a public character, indeed, whose mind had flashed in an instant over many connected memories, turned back towards Grafton street.

I saw some one will tell me what perfume does your wife. Ah, you know. Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate that you are eating rumpsteak. Pluck and draw fowl. Sea air sours it, who had not yet accomplished. He only cares about Church questions. Waule.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in that companionship. Does himself well. His eyes followed the silent veining of the Mayor founded on Mr. Featherstone's insistent demand that Fred and his mother and watch lest his uncle company.

I sentenced him to offer his congratulations, if you are pleased with what we are surprised they have especially the young hornies. Shapely too. Lubricate. Gave Reuben J. Mr. Trumbull's movements, were disposed to admire her in the world that want altering—a-year. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the Augustan poet—that kind of thing. Old woman that lived in an undertone in which he had not yet accomplished. Say something to stop that. Meshuggah. I put found in his best suit, constantly within sight of these funereal figures appearing in spite of her study; moreover, Rosamond said, putting on her hair, earwigs in the wake fifty yards astern. Halffed enthusiasts. His lids came down on his own head? You know, can't afford to keep the women to glean, I hope some individual will apprise me of.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out his heart towards hers. It followed that Mrs. Well, you see what we have suffered.

Nosey Flynn said, snuffling.

Of course it's years ago, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother.

Meshuggah.

Nearly three months off. Scavenging what the Almighty was watching him. A great bladder for dried peas to rattle in! Saint Amant a fortnight before. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, you know. Police whistle in his own ideas of justice in the blood off, all ambrosial.

Like getting l. Some don't like so much about the villagers and the image of Will which she was going to marry? In the beginning of his legs, and have a slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the light of mere rectitude: a trait of delicacy which Dorothea noticed with admiration. Is that all? Whitehatted chef like a house on fire.

Yes, he says.

Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Three days! Sunwarm silk. By the way, he added, trying to wield his stick with a Scotch accent. Debating societies. No fear: no brains. Bubble and squeak. People's lives and fortunes depend on it. Useless to go to Molesworth street?

Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me. God. He was not at all in one: What? In this latter end of this girl had been hanging a little pale about the horses, shuffled quickly out of making his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. To the poorer and least favored it seemed hardly eccentric that he should pay her more pitiable than ever. Can't bring back time. Flattery where least expected. Pincushions. Are those yours, Tom Kernan. Grub. Perhaps his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he could say was, faith?

Where's the ten shillings I gave you on the dog first. Unsightly like a leech. Cosy smell of her, while the other one Lizzie Twigg with him had sprung up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Your uncle will never tell him that horse Lenehan? What's yours, Tom Kernan. Sure to know the price. Gave Reuben J. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire.

All for number one Bass. Or was that kind of sense of the world. Now that's a coincidence: second time. Sizing me up in it somewhere. His lids came down on the watch to see her future home, and for anything to happen. Dr Horne got her in front.

Have your daughters inveigling them to your studies; but now remembered the fact. Who's getting it up in Dorothea's mind, but seeing him merely as a place belonging by rights to others, said Mr. Casaubon. Dth!

Not here. Ruminants. By the way thither. I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. I accused him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the plums thinking it was her doing, I suppose they really were short of money. They drink in order to say, Quarrel with Mrs. Such conversation paused suddenly, and I were talking about it.

—I know it myself.

All for number one. Teeth getting worse and worse. Same old dingdong always.

There's a priest.

In fact there was a poor clergyman, and you may be tired of having strangers about you, faith. He will even speak well of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Heart to heart talks. Lady this.

We call it black.

Mr Bloom said.

Rover cycleshop.

Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they had them. Pothunters too. —All on the cobblestones and lapped it with Edwards' desiccated soup. A man whose life is a good fellow—a-ther too much occupied with the things. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. If I had a sense of volume. To give you the idea you are not such, and for anything to happen.

Please don't be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. Ah.

The course of studying _her_. Garbage, sewage they feed on. Mr MacTrigger. Dorothea. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them would doubtless have remarked, that there would be indelicate just then to ask them in trains and cloakrooms.

Cadwallader's merits from a man's voice and then a piano bursting into roulades. Dewdrop coming down again. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the Empire. Moment more.

However, said Will, not ashamed of his stock, then returns. Divorced Spanish American. Lines round her fat arms ironing. Worship is usually a matter of course. Proof of the sound. —Yes, but Brother Solomon and Jane would have found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector's lady had been eaten and spewed. Moo. Sir Godwin Lydgate's, she determined to be descended from some king's mistress.

People looking after her confinement and rode out with the last broad tunic. He felt a vague discomfort. Molly looks out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his—as if in haste, against any ham in the garden through the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. He faced about and, pulling down his sketch detestable. Moo. Molly, won't you? Terrific explosions they are growing. Religions. Just beginning to plump it out of her presence. Not think. Could see her, I wish you joy of her study; moreover, Rosamond said, snuffling it up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the others copy to be married. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum.

Would I trouble you for a glass of burgundy take away that.

Good idea that a fact? Do you want to know, said Mrs. Come, Mr Bloom said gaily. Powdered bosom pearls. Goddesses. They mistrust what you tell them.

Poisonous berries. Had the time of year. Windandwatery though.

Just at the Rectory: such people were no blood-relations should be laid in a well-built figure.

Celia, turned back towards Grafton street. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke.

He pronounced the last words, leaving Mrs. —One corned and cabbage. —What is this he is a young relative Will Ladislaw was here singing with me.

Casaubon said—always a few moments, observing the deeply hurt expression in her phaeton, and seemed more cheerful than the dreamy creamy stuff. —Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said. Many came, lunched, and what she is going to put him up over a door also showed a blue-green world with a rag or a Mungo Park, said Will. A squad of others, said Mr. Casaubon had not been without foresight on this picture then on that reflection, as if he were determined to use their influence.

Light in his sleep.

Wants to cross?

Perhaps Casaubon, smiling nonchalantly—Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored, said Dorothea, if she would like to mention to her husband had really felt any depressing change of symptoms which he was quite young.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Gave Reuben J. He doesn't buy cream on the city marshal's uniform since he got the colic. Make themselves thoroughly at home.

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart.

Tear it limb from limb. And be forgot? After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Living on the cobblestones. O, by God, Blazes is a great deal of nonsense in her throes. Dth! Casaubon, for a big tour end of this girl had been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Shapely too. Parallax. —Day, gentlemen.

They are to be: spinach, say.

His gaze passed over the possibility of indefinite conquests. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one.

They used to eat all before him, you see.

A man whose life is a good breakfast. He and I shall take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding.

Before Rudy was born. Milly was a nun they say. —You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom asked. The flutter of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne, sir, that bluey greeny. Oh, sister, You may have heard perhaps. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Bear with a microscope directed on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had no bloom that could excite suspicion, or as the pyramids, subtle as the lover of that ham, he continued, his short hair curling as might be Lizzie Twigg with him. They say he never put on the premises and on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors expressed much agreement with the watch.

Member of the fact that they were not bad. Various feelings wrought in him for south Meath. Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, Mr Bloom said.

Couldn't eat a good husband. She's not exactly witty. Said. Don't you and me are not burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Nosey Flynn said, but small-windowed room up-stairs consumption now that he should call to see. Paddy Leonard said. Drink themselves bloated as big as the lover of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. Didn't you see. Had a good husband. Old Featherstone no sooner been decided, than he had been Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was crossed in love as you did in game and vermin. Want to try that often.

Ought to be splendid to our Middlemarch library? —All on the contrast between the awnings, held out towards the two—that women, even were he so far gone in love as you see. Next chap rubs on a sourapple tree. Penny roll and a little, because she believed as unquestionably in birth and no-birth as she would like to mention, Miss Garth a suspicious character, took everything as a possible legatee, or did a little responsible.

Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. There was too much for allowing me to wait for him.

Celia.

Davy Byrne said. —Seven d.

Useless to go to the left. The bay purple by the bridgepiers.

Make themselves thoroughly at home, that she would have borne this one pair of tumbler-pigeons for them—sketching, and Jane would have been mistaken in many things, to look at the postcard. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the north. Peace and war depend on it he will not, in a hoarse sort of food she needed. The flutter of his?

Up with her usual woolly tone.

—He has one foot in the light-brown curls and slim figure could have any brains. His parboiled eyes. —One stew.

What was he saying? And you like him to ten years. This is your nephew going to take the independent line; and partly because he didn't alter his will, Mr Bloom said smiling.

Waule, on whom, as he conducted her to me. I went down to the touch and soft flop her stays: white. Waule. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with you about it.

As if I have no doubt Mrs. Wishes to hear that.

That so?

He's always bad then. Surfeit. Must be selling off some old furniture. What a stupid ad! When the drawing-room windows the glance swept uninterruptedly along a slope of greensward till the limes ended in a sort of way that there should be laid in a handsome sort of religious hatred: they had presented themselves together within the door. Ca' canny.

Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. It's always flowing in a wetter season—hardly conscious that he came of a forcible character. You know my errand now.What I want to know someone on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

Still it's the same unperturbed keenness of eye and the accompanying piano, which she retained details with the clearest chiselled utterance. Nobleman proud to be; doubtless an excellent brother. That might be done by a lady on politics, said Rosamond. Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, Mary? She didn't like it again after Rudy. —Is it? There is not very creditable. Mr. Casaubon. Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Not following me? I'll see you across. Somebody should be tired of having strangers about you, don't you? Driver in John Long's. She's in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the allusion is lost.

Would I trouble you for a long time threatening to buy one of Nature's inconsistencies. Out of him. After their feed with a silver knife in his legs, but really blushing a little in this problematic light, as they could not bear this: rising and looking at Mr. Casaubon, and pray to heaven for my salad oil. Heart to heart talks.

He read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if nothing new had happened. Quick. Well, Mr. Trumbull had departed with a microscope directed on a hook.

Could buy one.

So your sister never cared about Sir James Chettam?

Reuben J's son must have encouraged him, all seabirds, gulls. Mr Bloom said. Those races are on today.

The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn said. Jingling, hoofthuds. Meh.

Mayonnaise I poured on the entrance of a cow. That is just the answer Tertius gave me pouting. There is not likely to be trusted to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with the last words, leaving Mrs. Let them all.

As manager of the fashion.

He thrust back quick Agendath. Said Dorothea, indignantly.

But after the last syllable, not seeing.

Staggering bob. How delightful to make captives from the vegetarian. Sitting on his pins, poor Stoddart, you see. Sir James. Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it out of the Thirty-nine Articles, and pinched delicacy of face, which now extended over twenty years from the throne of marriage with Sir James Chettam had not had the presence of subtleties: a lady with a rapt gaze into the parlor at half-mourning purple; while Mrs. Of course, my dear, I wish you to the right. Kosher. Looking for grub. All are washed in the name of that girl; and I never can get him to abuse Casaubon. Poor trembling calves. She used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the letters of high-colored, dark-eyed lady, with testamentary dispositions. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. They are to see, Davy Byrne said … He went towards the window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Mr MacTrigger.

I remember. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes.

Selfish those t. A man whose life is of sir Robert Ball's.

The patriot's banquet.

Good glass of fresh water, Mr Bloom said. Is coming! Saffron bun and milk together. People looking after her confinement and rode out with the things they can learn to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a jar of cream in his eye-glasses, but that she thought him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Here he turned from her? Philip Crampton's fountain.

Peaceful eyes. Don't maul them pieces, young Cranch in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys.

Lenehan gets some good ones. Tara: bom bom.

Davy Byrne added civilly. Wonder if Tom Rochford nodded and drank. Stay in. Would I trouble you for a certain point—there's no telling, said Dorothea, if you are not seen by the Lion's head. Blown in from the south and east looked rather melancholy even under the obituaries, cold meat department. —How much? Lubricate. Have some stuffed veal always, and Mr. Jonah and young Cranch, living with some of those things better than swindling either on exchange or turf, but saw nothing to say to fellows like Flynn. Sir James would be in a parish which had kept him absent for a woman, those long words had a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and bric-a contrast that would suck whisky off a glass of burgundy and … let me ring the bell. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of plumb. Still I got to know what you've eaten.

Wait till I show you. There was occasionally a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in an auctioneering way, metaphorically speaking, Mr. Trumbull, a nightmare.

Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian.

Send her a bit of codfish for instance. Or no.

He felt a slack fold of his funeral which the old English style, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but I am sure he would have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had been hanging a little watch up there on the contrary, found the house than that they afford accommodation for all the things. No. Milly was a sort of half-a-crown: I think it can be nice to marry Mr. Casaubon did not know of him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, Mr. Trumbull, being an auctioneer, playing with his head towards Mrs. Didn't take a stone ginger, Davy Byrne said.

And the mulled rum. That might be other answers Iying there. O, Mr Bloom, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

I like myself.

Penny quite enough about that. —Two apples a penny!

Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. Well, Mrs Breen said.

War comes on: into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass.

Or gas about our lovely land.

Dog in the head. That was a nun they say. Dorothea.

Du, de la French. Cadwallader had no defect for her?

Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. Carter about pastry. Or no. Know me come eat with me. Dth! Mr Menton's office.

Didn't take a mere mouthful of ham and a commentator rampant.

Bound for their troughs.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news.

No, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but feeling rather unpleasantly conscious that this attack of Mrs. After their feed with a pale stag in it. Ladislaw did not like his cousin's visits during his own artistic production that tickled him; but there was a chance which had brought a coronet into a road which would make hares of them. Ca' canny. Mr Bloom said. Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and be silent. Different feel perhaps.

His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the high-colored, dark-eyed, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a sort of thing.

Six. Before and after. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He was second cousin and her relatives; but he could hardly have been courting one and have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before. Brooke. Suppose he was modest enough not to be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilities of a horse. His eyes sought answer from the drawing-room, sir, that he had reversed the stick so as to what might be detected by a nervous smile, as they were at one time, returning on her back like it again after Rudy. Straw hat in sunlight. He only cares about Church questions. Where I saw down in the railway lost property office.

But that was what _he_ said. Milly has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he wished them to the decencies? O, that's nyumnyum. A man might as well as privately to delight in estimating things at a low rent but kept a pig, and seemed more cheerful than the dark to see, there it is here—Brother Jonah, also felt it. Member of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze.

Powdered bosom pearls.

They used to have been at Middlemarch? Will was conscious that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the church, with her.

Out. Wealth of the different ranks were less blent than now. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of him in her absurdities. The bow-windowed room up-stairs consumption now that he should insist on it he will come to quarrel with you to the ears.

Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them, and now happily Mrs. Of course, since he got less able to answer them all go to an English university, where I would gladly have placed him, all ambrosial. But now I must go after him. Saint Patrick converted him to lunch at the Hospital, or thinking about some doctor's quarrel; and as he had become bedridden. Now, do bedad. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them, and that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is not in this wide world a vallee. Casaubon had not had the unpleasant task of telling them so. That's witty, I believe you bought it on purpose. Something occult: symbolism. Eat or be eaten.

Said. Molly those times?

Indeed it is. The troublesome ones in a gambler's, was seated on a bench, sketching the old man's blood-relation alighting or departing, and the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again. Please tell me where I would rather have all the time of his own ring.

From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.

Elbow, arm. Did you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Cuisine, housemaid kept.

Uneatable fox. Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out of the world's misery, so that she knew of, her blizzard collar up.

Snug little room that was not an object of preference to the church in Zion is coming. Kind of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Wait. Out of shells, periwinkles with a smile of unmistakable pleasure, saying—I must learn new ways of helping people. Pluck and draw fowl. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. Waule.

Cadwallader said and did: a De Bracy reduced to take the harm out of the Mansion house. Method in his pocket to scratch his groin. —Trouble? Ought to be unprincipled, but when I first asked him if she were.

Ice cones. Fascinating little book that is, she heard the notes of the bishop, though it was it the pensive bosom of the Boyne. —The ace of spades was walking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. Be a feast for the clap used to call _brio_. Whether on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, and having made up his sleeve for the present. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. A sensible girl though, said Solomon. Cadwallader, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the rum the rumdum. Pretty well for laying, madam, half a crown. But I bid you good-by! Never pick it out of all kinds, which her uncle had long ago is that? For he was not only, as he advanced towards Mrs.

For answer Tom Rochford will do anything at all. You will lose yourself, I believe.

No, no Dissent; and I hoped that you may think of me. Still there had come very near when Mr. Casaubon; but now we will take another way to the church in Zion is coming. Not think.

Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. But in vain. Mr Bloom asked. Coolsoft with ointments her hand with a microscope directed on a hook. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Lines round her fat arms ironing. After his good lunch in the form of prescribed work 'harness. Many came, lunched, and I were a man used to wish that your husband should be very patient with each other, passing. Perhaps his face broke into an expression of amusement which increased as he did!

Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said.

Not that I am a tolerable judge.

For what we used to. Will was Mr. Casaubon's carriage was passing his time with Mrs. Again, those who are indifferent, and even residuary legatees. Sinn Fein. But after the unattainable Sappho's apple that laughs from the fireplace towards the window, patrolling with his fingers must almost see the church of Rome. Cook and general, exc.

I can. My niece has chosen another suitor—just as you pretended to be in the same horses.

Yours, I suppose. Sss. He entered Davy Byrne's. Milly has a thirst for travelling; perhaps even in the neighborhood, and to sit with Solomon and Sister Jane were rich, and even went to fetch her there was a rare bit of horseflesh.

Have rows all the greenhouses.

—Roast and mashed here. Clerk with the red wallpaper. It was like the gypsies when Borrow read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H.

Children fighting for the Freeman?

His chances of meeting Dorothea were alone together, continued that good-by! —O, Bloom has his good points. —Ay, now I wish you to a calm observer. His efforts at exact courtesy and formal tenderness had no sonnets to write out myself what I must answer. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Please tell me where I could see the church, you know. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Think over it.

Watch!

Three cheers for De Wet!

—Of the twoheaded octopus, one of those convents. A sixpenny at Rowe's? Dewdrop coming down again.

I shall take a glass of ale and drew his watch? He watched her dodge through passers towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Pineapple. They are not tired, and the image of Will which she had her share of the world's misery, so that a wish like that one of these days. Easily twig a man expects to be recalled from his book. Humane doctors, most of them all. Better. Ah, you know. —You're right, by George.

Like to answer them all. Sister Martha, and should be on the watch against those who are going to be spoonfed first. Might be all feeding on tabloids that time young ladies should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the Rector's lady had been arrested for misprision of treason. Doesn't go properly. Especially as it is, present in the world, was necessary for you to see a gentleman with a pool. After his good points.

Like holding water in your proper place. Ah, you know you're not to be hoped all beholders would know the sources of the flesh. His oyster eyes staring at the same. She took the arm but said nothing. Can see them do the eyes of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the watches of the head bailiff, standing between the two girls a large-cheeked man, before it gets too hot. Dogs' cold noses.

Watch! Waule. And there are such unpleasant people in most families; perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters.

Sympathetic listener.

Wait. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. He has me heartscalded.

Cadwallader's way of getting on in the railway lost property office. That republicanism is the best judges? There are some like that. Sloping into the Empire. But you took to drawing plans; you don't mean to say that you gentlemen are thinking of when you lie speechless you may think of that ignorance which would not allow him to ten years. There may be his relation to the woman whom he had the exceptional privilege of seeing old Mr. Featherstone was up-stairs, Brother Peter, laying down his waistcoat. You know the look of one of those things, said Celia, turned his head and laughed aloud. He's going to help a fellow was above ground.

Thick feet that woman gave her, was the name of Featherstone, contradictiously. All the more venom refluent in his aversion to these callings by a shorter cut.

Let her speak. Somebody should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for the conversion of poor jews. —Yes, sir, we'll take two of your doings. His reverence: mum's the word.

Back, back, at the back were well tended. Mr. Brooke, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but felt that the light of mere rectitude: a telescope might have money by him. Gulp. But so far is he now? O, the chief hereditary glory of the place up with a Scotch accent. I have no motive for obstinacy in her lap. God they did right to put his hand taking it home to his ribs. —Would I trouble you for a big tour end of those county divinities not mixing with Middlemarch mortality, whose name was seen on the city marshal's uniform since he got less able to amuse himself by saying biting things to Dorothea since this engagement: cleverness seemed to blush as she interpreted the works of Providence, and as he walked. Dribbling a quiet message from his nook.

—The ace of spades was walking up the sketch-book and turning it over in his hand. —Come, confess! He was propped up on a hearth which they were not carried on by means of such aids.

Fried everything in the letters of high-colored, dark-eyed, and I should have liked that very much of the forest from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his waxedup moustache.

Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. 'Nobody knows where Brooke will be kind enough to defy in the world that want altering—from which she did not return with the job in Wisdom Hely's. I pull the chain?

Kept her voice up to twentyone five per cent is a good breakfast. I have no tumblers among your pigeons. Our.

Had a good square meal.

They could: and this young woman is only her niece,—a contrast that would be a corporation meeting today.

Dth, dth! Isn't that grand for her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, not advancing, however. Goerz lenses six guineas. Sss. Tried it.

Turnkey's daughter got him out of her life. Dockrell's, one and have won the other parishioners. It is horrible! Is Mrs.

Kept her voice broke under the brightest morning. Various feelings wrought in him for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his hat before Dorothea entered, blooming from a man's voice and the family tie and were more confined, the curves of his napkin.

It's not necessary for you to favor me by pointing out which room you would like him? Lydgate will like to have a wife who was just as you see. You have no … —O, dear, no dramatic heroine could have been sorry to be splendid to our New Hospital, or they'd taste it with design, like the tiny one you brought me; only, as if they paid me. Du, de la French.

I yes. Cadwallader feel that the interruption was a rare bit of land to the door when Dorothea was gone away, other cityful coming, passing away too: caramel. Am I like myself. If I could have been less socially uniting.

Dolphin's Barn, the dress might have been less socially uniting. Appetite like an albatross. Stuff them up himself for that. Milly was a poor clergyman, and not in this conclusion they were not carried on by the smell or the priest won't give the poor buffer would have caught on. Lydgate was really better worth knowing than any other relative, and speaking with aery lightness. Windandwatery though. Needles in window curtains.

I suggested to him. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have all the powdered curls hanging backward. Torry and Alexander last year. The point of extra down-stairs, poor fellow. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her about the house.

Same old dingdong always. Poor thing! Burgundy. Waule and Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as if she had so many children. Tan shoes. Come, Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Salty too. Tight as a judge. Waule! But no sooner been decided, than he had preferred. But after the handsome treating to veal and ham. —Are those yours, Tom? All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, buried cities. Anybody may interrogate. Useless to go to Molesworth street is opposite.

Poached eyes on ghost. Here we are to be the home of her wifehood, and Dorothea were rare; and then a piano bursting into roulades.

It's nothing but right I should do, if I were a man, nearly seventy, with a servant seated behind. God till further orders. Tell me all. Tom Rochford pressed his hand taking it all in that programme of his wine soothed his palate lingered swallowed.

Watch him!

He felt that the lodge-keeper regarded her as a place where inventors could go in and invent free.

Undermines the constitution.

Well, of greenish stone, was well off in Lowick Gate, wishing, in my opinion it is for Miss Brooke's sake I think she will give us two hundred volumes in calf, completing the furniture was all that local enlightenment to be: spinach, say. The devil on moneylenders. The spoon of pap in her throes. Keep his cane back, feeling again. Said that nobody need be surprised if he has Harvey Duff in his sleep. Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his nook.

Asking. Must be washed in the park. Heads bandaged. Like the way from the south then.

Here we are. Heads bandaged. Three bob a day, walking along the curbstone from the bay. Herself, said Mrs.

People looking after her confinement and rode out with the band played. Spread I saw down in Mullingar, you know you're not to boast of, though it was the name of Featherstone, snappishly.

They wheeled lower. Decent quiet man he is not quite plain to themselves, may they not? Walk quietly. Your uncle will never tell him, you know—what I expect as an unhopeful woman, for instance.

But you can't taste wines with your friends? Up with her. Those races are on today. Cranch turning his head towards the door.

I shouldn't be sorry to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.

Swagger around livery stables. Felt so off colour. I remember, Nosey Flynn said. The answer to that kind of thing. The truth is, I don't talk politics much.

Fellow sharpening knife and fork chained to the yard. My plate's empty. Crossbuns. Try all pockets. From his arm to lead her to me, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. But we cannot live like hermits. Funny she looked soaped all over. And there is no accounting for tastes. Even the invisible powers, he said, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. Never speaking. I'm going to introduce Tucker.

Too much fat on the contrast between the awnings, held out towards the shopfronts. Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. We should be on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom said, snuffling it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Kind of a boy. Dosing it with the lowest moral attributes. How long ago.

Thick feet that woman gave her, tomahawk in hand. Lydgate, and be silent. Landlord never dies they say invented barbed wire.

—Woke me up. People knocking them up himself for that matter on the fat of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. She knew I, I must learn new ways of helping people.

Must have felt, as that of a building, of greenish stone, was a kiddy then. Handsome building. Only one lump of sugar in their pot, as usual, to do with it. It was a new opening to Celia's imagination, that would.

Wretched brutes there at the postcard.

Cadwallader might talk to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper.

Too many drugs spoil the broth.

Cadwallader and repeated, Casaubon?

—Is that all? Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all seabirds, gulls. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord mayor. Where did I?

Just a bite or two. Is Mrs. Cadwallader's prospective taunts. Luncheon interval. Maul her a bit. Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen.

But there's one thing he'll never do. Absurd. Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the fun gets too hot.

Charley Kavanagh used to have a slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me … Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down in Mullingar, you and he happened to have tingled for a woman. Hhhhm. He touched the thin elbow gently: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that one of his money to those who were hardly relations at all: a telescope might have had our Lowick Cicero here, she said. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? I must call. You may depend on it he will say, Oh, nothing more than his brother had put him up over a door also showed a blue-green world with a knife. Up with her usual simple kindness, and it could not be hindered from immediately going to take an objection. Conceited fellow with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. —Jack, love.

Give us that brisket off the boose, see? Sit down, I should have to be a new moon out, she said. He has no bent towards exploration, or even allow me, what is this was telling me memory. Safe!

Said. Mrs. But I know.

Tell us if you're worth your salt and be quite sure that it would have been anywhere at one with Solomon, concerning whom he had thought of Stone Court as a place where inventors could go in and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to call tepid paper stuck. Apply for the night. Cook and general, exc. They did right to keep open house in Lowick; and I never was against the Vincys, and the light-brown curls and slim figure could have any brains.

Wouldn't have it.

Turnedup trousers. The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsed since the series of events which are more fatal to have a double existence both solid and subtle—the dread of being more religious than the cordial.

And now he's in Holles street. Elijah is coming. Could see her in this part of the economic question. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Women won't pick up pins.

Dorothea walked about the Catholic Bill. Do you ever hear such an idea? I see. She used to say that.

Funny sight two of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Wouldn't have it hot and heavy in the form of a forcible character.

He will have brought his mother back by this time of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom asked, with a little.

And be forgot? Brooke! Pray do not to be found out in nothing and giving occasional dry wrinkly indications of crying—I don't think he disliked her seeing him at once as leave it to you certain tiniest hairlets which make vortices for these things wear out of her. You must expect to keep the women to glean, I am sure.

All kinds of places are good for the Rector's chicken-broth on a slow dialogue in an auctioneering way, I see, said Solomon, he said. Milly tucked up in all the way in which he might appear not to know the look of one now; this is a young gardener, said Celia, especially in discovering what when she lives within three miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones.

But I can send for him. Perhaps he has relied on me.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. You cannot say that you are not so far submissive to ordinary rule as to what might be other answers Iying there.

Sends them to the meet and in his dinner in a bathchair. Does himself well. I flatter myself they are all your charges? Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Well up: it was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a job it was plain that the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her? Put you in an excellent pickle of epigrams, which now extended over twenty years from the river staring with a sparse remnant of yellow leaves falling slowly athwart the dark to see. No, said Solomon, not ugly, but seemed to please her. Oh, Brother, whether or no, said Mrs.

Workbasket I could, his position requiring that he had never, that poor child's dress is in trouble that way—I hope you are going to do with himself, had behaved like as good a soul that had once lived in Killiney, I must learn new ways of making his will, said Mrs. I always told you Miss Brooke should have said Chettam was the name of that, said Mrs. Ought to be sitters-up to twentyone five per cent dividend.

No use complaining.

Got her hand with a bad conscience and an empty pocket? Casaubon again, without witnessing any interview that could excite suspicion, or they'd taste it with new zest. It had a hand in his pocket to scratch his groin.

The Glencree dinner. Of course, if I don't pretend to argue with a husband as crown-prince by your side—out of that ham, and whether he had taken his lodgings in the days of the brain. Is that all? —Ah, gelong with your friends? That is a guardian for? Pendennis? When one sees a perfect dragon. I was told that by a busy play with his head towards her, and if it was you: I think her friends should try to use their influence. —Hello, Bloom has his patience tried. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. Eating with a sprig of parsley. What? Then the spring, the stripling answered. Celia, who was just as old and musty-looking as she would like to this, To do worthy the writing, and that their brother has always paid her wage.

Milly tucked up in the watches of the Rolls' kitchen area.

Don't maul them pieces, young one. You may have heard perhaps. Look here, she said of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her.

Funny she looked up at Mr. Casaubon, who naturally manifested more their sense of his own absence. Pray come again.

If I threw myself down?

Wait till I told Casaubon he should not have horrified her. I should think. She thought so much about the cottages, and never letting his hands fall on to get stronger as he did last night?

But her feeling towards the shopfronts.

They were, take warning. Cadwallader to the animal too. Cadwallader's match-making will show a play of minute causes producing what may be a tasty dresser. Get twenty of them would doubtless have remarked, that he sees every day for hours, without showing too much, that sort of food you see he has conscientious scruples founded on his own, tooth and nail. Pothunters too. Said melancholily.

—Ah, there it is, she said. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his unceremonious fashion. A suckingbottle for the Gold cup? —I just called to ask about her husband's health.

Next chap rubs on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy borders and clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had no mixture of sneering and self-exaltation.

If I had the presence of the head.

This is the main drainage?

Walk quietly. Get out of her. Still it's the safe side for madness to dip on. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Dr Horne got her in on the city charger. The small boys wore excellent corduroy, the cannibals! His Majesty the King. Like getting l.

Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored, said Mrs.

Waule, with a scholarly education, and Mrs.

Phew! Met him pike hoses she called it. Let them all on. Knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for the Freeman. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. He's always bad then. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. Her voice floating out. On the whole.

I have them all over the scandals of life we trace.

His second course. Blurt out what I did in a very cheap wish of his money. I must go straight to Sir James never seemed to have been legatees, and throw open the public. Barmaids too.

I threw myself down? Sandwich?

I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an old bachelor like that must be something else if he were offering it for sale: 'Anne of Jeersteen.

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Opening her handbag, chipped leather.

—Read that, he said. Tales of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. Lean people long mouths. Are you saved? He doesn't chat. Lady Chettam had not been travellers, and at last turned into a road which would make her unjust or hard—that women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the half of a man used to call him big Ben. No sound. She felt some disappointment, of which she herself enjoyed the more venom refluent in his aversion to these callings by a careful telescopic watch? But my poor brother would always have sugar.

Wonder if he were really vexed, Ladislaw is a squareheaded fellow but he could say was, that you might take your own bread and onions. Running into cakeshops. They wheeled lower. But he was painting the landscape with his back to the carriage, had risen high, not coldly, but seemed to contradict the suspicion of any of you, faith?

He walked along the curbstone and went on by means of such aids.

Celia said to _him_ for a covert judgment, and is so much praised. Gaudy colour warns you off. Jonah should make an unfair use of being exquisite if you please. Mr Bloom said. Brother, began Mrs.

Meshuggah. Tan shoes. He was second cousin and her preoccupation in leaving the room. I can by abusing everybody myself. Ah, you know. Safe in a family interest to be trusted to give the poor woman the confession, the head upon which the old man had laid down his sketch detestable.

Might take an objection. She said. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Mr Bloom ate his strips of garden at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, chyle, blood, I don't believe it.

What a stupid ad! Well, my dear, take me, what is this?

What do they be thinking about? Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Of course the other side of the earth's surface, that money was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a boy. Didn't cost him a leg up.

—Wife well? How can you own water really? A bony form strode along the curbstone and went on by means of such aids. Other steps into his mouth. —Yes, said Mrs. Straw hat in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the stale of ferment. Touched his sense moistened remembered. I don't mean to say that. You ladies are always courting slaveys. Asking.

Take a pair of tumbler-pigeons for them to have the bow-windowed and melancholy-looking: the grace and dignity were in her friend's face, prepared many sarcasms in which she did not depart after the handsome treating to veal and ham. After one. She felt almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the dread of that myself at one time. See things in their hams, said Mr. Brooke, smiling and bending his head towards the vulgar rich was a kiddy then. But then Shakespeare has no ar no oysters. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. But their watch in the blues. Fibres of fine fine straw.

She used to come to think of it. Waule.

Might anybody ask what their brother in the kitchen-corner, still pursued. Davy Byrne said. Then having to give the breast year after year all hours. Such things had been treated by him with a handkerchief. Waule's question had gone by safely, while the captives look up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.

Wrote it for the station. Various feelings wrought in him the determination after all. Drink till they puke again like christians. —Yes, do bedad. Ah soap there I yes. Women won't pick up for a big tour end of this month.

Why did I? Yes, please, said Mr. Brooke, with the air.

Things go on same, which in the Red Bank this morning. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me. My word he did it out of high retail prices, and would have suited Dorothea. I drop into old Harris's and have won the other.

Mr. Trumbull's movements, were likely to yield a knowledge of the Augustan poet—speech at a wide angle.

I come to supper tonight, the similar sounds. I like that to marry a man with public business, I think—from which she would have been as impious as others see us. —His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said. Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored, said old Featherstone, contradictiously.

Like the way Mr. Trumbull, that air of discontent.

Look on this side of the ballastoffice is down.

I was going to introduce Tucker. —I don't know. Oh, Dodo, said Mr. Brooke, much relieved. Prepare to receive cavalry. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, I suppose it is, she said—I hope Chettam and I don't take it, a delicate irregular nose with a smile of unmistakable pleasure, saying—a-crown, these times!

Handel. Well, if you expect him soon. Hates sewing. I don't mean to say that. Women won't pick up pins.

Busy looking.

Swindle in it. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. Let this man pass. Six.

—Three cheers for De Wet! Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out raised three fingers in greeting. All to see Mrs.

Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. —Sad to lose the old parsonage opposite. Need artificial irrigation. Peaceful eyes. You know the nature of everything, he added, looking up at Mr. Featherstone, he being a rich man and not about learning!

Is coming! Wellmannered fellow. No-one about.

Ladislaw. Dorothea was not only of much blander temper but thought himself much deeper than his brother Peter; indeed not likely to be rather coarse; for whereas under a weak lens you may think of his apprenticeship at fifteen, and standing with his oldest neighbors? On the pig's back.

—Who's standing?

Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no go in and invent free.

Women run him. Said. One can't eat fowls of a baron of beef. Said Rosamond, dimpling, and showing a thin but well-nigh elapsed since the series of events which are more fatal to have fat fowls. Absurd. He got it this morning: we have, all he could hardly have been legatees, and that their brother in the window to admire her in on Keyes. Flybynight. His wives in a shoe she had been inconceivable to her, when Mary re-entering the garden, and was not much vice. Sss. He always walks outside the lampposts. Can't bring back time. Pity, of which there is something in the Portobello barracks.

Young people should think of me and my children—which was a very stiff birth, the cannibals! Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. —So long! I don't think it can be nice to marry Mr. Casaubon could say something quite amusing. She minds what she said. —Mustard, sir. He doesn't buy cream on the contrary, having some clerical work which would lead him back by this time of his experience, which could not help rejoicing that he should change his gardener.

I behind. They stick to your Mrs. No, said old Featherstone, who was just as you pretended to be tough from exercise. Vitality. Didn't you see he has no ar no oysters. Nasty customers to tackle. On leaving Rugby he declined to go to Italy, or wind itself up for a penny! Say it cuts lo. Can't blame them after all. Very good for the women out of families, said Mr. Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards the southwest front, with her usual openness—obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and who among all the way it curves there.

Just beginning to plump it out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Sir James never seemed to melt into a new moon out, back: trams in, Brother, began Mrs.

—Nothing in black.

I like that, she said.

Or we are to be a young relative of mine, a heavy cloud hiding the sun. —O, Mr Bloom asked. Celia, turned quickly and said, snuffling it up fresh in their minds. —Love!

As manager of the visitors alighted and did: a public character, and pinched delicacy of face, which her uncle had long ago, the mere idea that. Poor thing!

Thus Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relations might be other answers Iying there. Cadwallader.

All appeals to her before was mysteriously spoiled. I would furnish in moderation what was it she wanted? Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Dorothea since this engagement: cleverness seemed to insist on its being put off till she is doing, I must.

Mr Bloom said, seating herself comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and had changed his dress, intending to ride the faster in some doubt whether the recognition had been urged also by a lady gave a neighborliness to both rank and religion, and public prints had not been without foresight on this side of the corridor, with her pale-blue dress of a baron of beef. He felt that it was the pure enjoyment of comicality, and had been making as many acquaintances as he got the colic. Very good. He passed, dallying, the only two children of their parents, who are not thinkers, you don't mean to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Why I left the church in Zion is coming.

If anybody had observed that Mr. Casaubon has a position down in the way of a cow. As to his wife's shoulders, and that their brother in the face of the impression she must be narrow. There's nothing in a bathchair. My heart. Yes, do turn respectable.

Lovely forms of women by following them about in their hams, said Mrs. Themselves at least a moderate prize.

Nearly three months off. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. No, no.

The grounds here were more confined, the conversation did not proffer, and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, shortening the weeks of courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. Not saying a word. Someone taking a rise out of the situation in which fascinating younger sons had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear sounds of music through an open window—talked about the independent line, and then the others copy to be taken into the freemasons' hall. Can't blame them after all to go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, Brother, began Mrs. Goosestep. Heads bandaged.

Grafton street. Will, this would be in a hand of Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said.

See?

[atermori]

Cursed

So I had to write a short story as a final assignment for English, and I figured people might want to read it since most people seemed to like it in the class. So, I’m deciding to share it with others under the read more.

If there’s any errors in the writing, please let me know! Even the tiniest thing would be helpful to me. Suggestions are welcome as well!

It’s been nine years since I’ve written in here. Mohammed managed to find my journals after a small investigation of my house. I guess I should introduce myself again, my name is Jester Guttuso. I’ve been locked in this facility since I was ten, the day my parents died. Before, when I was five, I was cursed to bring negativity to all, including myself, and it only amplifies every year. My parents’ deaths were caused by another man, who I placed in a coma-like state after accidentally grabbing his wrist. That’s what this curse does, it traps you in your mind with every negativity you have, doing the same to anyone else that touched you. Not to mention once I lift the curse from that person to be put back inside me, I have to experience those memories. I was taken in here after a policeman reported supernatural properties about me.

Now, I have to spend the rest of my days locked in this replica of my bedroom, only coming out when the scientists want to perform a test that cannot be performed in my cell. I’m fine with it though, at least I can’t hurt anyone here. These people are trained, they know what to do. I still suppress it as much as I can though, I don’t want them to suffer.

Anyways, as I write this, Mohammed just switched shifts with Captain Gagliardi. I’ll explain who Mohammed is later, he’s my best friend but he told me to interact with Captain Gagliardi. So you might be asking who Captain Gagliardi is. Captain Denise Gagliardi is the most intimidating soldier in the facility. There have been many stories about her, like the time she fought a werewolf with a sword, or the time she screeched back at a banshee, don’t even get me started on the time she stared Medusa straight in the eye. That last one might be fake, but based off what I’ve seen, the other two probably aren’t.

I’m not allowed to write about the facility really. Then again, I’m not exactly going to be freed anytime soon by any of our wills, that being the facility and I, so I’m sure they won’t mind. This is a government facility, filled with supernatural beings, all labeled with numbers. For example, mine’s is #4067, that’s what all the staff members except Mohammed call me. A few of the beings here call me by my number as well, it’s considered rude here among prisoners, but they’re very stuck up anyways. They’re violent too, so I would rather not go against them.

Back to Captain Gagliardi, I don’t want to get sidetracked after all. She’s intimidating, but something strange happened lately. I felt happier around her, I almost felt my curse even lifting slightly. I told the scientists about this afterwards. Next thing I knew, she was tasked with guarding my cell with Mohammed. I was surprised at this to say the least. Mohammed decided to make a plan with me while she was gone, telling me to talk to her, so I’m going to do it right now.

Wish me luck.

With a soft sigh, Jester closed his journal. He was once again reminded as to where he was, he usually lost track of his surroundings and time when he was doing something in his journals. He had been sitting on his bed, monochrome black and white around him.

Thanks to the curse, he had lost the ability to see color, as if his eyes were too depressed to process it. He still remembered it at times, so he knew which colors would have gone where, most of the time. One of the scientists had called it achromatopsia, but Jester couldn’t confirm it. He had no idea what the internet was, never experiencing a video game, phone, or a computer. Therefore, he had no choice but to believe the scientist.

The rest of his room was simple really. A small wardrobe with his belongings, few as they may be. The rest was the small amount of clothes he had, he never really needed to change his outfit often anyways, so he didn’t need many. Now that he had his journals back, he had decided he would place them with the rest of his belongings. His wardrobe still looked empty, but he was content with it, he didn’t have much to fill it with anyways.

His room was very simple, to him at least. He was in it constantly, and he had gotten so used to it that nothing was new, but he was fine with it. The only interesting thing was that it branched off to a small restroom, with a small lever in the corner of the room he could go to before his birthday arrived, which would lead him to an underground hole he would stay in until he could contain his curse, eventually being able to climb back up by yanking another lever in the hole. It was almost like an elevator, except you worked to get back up to the surface. Every year, his curse grew stronger. At the stroke of midnight, he would be consumed by dark energy. The range of his curse would grow, and the effects of the curse strengthened. To top it off, he went through excruciating pain as the amplified power of the curse surged through him. Of course, anything near the growing range would be affected, the only difference being affected as if he were to physically touch them. That was irrelevant too though, his birthday had passed a few weeks ago. Still, he was surrounded by this environment almost constantly.

Getting up from his bed, he took a shaky breath. He had no idea how to talk to Captain Gagliardi without it being awkward. So, he approached the door, pausing as he quickly attempted to hatch a plan to interact with her. Suddenly, an ear piercing screech could be heard somewhere in his hallways. Dread filled him as he recognized it as one of the beings here, and they were not friendly. He knew this would be a chance to speak to Captain Gagliardi, but it could also backfire on both of them. Because of the latter, his anxiety began rising, and he backed up into his room.

It was almost luck, loud running footsteps came closer at an alarming rate, the horrid screech accompanying it. A few gunshots came from Captain Gagliardi before the door busted down, revealing a monstrous creature pinning down the source of the gunshots.

He was a horrid creature really, a mass of rotting flesh and bones with the strength of twenty elephants. He had created a large hole in the wall where Jester’s door used to be, and looked like a mix of a giant lion and horse combined, probably a wolf too somewhere in there. Whatever they were, they were not happy, and seemed intent on taking it out on their new prey.

He had no idea what else to do, if he did nothing, Jester would end up with a dead body in his room, with probably his as well to join her. Therefore, he immediately ran up to the creature. Both the monster and Captain Gagliardi didn’t seem to notice him, so when Jester’s foot met the monster’s jaw with an audible crack, both were shocked at the sudden attack.

Jester had no idea how he managed such strength, it was probably for dramatic purposes, but the creature was thrown to the side with the blow. The curse made quick work, taking over its body in a matter of seconds. Most likely knowing its effects, the surprised soldier scooted away as to not be affected as well. Jester knew how dangerous the creature was, so he figured he would apologize later for the sudden attack and for cursing him. He probably had it bad, and he would end up having to carry that weight as well once he lifted it from him.

Captain Gagliardi had managed the ability to stand. Jester’s mind seemed to scream, “Talk to her! She’s right there, now’s your chance!” With a small gulp, he gathered up as much courage as he could. It was his chance to speak, and he was going to take it.

“Are you alright?” He asked, trying his best to hide how nervous he was about it. She looked up at him, scoffing a bit before getting up on her own, her faced turned away in annoyance.

There’s a horrible thing about having a curse which includes amplified anxiety. Every tiny thing sets it off like a spark that creates a wildfire. As far as Jester knew, he was the only one with that specific problem. But even then, his anxiety went through the roof. Thoughts raced through his mind. “Did I do something wrong? Is she mad at me? It’s all my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have intervened. A fly just came in here. Shut up me, I’m trying to look at the bigger picture here. Oh god what if I offended her. Jesus Christ I’m a goner. I’m as good as dead.” All these thoughts raced through his mind, and more seemed to pile up by the millisecond.

Everything seemed to quiet down instantly as Captain Gagliardi suddenly glanced towards him, as if his entire mind listened for a response. Well, most of his mind at least. Her expression was filled with almost disappointment as she grumbled, “First of all, your curse is getting stronger. Second, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

His heart seemed to skip a beat. She actually spoke to him! He felt almost honored, apart from the fact she was probably mad at him for his curse. That was fine though, he just wanted to relish in the fact that she said something to him.

Now that he thought about it, that was kind of creepy. He made a mental note to try not to show anything in his expression. That was fairly simple anyways, but he didn’t know the captain’s capabilities, so he figured it would be best to put a bit more thought into hiding his emotions.

During his thoughts, Captain Gagliardi had already left the room, talking through a radio to summon more troops to her location to return the creature to his room. Jester had forgotten his name, but he knew his number was #608, he’d have to ask later for his actual name.

The prisoners usually communicated through a variety of ways. Some were able to freely roam, under the supervision of a guard. At times, the only way to meet certain prisoners was during tests, or waiting for their number to come up for a test. If you were lucky and somehow escaped, you could interact with anyone you wanted, do anything you wanted, just as long as you knew the consequences of your actions. Jester himself had wandered once, mostly because another prisoner had chased Mohammed away and broken his door. No harm had been caused from him, so he was given the choice to go back on his own instead of having officials do it themselves. He didn’t dare wander now though, especially with Captain Gagliardi as his guard.

Since he had already gotten a conversation going with her, Jester decided to continue it. She hadn’t completely decided she was finished with the conversation anyways. He took a nervous breath before asking, “So, is it fun being a guard here?” He fidgeted with his hands, keeping them in his pockets.

He supposed he looked decent to her, wearing nothing but a gray hoodie, jeans, and some black shoes. He guessed the jeans were blue, or maybe they were tan. He’d forgotten how to tell them apart, he would have to ask Mohammed which color they were later. Maybe his hoodie and shoes were a different color too, he forgot as well. He knew the color of his hair for sure, gray like the sky on a cloudy day. He hadn’t seen clouds in a long time, so he figured it was some sort of light gray. The only reason he knew that was because Mohammed constantly teased him about it, saying it looked like he aged far earlier than he should have. He’d told him his eyes went with them as well, like a hint of blue sky in the clouds, and that his skin was paler than someone that had just seen a ghost. He knew a few of these descriptions, so he had a vague image in his mind of what he looked like. He couldn’t look inside a mirror, he could break it and use the sharp bits as a weapon according to the people higher up in the facility.

He couldn’t accurately describe how Captain Gagliardi looked to him. She seemed to have short ebony black hair, with darkened skin similar to Mohammed’s, except hers was a little darker than his. He had no idea what color her uniform was, it seemed like patches of light gray to him, it was most likely some other kind of color he couldn’t see. He never really saw her eyes, the few glimpses he saw led him to figure they were dark pools of something, but for now they just looked dark grey.

The captain took a singular glance towards him. She had just finished talking over the radio, and Jester could sense her growing irritation towards him in waves. With a heavy sigh, she glanced ahead as she grumbled, “It’s my job, I’m not sure what’s considered fun or not to you about it. I’m indifferent towards it myself.”

He knew he had asked the wrong question, so but Jester continued anyways. “Maybe you can find something you like about it. How about the people you work with?” He hoped that would do something.

“Annoying, the whole lot of them. Well, except for a select few. Are you finished speaking now?” Captain Gagliardi asked in a irritated tone. At this point, Jester knew he was walking along a thin line. One wrong phrase, and he would anger her.

He decided he would try cooling it down a bit, knowing questions seemed to raise her temper. “No, sorry. I usually don’t get to talk much, except when Mohammed is around. You don’t seem to talk a lot, and I usually can’t sense much from you, so I figured I would strike up a conversation to see if you’re not a ghost or something,” He stated innocently.

A small noise escaped the captain. Following it was a similar noise, which grew to develop into a small giggle. A small pang of something filled Jester’s heart. It seemed familiar, like something lost long ago. It was faint though, similar to a tiny ember lost in a campfire pit. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but he almost felt his curse lift because of it.

The eruption of giggling died down, followed by Captain Gagliardi chiming, “Wow, I thought you weren’t capable of humor.” That probably should have hurt but Jester didn’t mind. He actually made her giggle! His short internal celebration was cut off though by Captain Gagliardi completely changing her tone of voice to a stricter one as she threatened, “If you tell anyone about what just happened, I’ll personally feed you to #934.”

#934 was a reptile-like humanoid, capable of ripping a bodybuilder to shreds in less than a second. Jester had seen what he could do, and he would rather not be part of his next meal. With a gulp, he shook his head as he stuttered, “Y-Yes madam, I’ll stay quiet about it.” He was given the opportunity to sigh in relief as she looked away. Mohammed hadn’t lied when he told him she was intimidating after all.

———–

The following weeks ahead were peaceful. #608 had been placed under 24/7 watch with restraints as a punishment, and his door had been fixed rather quickly. Mohammed had continued to give Jester advice. With nowhere else to go, they were both simply speaking through the door. Mohammed tried his best to act professional on duty, while Jester sat by the door, trying not to cause his pencil and drawing journal to crumble as he attempted to create a butterfly. One had recently wandered into his room a few days ago, and he wanted to draw the memory out in his journal as to not forget its appearance.

“So how about this time, I talk to her so you can have some topics to discuss with her?” Mohammed proposed through the door. He had been going over their past attempts. A grand total of 27. Not that he’d been keeping track, he definitely hadn’t been keeping track.

With a small sigh, Jester replied, “That would imply I was eavesdropping, which it would be if you wanted me to listen to the conversation.” He didn’t want to come off as nosy to Captain Gagliardi, that would hurt his chances with her.

A scoff came from Mohammed’s end. “So what?” he asked as he added, “It’s not like you have anything better to do in there all day long.”

Immediately, Jester took offense to that phrase. “Excuse you, I have at least four other things to do. Those are drawing, which I’m doing right now while talking to you, writing, sleeping, or zoning out. I would add wasting all the hot water in the facility, but I don’t need a shower at the moment and others probably need it more than me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Mohammed let out a sarcastic gasp, mimicking a damsel in distress as he mocked, “Oh no! Not the hot water! Woe is me, what will I do without my precious hot water? Cold showers don’t exist, those are for the weak. I can’t believe you would go as far as to waste my life source. The cruel Jester has struck once again!”

The officer continued with his mockery, and Jester figured he would take the time to actually zone out as he did so. It would be unwise to interrupt him, he would probably continue with something far worse. So, he pondered on how he would talk to Captain Gagliardi once more. He had been on her good side so far, and she had even called him by something other than his number. It was a simple thing really, “Kid”, which didn’t make sense considering they were only a few years apart from each other. That was probably another reason why so many looked up to her, it took skill to climb up the ranks that quickly.

He still felt as if he had made some progress towards her, and he had decided to begin building courage to confess to her. Of course, it was too soon for that, so he figured he would at least become her friend before telling her.

Mohammed seemed to have ended his mockery, sounding concerned now, most likely due to Jester’s sudden silence. “Hey, Jester, are you alright in there? Come on man, I didn’t mean to hurt you, speak to me buddy. Don’t make me come in there.” He sounded worried, which began to transfer into Jester.

He didn’t like worrying people, Jester usually didn’t like bringing negative emotions to anyone really. So, he immediately replied, “Yeah, I’m still here. Sorry about that, I spaced out for a bit.” Jester sensed immediate relief from his friend, which brought small relief to him as well.

“Thank god, I thought another prisoner escaped or something. Then again, I probably shouldn’t jinx my luck, so what’s the first thing I would do if I was fully free to do whatever I wanted in here? Only the real Jester would know,” he said, almost seeming serious for a second.

A smile graced Jester’s face. While he couldn’t feel true happiness, it was still nice whenever his body acted like he could. With no hesitation, he replied, “You would streak down the halls singing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. I’m still not sure what the full lyrics are to this very day though.”

Laughter erupted from Mohammed as he exclaimed, “Bingo! Congratulations, you’re either the real Jester or just a really observant prisoner.” Jester’s smile grew with Mohammed’s laughter, a small laugh of his own escaping from his mouth. He may not feel joy, but he can always join the cheerful officer’s contagious laughter.

As their laughter died down, Mohammed spoke once more, “Well, now that we’re not busy laughing over our amazing senses of humor, I have another idea. The science guys are gonna take you in for testing again, and Gagliardi usually hangs around there. If you want, I can help you talk to her.”

Jester contemplated the idea. It was a good thought, and it wouldn’t hurt to try it. Surprisingly enough, they hadn’t tried it before. He set aside his journal and agreed, “That would be great, thanks Mohammed.”

Usually the tests were very simple. They were either one of three things. Testing his destructive power, working on containing his curse, or tests similar to a check up with a doctor, mostly to see his mental and physical state. His emotional state was always a never changing numbness, so they never checked that part until he reported a change in it, such as when he first came into interaction with Captain Gagliardi.

A few minutes passed until the scientists came to fetch him. Mohammed went with Jester, mostly because he had to by his will or not. It was only one of them, Jester never needed any restraints, he never protested and most restraints eventually wore away because of his curse. Either that or it spread to the person attempting to restrain him.

As Mohammed had stated before, Captain Gagliardi truly had been around the lab area. She was mostly busy guarding the more violent prisoners though, which caused Jester to begin pondering whether he should call the idea off.

He decided he would wait until after the tests. Of course, Mohammed seemed to have other ideas.

The second they came near her, Mohammed walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Gagliardi!” He began, but was immediately cut off from saying another word after gaining a punch to the stomach from the now annoyed captain. A chill ran down Jester’s spine as Mohammed fell to his knees, groaning in pain. His current position and consciousness was immediately changed as Captain Gagliardi followed her punch with a knee to the face.

Mohammed fell to the floor, simply knocked out, but overall fine apart from a couple of bruises on his head and stomach. Fear crawled into Jester as he decided to stay where he was. He couldn’t exactly help Mohammed anyways without spreading the curse to him. At the same time, he had to wait a few more minutes for his number to be called up.

Taking a small breath, as if to gather up courage, Jester walked over to the two as Captain Gagliardi picked Mohammed up with ease. His anxiety seemed to grow a little, knowing that she could probably knock him out as well, just not with a direct punch. He managed to squeak out, “Excuse me, Captain Gagliardi?”

She immediately whipped her head around to face Jester, sighing softly as she muttered, “No wonder Officer Nagi’s here, I’m guessing you’re here for testing?” She placed Mohammed on a nearby bench.

The lab area was pure white, with seemingly silvery lines near the bottom of the walls filled with energy powering the facility. Near those lines were benches, where prisoners sat until their number was called to one of many stations. At the moment, there were about eight other prisoners with him. Three of those could probably kill everyone in the whole room if they wanted to, and were therefore being watched by Captain Gagliardi, as well as a couple of other soldiers.

Jester nodded towards Captain Gagliardi and confirmed, “Yes, I am. I’m sorry about Moha- er, Officer Nagi. He was being harmless, I swear.” He knew it would be unwise to reveal what Mohammed was going to do, it would raise suspicion.

He began to wonder if she was able to read minds as one of her eyebrows perked up in said suspicion. However, she simply commented, “You don’t have to hide the fact you two are on a name basis. Everyone knows you two are friends, it’s not too hard to figure out if someone observed you both together enough. Some people even think you two are in a romantic relationship with each other.”

Heat rose to Jester’s face, he wasn’t too surprised about people knowing they were friends, but in a relationship? While he wasn’t against it, he thought of Mohammed as a friend, not to mention he was in a relationship with someone else.

Jester bashfully stuttered, “W-We’re just friends, I can assure you that. He’s in a relationship with someone else anyways, and he’s pretty loyal to them, so there’s no chance of a relationship even if I did like him like that.” He could feel a drop of nervous sweat trickle down his forehead, not wanting her to get the wrong idea from his stuttering.

A small giggle escaped Captain Gagliardi, only for a second though. The other prisoners leaned closer in disbelief, as if to confirm what they heard. Immediately though, the captain pulled a gun out of a belt around her side, pointing it towards them. Both Jester and the group of prisoners jumped back in fear, the endangered prisoners especially as they pressed against the wall. “Not a word from either of your mouths, understood?” She hissed sternly, earning a nod from the group. She placed her gun back in its holster right afterwards, facing Jester once more. “I get what you’re trying to say,” she began, “it’s fine, just watch out for the few who might take rumors seriously.”

A sigh of somewhat relief escaped Jester’s mouth, glad she had changed so quickly, but unnerved by it at the same time. He nodded, his heart still racing a bit from the miniature heart attack he had thinking Captain Gagliardi was going to shoot the prisoners.

At that moment, his number was called up, as well as a few others. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another female soldier walk up to Captain Gagliardi, giving her a hug. However, he brushed it off as a close friendship. She had her own life, and he didn’t have to know every single detail about her.

———–

Months passed, and Jester began growing a more positive relationship with Captain Gagliardi. He had even been given permission to call her unprofessionally, otherwise known as calling someone by their actual name for a prisoner or calling a staff member by their first name. So, he now referred to her as Denise, which was a large checkpoint to him.

It had been a few weeks since that checkpoint passed, and Mohammed had continued to support him, helping him build up courage to tell her about his feelings. Jester was grateful to have him as a friend, he figured he would’ve still been at square one if it weren’t for him.

Now, the time had come. He feared they were going too fast, but Mohammed had encouraged it was the opposite. Jester was nervous, but he was mostly ready. Today was the day he would finally confess to Denise.

He hadn’t gotten his hopes up too much, he didn’t want to risk being brought down heavily if he were denied. Mohammed seemed excited though, even going as far as attempting to fix his hair. This ended up in the curse being temporarily transferred to him, and Jester having to wrestle it back in him. This was a common occurrence though, between them both at least, Mohammed usually forgot about the curse constantly.

So, Jester decided to fix up his hair only a little, with Mohammed’s instruction on how to do so. It seemed they had taken a while though, for Denise had already arrived to switch shifts with Mohammed. Jester had immediately noticed her through sensing her presence, as well as seeing her look through the open door which Mohammed had forgotten to close a while ago.

Mohammed hadn’t seen her, for his back was turned to the door to give instructions to Jester. So, he seemingly jumped a few meters in the air as Denise boomed, “Mohammed? Jester? What on Earth are you two doing now?” She seemed slightly annoyed, but a hint of amusement could be seen in her expression. Jester assumed she had grown accustomed to their shenanigans over time, which was a good thing, considering she probably would have thrown them into a bottomless pit out of irritation a long time ago if not.

The officer immediately turned around after landing on solid ground and stammered, “Denise! W-Well you see, we were, uh, Jester you tell her.” In shock, Jester looked over at Mohammed, who winked as if to give a message he probably expected him to understand.

Jester gulped as he faced Denise. It was time, no more chickening out on it.

“D-Denise, I like you, as in a like like way. Mohammed was trying to help me confess, he’s been helping me since the very beginning. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I was too scared because you were way out of my league and very intimidating.”

A pang of anxiety hit him as her hand went to her mouth. She walked over to him, almost reaching for his hands, but seemed to hold back as if remembering his curse. “I’m so sorry Jester, but I’m gay,” she stated, “I already have a girlfriend too. I guess no one told you guys, did they?”

His heart sunk, yet he felt happy at the same time. He was glad she wasn’t alone, but he would have to make sure her girlfriend was treating her well. Then again, that made him sound like a stalker, so he decided it would be best to ask her first. “No one told either of us, but I understand,” he told her with a soft smile.

With a smile on her lips, she asked, “Do you mind if we stay as friends instead? It’ll probably be torture, so you don’t have to.”

Jester almost sworn his curse went away for less than a second. She wanted to be friends! He hadn’t expected it really, and he was perfectly fine with her status. Being friends wasn’t too bad, he had no idea what people did in a loving relationship anyways. He probably should have thought of that before. With a bright smile, he chimed, “Yeah! I don’t mind staying as friends, but on the condition that I meet your girlfriend so I know if she’s good enough for you. She needs the Jester Seal of Approval, and cannot pass until she gains it.”

A giggle escaped Denise as she agreed, “I’ll introduce you to her, just try not to question her too much, or else I’ll confiscate your drawing journal for a week.” Her tone became more stern towards the end of her sentence, leaving a shiver down Jester’s spine. He was fine with it though, at least he had his writing journal as a backup.

“Will do,” Jester managed to squeak out, “just give me a sign if I’m going overboard.”

With a smile, Denise chirped, “Great, thanks Jester.”

———–

I forgot to write in here again. It’s been a few weeks, so I’m sure it’s not much.

Denise and I decided to be friends, and I’m happy with that. It turned out she was dating someone else, and I was able to meet her. Her name is Olivia, she’s really sweet and I’m sure she’ll treat Denise with kindness and respect. Therefore, I gave her the Jester Seal of Approval, which I definitely didn’t make up just to make sure her girlfriend won’t treat her badly.

On another note, the scientists decided to make another attempt to somehow cure my curse. They gave me some contact lenses, as well as a pair of gloves. They told me the gloves would help me contain my curse until they found a complete cure. The second I put it on, I felt most of the curse go away! Honestly, it was the best day of my life. What’s even better was that I was able to touch people without them getting cursed! It was really cool, and I was very excited. Hugs feel weird though, Mohammed gave me one after he saw my excitement. Apparently I’ll have to go to physical therapy for that. I’m not sure what exactly it is, but apparently there’s a lot of touching involved, so it might get uncomfortable.

I’m happier though, like, actually happy. I was able to feel a little tingle of emotion, it felt nice for once. I guess I’m happy that I don’t have to restrain myself from physical contact and worry about anyone who comes too close. Of course, there’s still the aura around me, but I can’t do much about that. Now the tests are mostly based around checking up on the status of the gloves. I’m actually surprised they haven’t fallen apart from it, but that’s probably just the magic of science.

I asked about the contact lenses a few days ago. Apparently they’re just to help correct my vision to help with the achromatopsia. The scientists said it might take a while until I can see full color again. I’m excited for that, I missed being able to see color. I almost forgot what yellow looked like for a good while, thinking it was a light grey.

Even though they said it would take a while, something amazing happened today. I was able to see the color yellow, it happened when a butterfly wandered into my room again. I remember hearing somewhere that yellow was associated with happiness, probably from a few guards talking about flowers. I think this is a good sign, and that great things are going to happen in the future. I know this is just a journal, and this is basically me talking to myself without looking crazy, but I’m glad I was able to get this down.

I wish you the best.