#what are we calling the michael dagon ship? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pengychan · 4 years ago

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - Luke 24:38

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Getting relationship advice is kind of hard when you have to omit that the relationship in question is with a Prince of Hell.

***

“... And so, this friend of yours ghosted you?”

“Yes. I don’t think I did anything wrong - they were about to fall on their face and so I caught them, what else was I meant to do? I just tried to help, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Right.”

“It’s been a week and they haven’t showed up again. I don’t understand. They usually appear at my place every other day - or night - usually night--”

“Oh, you gave them the keys to your flat? Sounds serious, then.”

“What? No, they don’t need the ke-- I mean-- yes. Right.” Gabriel cleared this throat, still pacing back and forth, reminding himself that mortals would find it quite odd that this friend of his could, quite literally, appear in his bedroom in a burst of flames that would probably set off the fire alarm sooner or later.

If Beelzebub was ever going to appear again in a burst of flames or otherwise, of course. They may never do so again. And the notion grated him. “They… do have the keys,” he muttered. The problem with his human friends was that there was a lot he couldn’t tell them, but the notion of talking about this with the other archangels… well. It was awkward to put it mildly. “But the point is, they’re not showing up anymore and I think I am owed an explanation, don’t you think?”

“Hu-uh,” Fabrizio said through his mouthful of sandwich.

Gabriel turned on his heel, starting another round across the break room just as Łukasz spoke.

“All right, I have to ask - is grabbing them before they fell really all you did?” he asked, causing Gabriel to blink, looking up.

“What?”

“I don’t know, maybe your hand slipped, and it was. You know, inappropriate?”

Hey, get a room!, the boy had yelled, right before the wheels of his bike mysteriously caught fire and sent him crashing into the pond. Gabriel hadn’t paid it much attention, but it made it back to his mind now and he’d spent too much time on Earth not to have grasped what it meant, however dim his concept of carnal desire was - a thing he knew existed, but which had never been of his concern. It still was none of his concern.

Right?

“What-- no!” Gabriel sputtered, face suddenly aflame. “If you’re suggesting I’d do anything inappropriate, I never--!”

“Whoa, all right, calm down! I told you, as an accident!” Łukasz held up his hands. “Are you really sure there isn’t anything else that happened? Because storming off for being caught before falling is kind of… well…”

“An overreaction,” Fabrizio said, once again through a mouthful of his lunch. Łukasz raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, that. Bit rich coming from you, though. You announced I’m going to Hell for putting cream in carbonara, you dramatic ass.”

“He is right, actually, and you should stop,” Gabriel informed him, matter-of-factly, causing Łukasz to throw his hands in the air with an exasperated noise and Fabrizio to laugh hard enough he almost choked on a sundried tomato.

“You’re the worst and I wish Daniel were still here to agree with me,” Łukasz lamented. “Look, are you sure nothing else happened?”

“Well…” Gabriel stopped pacing, hesitating a moment. “... We did have a disagreement, I suppose. Over, uh. An old job.”

“What, you were colleagues?”

“A very long time ago. We were both very different people then. They were fired long before I was, and at the time I agreed with--” divine judgment “--the management.”

A scoff from Fabrizio. “And they fired you anyway. Typical. I have yet to work a job where the management knows the first thing about what they’re doing.”

“It’s… complicated. It’s more that they handed in their notice, only the terms they got were not favorable. But the management they’re under now is arguably worse.” A pause. “I pointed that out. They didn’t like that.”

This insult will not stand! You take it back right now!

“See? Maybe that was it, not just grabbing them.”

Unhand me right now!

“... They didn’t like me catching them, either.”

“What did they want you to do, let them fall?”

Why not? I did before.

The thought was a sudden stab of pain somewhere in his chest, and Gabriel chased away the thought. No, he hadn’t let them fall - he had tried to reach out. Both had tried to reach out for the other, neither had taken the other’s hand, and what had happened next was entirely out of Gabriel’s hands. In the end, he sighed.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel muttered, just as the timer on his watch went off. Ah, there it was, the end of lunch break. As Fabrizio seemingly unhinged his jaw like a boa to swallow the rest of his frankly oversized sandwich, in a move Crowley would be proud to witness, Łukasz shrugged.

“Have you tried calling them?”

“Calling?”

“Or sending a message. You’ve got their number, no?”

He did, as a matter of fact, although he saw little point to it when he could quite literally call their name to see them materializing before him. That was an option, but at the same time it grated his nerves - the idea of calling out for them while they didn’t bother to get in touch at all. He frowned. “I am not desperate yet.”

“Yet?” Łukasz repeated innocently, causing Gabriel’s frown to deepen and Fabrizio to guwaff.

“Hah! Look, I tried to do the aloof thing with my girlfriend too, and you know how it went? I don’t have a girlfriend. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

“What…?” Gabriel blinked, taken aback, and stated at him like he’d just grown antlers. Wait, what was he thinking? “This is not-- they are not even remotely my girlfriend, it’s not like that--”

“Ah, right, sorry. Significant other, in this case,” he cut him off, entirely misunderstanding what Gabriel’s correction had been really about. “Anyway, call them.”

“No, they’re not my significant anything-- we-- it was them to storm off, I have no obligation--”

“Guys! Lunch break is over! Get your asses over here so I can have mine!”

Fabrizio shrugged, patting his shoulder. “All right, you do you. Just don’t complain once you’re single,” he said, and walked out, leaving Gabriel to stare at his retreating back, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“... You all right?” Łukasz’s voice came from very far away. Gabriel recoiled, and shook his head.

“Yes. I’m fine,” he muttered, and walked past him, doing his utmost to push that nonsense in the back of his mind and think no more of it.

He had about as much success as he’d had trying to talk the Antichrist into bringing forth the end of times.

***

For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time, the mug shattered in a hundred pieces on the stone floor. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time the pieces came together again, leaving the mug unscathed. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-second time Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, picked it up and stared at it as though expecting to see some kind of great secret revealed on its surface.

On the side of the mug, the Titanic remained still, halfway into the water. After a few moments of silence, the mug was thrown on the floor to shatter for the eighteen-hundred and thirty-third time. For the eighteen-hundred and thirty-third time, it came back together and Beelzebub picked it up to stare some more at the ship printed on it.

At this point, Dagon had questions.

Questions were among the things that had landed them in not-really-metaphorical hot water a very long time ago, and truth be told they were not the safest thing to ask in Hell, either. She was, however, trusted enough by Lord Beelzebub to speak her mind. Most of her mind. Most of the time. “Is something the matter, Lord Beelzebub?”

The Lord of the Flies took their eyes off the mug to give her a look which let her know, in no uncertain terms, that they found the question amazingly stupid for how obvious it was that something was indeed the matter. She was not ordered to be silent, at any rate, which made her bold enough to speak again. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem displeased.”

“Mph,” was the reply as the mug was thrown to crash on the floor for the eighteen-hundred and thirty-fourth time. “This stupid mug displeases me. The imbecile who gave it to me like it would be even remotely enough to win my favor displeases me.” The mug in question came back together for the eighteen-hundred and thirty-fourth time.

Maybe Dagon should just stop counting.

“I assume you’re referring to your attempt at getting a hold of the soul of the former archangel? Surely it is a good sign that he has given you a, uh… mug. As a… token of his loyalty?” she faltered a little, not really knowing what else that mug was supposed to be. If Beelzebub’s snort as they picked up the mug once more was anything to go by, ‘token of loyalty’ was not it.

“This pathetic thing is no token and there is no loyalty involved. It is a gift of sorts.”

Dagon blinked. “A gift?”

“Yes. And the imbecile probably even scored a good deed in getting it for me, to add insult to injury.” The Prince of Hell’s scowl deepened, and the mug crashed on the floor for the… upteenth time.

“... So it is some kind of plan from his part to thwart you?”

“The idiot cannot plan to save his miserable mortal life,” Beelzebub snapped, glaring down at the mug as it fixed itself once more. “He only ever followed one plan his entire existence, someone else’s. Now he has none - all he can do is spew out the most obnoxious nonsense!”

“I understand,” Dagon said, not understanding at all. She just watched as Beelzebub slammed the mug on the table beside their throne, this time without shattering it but still glaring death at it all the while. Finally, they stood.

“I will have his soul. It is a matter of principle.”

“Of course.”

“He spent his existence serving someone who threw him out at the first failure - who does he think he is, to just start lecturing--” they trailed off with a scoff, waving a hand. “Neither of us could bring about the Apocalypse, neither of us could punish the traitor, but I am Prince of Hell still. My loyalty was recognized - and where has his loyalty landed him?”

“In Soho,” said Dagon, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to figures of speech. Not that Beelzebub minded the rather literal nature of their reply.

“Exactly! Some thanks he got for his eons of work, doing everything by the book - and now he thinks he can question Satan, of all beings!”

The notion of questioning Satan was unthinkable enough to make Dagon visibly shudder, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you win-- I mean, when you win his soul, he’d better learn his place quckly, or he will not last as a demon.”

“Of course he wouldn’t last! He thinks it was bad being cast out! Hah! There is no being cast out of Hell. Questioning Satan means destruction for any of us, and--” they trailed off, suddenly, and to Dagon’s confusion their expression went from frustration to astonishment, like something mind-blowing had just occurred to them. It wasn’t often they were so fazed and Dagon might have asked, if not for the fact the Lord of the Flies’ features twisted into fury once again the next moment.

“He’ll learn better, or face the consequences,” they buzzed furiously. “You’re dismissed.”

“Huh. My Lord, I am here concerning the filing system upgrade you reque--”

“GET OUT!” Beelzebub’s shout was underlined by a burst of flames and furiously buzzing flies, which told Dagon in no uncertain terms that was the right moment to take her leave.

Questioning Satan was unthinkable, but questioning Beelzebub was not a very bright idea either.

***

“I certainly hope I have not taken you from important duties by calling you here - duties which I’d rather know as little about as possible,” Gabriel said. He managed a smile, passing the mug from one hand to the other. “You must have been busy. I must say, I have been busy myself. Time flew by. I just now realized we haven’t met in a couple of weeks.”

A pause.

“... Not that I was actively thinking of it, of course, but I just happened to pass by a store, and they had this mug on display. Since you seem to like mugs, I figured it would be right up your alley. I understand if not, I purchased it just in case - I could use a new mug myself, I could keep it. That was the idea, actually. That you might like it was more of an afterthought, but either wa-”

“Sir.” Gabriel’s little speech to the wall was cut off, and he turned to see a rather exhausted-looking clerk staring at him, and then down at the mug in his hands.

“It’s closing time. Do you want to purchase either of those?” he asked. Witnessing a client talking to the wall for several minutes while holding mugs didn’t really seem to faze him.

Closing time already? He must have been standing there longer than he thought. About an hour longer than he thought. “Ah,” Gabriel said, and looked down at the mugs he’d picked up. One read ‘Boss From Hell’ printed in back letters and surrounded by flames, while the other read ‘Tears Of My Employees’. He tried to make himself pick one in the following five seconds, failed, and sighed.

“I’ll buy both.”

“We have a discount, that would be ten pounds. Twelve if you buy a third.”

“Oh. In that case…” Gabriel turned and grabbed what had been his third choice, ‘Bitter As Hell’. “I’ll take this one as well.”

It didn’t occur to him that trying to claim he had just so happened to buy three mugs Beelzebub might like, entirely incidentally, might not be an easy lie to sell.

***

“Why rebel to the absolute authority of God to pass absolute the absolute authority of Satan,” he’d said.

“It was God’s Great Plan you were fulfilling,” he’d said.

“I didn’t mean to grab you,” he’s said.

There was absolutely not one aspect of their last conversation that did not make Beelzebub want to burn down a planet or two or twenty before returning to Earth to choke him with the very mug he had foolishly gifted them. First of all because he deserved it and, secondly, because he had a point and it was the single most infuriating thing Beelzebub had to admit to themselves in the past several millennia.

There had been a similar conversation before, hadn’t there? Only that the roles were reversed, then.

“We do all the work, no? God has done nothing but give orders in eons,” Ba’al had said, a very long time ago.

The ruler keeping away, not really talking to anyone, giving instructions that are not always exactly clear or giving none.

“Don’t you dare say such a thing! None of us is above--”

This insult will not stand!

Overall that seed of extremely uncomfortable doubt was the most worrying thing, and therefore Beelzebub made what seemed the most logical move: ignored it entirely hoping it’d die off like an unwatered plant, and focused on the other infuriating thing about their latest exchange.

He’d picked them up. He had dared pick them up, just like that, presuming he was allowed to touch them - that was the infuriating part. The worrying part, though not as worrying as an attempt at questioning the very foundation of their existence, was that outrage hadn’t arrived immediately after the surprise faded. Something else had, which Ba’al may have felt once but not Beelzebub, not ever, not since the Fall that forged them into what they were now.

They’d ordered Gabriel to unhand him without knowing exactly what they would have done if he had not, and try as they might there was no denying a pang of something that felt suspiciously like disappointment when he had, indeed, unhanded them. And that stupid look on his face...

Hey, get a room!

Ridiculous suggestion, ridiculous idea. They were not even human, and were not among the demons who ever held any interest in carnal matters. Gabriel may be human now, but surely neither would he. And if he did-- no. No, it was ludicrous.

Everything about this is ludicrous. I should have burned that mortal to a crisp. Should have burned Gabriel to a crisp when I found him, let his soul go wherever, and forgotten about it.

But they hadn’t and now they were stuck, because getting his soul was a matter of pride and they really should go back on Earth to make sure he wasn’t behaving too well and earning himself access to Heaven. If he did, and returned there as a mortal soul in the lower spheres after death, it would mean defeat… and never seeing him again, because mortal souls couldn’t leave Heaven any more than demons could enter it.

Either I win his soul, or the end of his laughable lifespan will be the last I see of him. And I am losing that fight.

“Well, good riddance,” Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, told the empty room. Empty words. Empty lie.

And keeping up willful ignorance was getting difficult, more and more unwise by the day.

***

“Uh, angel?”

“Yes?”

“Since when you have pornography books?”

“Oh, a good while now,” Aziraphale replied, as casually as he might have informed him that it was mildly breezy outside. “They’re all first editions.”

“Ah.” Crowley cleared his throat, skimming through it. It was illustrated, showing men in various interesting as well as rather indelicate positions. Some of which had to be bullshit, because there was no way a human being’s skeletal structure may allow for such flexibility. “Not very holy, I have to say,” he said, choosing not to comment on the fact it was right next to a first edition of the King James Bible.

“They’re collectibles. I acquired that one in a discreet gentlemen’s club, one of the patrons - a grandson of Queen Victoria, I believe - was selling it.”

“A discreet gentlemen’s club.”

"Yes, in the 1880s. The Hundred Guineas Club.”

“The-- wait, that club? In Portland Place?”

“Yes, you heard of it?”

He had and, considering it was the most exclusive gay club in London at the time, so had plenty others. His eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. Surely he had not… no, not Aziraphale, he couldn’t imagine it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. “... I heard it mentioned once or twice.”

“It was a nice place, I was quite put off when they shut down. I learned to dance the gavotte there."

“The gavotte.”

“You know, the dance?”

“You went to the Hundred Guineas Club and learned the gavotte.”

Still focused on the books he was cataloguing - apparently, moving books from one bookcase to the other was… more complicated than just grabbing them and moving into another bookcase - Aziraphale shrugged. “Well, it was more convenient than going all the way to France,” he said, like he had not taken a trip to France in the midst of the Revolution, dressed as a nobleman, to eat some crêpes.

“... Fair,” Crowley muttered, putting the book down and stepping closer to the shelves. In the end, they had elected to only move some of Aziraphale’s most prized books in the cottage and leave the rest in the bookstore. After all, with a door now miraculously connecting them, it would be a simple matter of stepping through it. “How’d Gabriel even know you had this sort of book?”

“Oh, I don’t think he did. I have no idea what that was all about, in all honesty. It did cause some awkwardness when a customer present returned asking to see the books I have in the back of the store. I had to turn him down - they’re not for sale,” he added, stepping back from the bookcase to admire how the books looked in it. He seemed satisfied.

“Heh. If Gabriel shows up again asking for pornography, you should show him this.”

“That would be most inappropriate,” Aziraphale replied, somehow managing a tone that said he disapproved as well as a look that hinted he was at least amused by the notion. “Which he is now aware of, thank God, so unless he loses his mind he is unlikely to come to me asking for pornography,” he added, and both of them forgot something rather important he should have learned long ago.

Unlikely was not impossible.

***

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“What-- there is no meaning. It’s just mugs.”

“You summoned me to show me mugs? Are you mocking me?”

“No! I just bought these for myself, and I figured you might… er…” Gabriel paused, unsure. It finally occurred to him that the claim was… a little less than believable, and he may be better off telling the Prince of Hell something a bit closer to the actual truth. “I bought them as… apology.”

Beelzebub turned to look at him, clearly taken aback for a moment before they narrowed their eyes. “And pray tell, what are you apologizing for?”

Gabriel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a little taken aback by the question. “For-- grabbing you?”

“... Yes, I suppose I am owed an apology for that too.”

Ah. Right. “If it’s about what I said about you letting Satan have absolute power after rebelling against absolute power--”

“Yes. Apologize.”

Gabriel frowned a little. “You know I have a point.”

“You do not.”

“You wouldn’t be so cross about it if you didn’t know that I do,” Gabriel remarked.

Beelzebub’s expression soured, but they didn’t try to argue that point. Instead, they turned to look at the mugs. “An appropriate payment for your insolence would be your soul, but for now, these will do just as well.”

As much as the statement should have relieved him, something about it rubbed him the wrong way. “Wait, is that what my soul is worth? Twelve pounds?”

“I said for now, mortal.”

“Oh. I mean, good. I was starting to feel insulted,” Gabriel managed to joke, smiling. Beelzebub raised an eyebrow at him.

“Also, while I am not an expert in human etiquette when it comes to… gifts, I am fairly sure you are not supposed to disclose the price paid for it to the recipient.

Gabriel’s smile went out like a burned-out lightbulb. “Ah. Fuck,” was the brilliant reply. For the briefest moment, the corners of Beelzebub’s lips seemed to quirk upwards before their gaze turned inquisitive. Which was… probably not a good sign.

“You are a mortal now.”

“... I am aware?”

“And a great many mortals have desires. The carnal sort.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, sputtered, and felt his face catch fire.

Hey, get a room!

“Yes, I-- I suppose-- they do,” he muttered. It had been simply a fact he had been vaguely aware of for a long time, of absolutely no relevance to him. He still was of no relevance to him, or so he had thought until very, very recently.

When the Prince of Hell had suddenly been in his arms, the weight and warmth of them, the closeness, the grip on his shirt right over a fast-beating heart he couldn’t entirely blame on jogging. How right it had felt. How reluctant he was to let go.

Beelzebub stared, expression unreadable; only the clearing of their throat revealed the barest trace of discomfort. “Well. Do you?” they asked, their gaze resting on just about everything in the room except Gabriel, who was beginning to wish God would smite him where he stood.

“No, I--” he paused, trying with very little success to recollect his thoughts. Not that he’d precisely had carnal desires - or at least he didn’t think he did - he knew very little of what those would entail. It was not something he’d looked into. Perhaps he should seek advice. “I don’t… think I do?”

Beelzebub turned away, too quick for Gabriel to gauge their expression, and grabbed the mugs. “I see,” they said, their voice entirely flat. “Well then. Your boon and apology are accepted.”

“Ah. Good.” Gabriel cleared his throat, trying to recover some semblance of control. “Well, if you are not busy this evening, I was wondering if you’d--”

There was a burst of flames, louder and taller than usual, followed by the wail of the fire alarm that had, at long last, detected the presence of hellfire. Gabriel ignored it, just staring in silence at the spot where Beelzebub had stood only a moment earlier, feeling a lot like he had just failed a test he did not understand.

***

"And He said to them, 'Why are you troubled? And why do doubts arise in your hearts?'" -- Luke 24:38

***

[Back]

[Next]

#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #winging it

21 notes · View notes

epizkage · 5 years ago

Text

the first chapter of my good omens fic! its a uni au, the main ship is ineffable bureaucracy but there is also background ineffable husbands, hastur/ligur, and maybe future dagon/michael! i’ll be uploading this to ao3 tomorrow, as well as uploading a page of sketches for each chapter both on here and on my art insta. thank you for reading, im grateful for any feedback at all!! tagging as #ineffable neighbours on all platforms!! (here, ao3 and instagram!)

“Crowley, what the fuck?” Bee groaned, incredulous, as Crowley handed them another houseplant through the car window. They were sat in the passenger seat, knees near enough at their chest with how far forward the seat had been pushed, their lap and arms already full of plants which they may as well have been juggling in trying to make room for more.

“I have to bring all of them, Bee, they’ll be lonely if I don’t.” Crowley answered sincerely, handing them another, which Bee shoved rather frustratedly into one of the cupholders by the gear stick.

"Oh, don't worry about me-" Bee huffed sarcastically, taking the tray of mini cacti that Crowley handed them and sliding it onto the dashboard. "-I'll just be a fucking shelf, shall I? It's not like I wanted to say goodbye to our mothers or anything."

"Language, Bee!" Came their mum's joking voice, though from where Bee couldn't quite tell, their peripheral vision on both sides blocked by leaves and greenery.

"Yeah, Bee, language." Crowley mimicked petulantly, having the gall to try and hand them one last plant through the window only to be stopped by a string of very colourful curse words. Bee managed, after a lot of growling and swearing and heightening claustrophobia, to transplant the innumerable pots into the vacant driver's seat, swinging the car door open with enough vigour to nearly hit Crowley as they made their escape.

The tiny battered car was stuffed to the brim, back seats folded down to make room for two lots of possessions, Crowley and Bee's lives packed up into boxes and stacked in the world's most audacious game of Tetris, scraping the roof and blocking the back window entirely; sure to make Crowley's already terrible driving even worse.

"Arsehole." Bee scowled, stepping back from the car to join their parents on the pavement, all watching and doing nothing to help as Crowley attempted to strap a way-too-big suitcase to the roof.

"Don't call your brother an arsehole, dear." Their mama said jovially, nudging them in the side.

"He is a bit of one, though." Replied their mum - the other one - coming up to their other side. Bee smirked at the two of them, and busied themselves with rolling a cigarette.

"Oi!" Crowley called, turning to throw them all a faux-offended pout, ignoring the suitcase for just long enough for it to start sliding off the roof. At the sight of him frantically trying to stop it from either hitting the ground or smashing one of the car windows, Bee choked on a laugh and dropped the filter they'd been holding between their lips, figuring it was karma for laughing as Mama rushed to Crowley's aid.

"You could help, you know, dear sibling." Crowley yelled, way too loud for a quiet, late September morning, as he tightened the straps on the makeshift roof rack. The neighbours, inevitably, would talk amongst themselves - middle class businessmen asking "oh, aren't you glad that those bastard kids are finally going back to uni?" over a neat and orderly breakfast, wives responding "I never did understand them anyway, Karen mentioned Satanic witchcraft, but really I think they're just hippies." Maybe they'd even pop round with fake neighbourly intent, presenting the couple with a rehearsed spiel of "my Sophie left for uni again a few weeks ago, you don't appreciate the alone time until they come back!" and a horrid fake laugh when really all they were trying to do was nosey around and determine whether their neighbours were lesbians or just really good friends.

Really good friends, who shared a surname, raised children together, and held a garden party last year to renew their vows.

Bee ignored him and sparked up their cigarette. Both mothers shared a glance and rolled their eyes, and Crowley rounded the car to lean against it.

"Is that everything?"

Bee nodded through an exhale of smoke, and suddenly their parents had zoned in on them, Crowley being dragged into their huddle while Bee was made to extinguish their cigarette.

"Oh, we'll miss you, horrible children." Their mum laughed, pulling both Bee and Crowley into a tight hug and kissing them both, Bee on the crown of their head and Crowley on the cheek, before passing them off for Mama to do the same.

"We'll miss you both too." Crowley replied, his smile showing clearly all of the anxiety he was trying to keep hidden.

"Don't worry, kiddo-" Bee slapped him on the back as they spoke, a rare moment of genuine and open kindness flashing between them and making their mothers smile from ear to ear. "-Everyone's nice, you know that."

It was Crowley’s first year while Bee was going into their second, and Crowley was to move in with Bee and their friends that they’d met last year. Crowley had met them all before, too, even considering them friends of his own after spending a lot of time at Bee’s flat, though nothing could help keep the anxiety at bay.

Truth be told, the poor kid looked like he might cry, and so with a sigh Bee decided to take control.

“Come on, we gotta go, I’ve got all the keys and I don’t want Hastur or Dagon tearing into me for making them wait.”

Crowley looked understandably dejected, but nodded nonetheless, and with one last long family hug the two bundled into the car.

Bee got in first, bringing all of the plants back into their lap to make room for Crowley, who soon after slid into the driver’s seat, hands balled into fists on his thighs as he took a deep breath.

“It’ll be okay, kid.” Bee tried to be reassuring despite their voice sounding bored and their face being almost entirely blocked by plants, but Crowley smiled at them anyway.

“I know, it’ll just be weird to be so far away.”

Bee nodded with a hum, both of them waving goodbye to their mothers, before they set off for their new house-

-which was fifteen minutes away, in the city. ~

Crowley and Bee had managed to unpack the car and near enough move everything in before the first of their housemates even showed up, perfectly chaotic and exactly at the wrong time, as Crowley battled to fit the giant suitcase through the front door while Bee laid on the sofa and did nothing to help.

Her arrival was made known by three things: the sound of Britney Spears’ ‘Womanizer’ muffled through car windows and getting ominously closer until coming to a head as she pulled up, a crash as the aforementioned car hit the lamp post outside the house, and then a loud, blunt exclamation of “fuck.”

“Ah, Dagon’s here.”

She ran out of the car, leaving the engine on, door open and music still blasting, and gave Crowley a hard clap on the shoulder as she pushed past him and threw herself into Bee’s lap, only to be promptly deposited onto the floor.

“Aren’t you guys buzzed?” She grinned, red hair messy and falling into her face, partially covered by a black baseball cap that said “women want me, fish fear me” on the front.

“I was until you got here.” Bee fired back playfully, snatching the hat from Dagon’s head and shoving it on their own. It was way too big and the peak fell down over their eyes every time they moved, and they readjusted the size, quite intent on wearing it for the rest of the night, as they got up to help Dagon unpack her car.

Dagon had brought with her far too much of what she didn’t need and far too little of what she did; half of her car being taken up by a giant fish tank (“I’m going back home tomorrow to get them, I hope they don’t miss me too much.”) while the tiny suitcase on her passenger seat apparently held all of her clothes for the year. The music, still Britney Spears, was only turned off once Dagon had unloaded the car completely (as Bee and Crowley had discovered, she had created a playlist of every single Britney Spears song on Spotify), by which point many of the neighbours had already given them some rather distasteful looks from behind their net curtains.

With the playlist blaring again, now through a speaker upon Dagon’s insistence, the three of them had split up to investigate the house. The outside was irregular and dirty-white, made complete by a wooden door with chipped black paint and a half shiny, half rusted number six nailed to the wall. The inside was no better, old carpets and ragged papering complimenting holes in the plaster and rusty radiator pipes.

None of them had even bothered to look around the place before signing the contracts - an offer of cheap rent and ‘satisfactory’ facilities more than enough to sway them.

Bee had taken to the garden, itching for nicotine, and they extracted a cigarette from behind their ear, scattering loose tobacco through their mess of black hair and making no effort to even acknowledge it, let alone remove it.

The garden was small, narrow and void of greenery completely, except from a pitiful looking tree that looked more like a long twig that had been plunged into a patch of gravel than anything that had ever been remotely alive. The ground was plain concrete, mossy and damp and unappealing in every sense, resembling an alleyway more so than a garden. Bee thought it crunched nicely beneath their thick-soled boots as they walked, and that was enough for them.

They hopped up onto the shoddy brick wall that ran the length of the garden fence, almost barreling straight into the tree-that-once-was, and once they’d found their footing they paused to light their cigarette.

Crowley would be sure to try and bring the thing back to life, of that they were certain.

Eyeing the fence, Bee was sure that it would fall down before the year was up, what with the rot and knot-marks and holes between the panels; and they suppressed a laugh at the death-rattle it gave when they kicked it. They spared a glance over into their neighbour’s garden, and then their nosiness overcame them and they draped their arms over the fence entirely, wrinkling their nose a little at how nice next door seemed in comparison.

It was a wide, open space and the tiles on the ground looked brand new and almost shone under the early afternoon sun. Bee didn’t feel in the least bit bad about dropping cigarette ash all over them. In the middle was a patch of neat green grass, in the far corner a russet-painted shed, and the entire back fence was painted with a sunset-inspired mural.

Inside the house Bee saw a lone girl, busy packing things away into the wall units in the kitchen. Bee found themselves very intrigued, her deep brown skin flawless and shining with a rich gold highlighter that caught the sun every time she moved, and she wore a loose, ruffled white shirt that flowed with her movements and made her look like an angel.

For someone so seemingly put-together, she’d sure picked a rough neighbourhood to live in.

Bee stopped staring, then, and as they turned to duck down behind the fence to finish their cigarette they met eyes with Crowley, making his way out of the back door to join them.

“Dagon’s setting up her tank," He waved vaguely behind him as he spoke, up on his tiptoes to peer eagerly over the fence.

"What's next door like?"

"Nice." Bee replied genuinely with a nod, waiting for Crowley's hum of approval before continuing. "When's your boy moving in?"

Crowley choked, and Bee snickered when his face flushed almost as red as his hair.

He had started dating a boy named Aziraphale, though Crowley would only ever call him Ezra, Zira, or Angel, over the summer, having met online and hit it off in a fresher's group chat for their university.

"Weird name." Bee had commented, and then had immediately taken it back upon remembering that their legal name had very nearly been Beelzebub.

The two had met up a few times, and soon become an official item. Bee could still vividly remember the absolute joy on Crowley's face when he'd found out that, arguably through some sort of divine intervention, Zira would be living just next door when term time started.

Who else he was living with, however, Bee and Crowley hadn't the faintest. All Zira had said was that there were four of them, two second years and two first years, and all of them had met through family friends, university societies and extra curricular youth groups. Nerds.

"Uh, h-he-" Crowley cleared his throat, removing his sunglasses as if it'd help him think better, brown eyes so light they almost shone yellow darting this way and that but never meeting Bee's own. "-He should be here tomorrow, or the day after."

Bee smirked at him, quirking an eyebrow.

"You'll have to introduce us.”

Crowley very quickly brushed it off with an awkward nod.

“What do you think the rest of ‘em will be like?”

Bee finished their cigarette and stubbed out the end on the wall, little ashy embers flying back at them as they flicked the filter in the general direction of the drain by the back door.

‘Get something to put your dock ends in-’ Bee reminded themselves as they followed Crowley back through to the living room. ‘-Asshole. Think of the planet.’

“Insufferable, probably.” Bee shrugged, leaning back against the sofa and crossing one leg over their knee, their foot beginning to twitch and shake out of habit. They decided not to mention the girl they’d seen in the kitchen, knowing full well that Crowley would mislay the information to Dagon, who in turn would mislay it to Hastur, over-exaggerated and not at all true stories of Bee and the mystery girl somehow being an item forming from nothing more than boredom and a need for drama.

“Yeah, probably.” Crowley’s reply was half-hearted, paying no real attention as he instead stared down at his phone.

“Zira likes them, though, so I’m sure they’re nice enough.”

Bee made no effort to reply, but if they had, it would’ve been cut off. First by a crash, followed immediately by the second customary exclamation of “fuck” of the day.

It was beginning to feel like home already.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #ineffable neighbours #my writing

25 notes · View notes

kylermalloy · 5 years ago

Text

My Official Unofficial Ranking of Supernatural Seasons That Nobody Asked For

This was...surprisingly easy. For someone who has a hard time picking favorites, I’m apparently quite eager to throw some seasons of one of my favorite shows under the bus.

My reasonings for this ranking are...all over the place. Since I’m considering seasons as a whole, I look mostly at the overall narrative structure, the prevalent themes, and the major character arcs. I won’t take individual/one-off episodes into much consideration...except for when I do. I won’t like some seasons/story arcs for any rationale between “this was sloppily executed,” “the message is misunderstood by viewers,” or even just that gif of Chris Evans “I don’t wike it.” I’m trying to look at seasons and storylines objectively, but I guarantee my Sam!girl bias will peek through at some point. Also, I reserve the right to change my mind at any point after I post this!

From bottom to top:

14 - Season 14

Ah, the twilight years of SPN. Now that we know this is the penultimate season, I’m a bit more lenient toward its shortcomings. Long running shows usually do stutter to a halt, story-wise. But still. I’m not taking it out of the bottom spot.

What was this season even about? Michael overtaking Dean? Nah, that barely lasted three whole episodes. Jack becoming evil? Not until the last six episodes. Team Free Will becoming a cohesive family unit? Lol. For a season that tried to set up Jack’s evil arc as a kid betraying his family, I hardly saw this “family” except in fanworks. The most heartfelt moments remained between Sam and Dean (not that I’m complaining about that—I loved those moments!) Was there an overarching theme besides “nobody is okay, especially Sam”? Season 14 is clumsy, unfocused, and does a poor job of telling the story it tried to tell. Even Mary’s second death reeked of “well, we didn’t know what to do with her and we needed a tragedy.” Oh yeah, and John was back for a hot minute.

13 - Season 9

Here’s one of these weird seasons. I like it, but I don’t. It’s well done, but it’s terrible. Also, I’m taking fan response into consideration on this one, since it colored my perception of it so negatively.

Season 9 could have been great. In a way, it was great. It was Dean’s dark arc—the part of Dean’s dark arc that I like. I’m not here to debate, just lay out the story. Dean stepped over a line. He tricked Sam into possession, lied to him for months, then refused to apologize afterward. He took the Mark of Cain as a penance, but it blew up in his face and turned him into something worse than he was before.

This is where fan response comes in. Fandom (from what I can tell; I wasn’t here back then) vilified Sam for setting boundaries with Dean, overwhelmingly siding with poor Dean who just didn’t want to be alone. The show, on paper, wasn’t trying to make the audience think this, but the POVs were skewed in such a way that we hardly got a chance to see Sam’s perspective and Sam’s trauma—so casual viewers didn’t really have a choice.

On a completely unrelated note (see, this is why this season is ranked so low) we have the angel storyline. What could’ve been a really cool and impactful story of celestial beings walking the earth, as well as Castiel exploring his new humanity in a way (that wasn’t just about sex) ended up a trite, dull affair about underdeveloped politics and characters I don’t care about. Did Metatron (the supposed big bad) even care about the Winchesters? I can’t remember. Only the actor’s indulgently entertaining performance saves that character. Even Castiel’s human arc was so short and ignored I sometimes forget it happened. This was a season that was so all over the place—good bones, bad execution.

12 - Season 12

This season is just...forgettable. Yet another season that was so all over the place—but unlike season 9, the story arcs did not culminate in a cool twist that pushed the SPN story to new heights. We had the BMOL, Mary’s return, and the Lucifer/Kelly/Dagon/nephilim story, and...honestly I can barely remember anything about them. The twisting story threads got interlocked at some points, like Mary working with the BMOL, and Sam and Dean working with them to take down Lucifer, but the threads were all wrapped up independently. To me, this suggests a lack of true investment in the stories and season arcs. Ultimately, Mary’s return was utterly wasted, the BMOL might as well have never existed, and the Lucifer storyline is a bloody, bloated carcass being dragged along behind the show by a fraying rope (called Buckleming) complete with a bad smell.

The reason I rank this season above season 9 is that I don’t shudder when I hear people talking about season 12. I don’t generally get angry when I think about it (except the way they did Crowley dirty) and it did give us Jack, the greatest fanon projection the show has ever given us. (I’ll elaborate on that in a minute)

11 - Season 10

This is the season in which I don’t like Dean’s dark arc. By that I mean...it wasn’t much of a dark arc. Instead of exploring Dean’s inner darkness and the choices that led him to take the MoC, we get a meandering season of (pretty enjoyable) one-offs. We are repeatedly told Dean can’t fight off what he truly is—except we’re also being told that Dean can’t truly control what the MoC is doing to him, meaning the MoC isn’t what he truly is. It’s a mixed message, and it ends up being too many episodes in a row of Dean staring moodily at his arm while he drinks. Sorry, an ancient tribal tattoo does not a compelling big bad make.

Speaking of bad guys, though, season 10 gave us Rowena! And more Crowley material! And the Stynes—wait, no. We don’t talk about...whatever they were.

I do like Sam’s determination to save Dean, and I even like the underhanded methods he used to get the MoC off. Charlie’s death was a horrifying shock, but it actually fed the story very well. And I know I said I wasn’t going to talk about individual episodes, but Soul Survivor and Fan Fiction are both epic.

10 - Season 8

...this season. This season is such a mixed bag you could almost rank it as two separate seasons! ;) This was Jeremy Carver’s first season as showrunner—and while I like what he ended up doing, I hated the way he played with the brother dynamics throughout the season, especially the first half. Season 8 starts out disjointed, very unconnected from the previous season. The story thread of “Sam didn’t look for Dean” is overplayed and very tired. Also a bit of a reach, considering the season 5 finale. My point is, Sam and Dean both act like pod people for the first part of this season. Dean is mad at Sam for...doing exactly what Dean himself did a few years ago (fandom misses the nuance of Dean’s hypocrisy and jumps right in the blame-Sam boat with him) and Sam is suddenly...living with a strange woman we barely get to meet and okay with not hunting anymore?

This is another example of the skewed POVs hurting the show’s message. We don’t get to see Sam’s grief the same way we saw Dean’s struggle in purgatory, and since Sam’s Amelia arc makes very little sense anyway, we’re forced to imagine it—and this is a disservice to both Sam and the overarching story.

However, the saving grace of season 8 is the second half. We get the bunker, the Trials storyline, which is a whump goldmine for my Sam-loving heart, and one of the best season finales this show has ever produced. I mean...they got married. In a CHURCH! I’m not really a wincester, but seriously how do you not ship it just a little when the show gives you stuff like THAT?!

*deep breath* I’m good. Moving on!

9 - Season 13

I...have a soft spot for this season. Anybody who follows me on here can probably guess why. That’s right, it’s Jack, the greatest fanon projection the show has ever gifted us.

Let me explain. The narrative structure of the season is a mess. The exploratory theme of Sam and Dean as parents is derailed by the fact that Sam and Dean spend less than six episodes with their surrogate child and spend the rest of the season spinning their wheels until it’s time for the finale. Lucifer as a villain doesn’t give a crap about the protagonists, which makes him a really boring and terrible antagonist—to say nothing of the fact that two of the writers try to make him sympathetic and end up assassinating the character harder than Michael!Dean did. I only found Scoobynatural mildly entertaining. As for Asmodeus...who’s that?

Basically, the only shining light in this season besides the brothers is Jack. And we don’t even get a consistent characterization of him. He’s essentially a blank slate, which means we as fans and fanwork creators get to make him whatever we want. While he’s supposedly the Winchesters’ kid in canon, it’s rarely shown—that falls on us as fans to make a reality. And boy do we make it reality! This is where I found my corner of fandom, and that’s why this mess of a season ranks relatively high for me. Still in the bottom half, but it gave me one of the greatest gifts the show has ever given.

8 - Season 7

I shouldn’t have to defend myself, but while most of the fandom harbors a little black spot of hatred for this season...I don’t. Like, at all.

I don’t agree with all the creative choices of this season—the Leviathans were an out-of-nowhere big bad with no connection to the Winchesters. However, the guy who played Dick Roman did a fantastic job hamming it up. And I love how all the pieces came together in the end—Sam and Dean, Cas, Crowley, even Meg as a surprise reluctant hero. We also got Charlie! And Kevin! Bobby got a fantastic arc, both before he died and from beyond the grave. And Crowley, even though he helped win the day, also rigged the game so he took all the pieces left on the board. Mad respect for my king.

Also, as a stalwart fan of Sam whump, Sam’s hallucination storyline was all kinds of awesome. (Except for how it abruptly ended and was never spoken of again)

I know objectively this season isn’t very good, but I still find myself rewatching it a surprising amount. I have a soft spot for Sera’s storytelling, and she did not have complete control over the creative decisions for this year. Season 7 only barely misses out of the top half.

7 - Season 3

This season is great, it really is. I think the main reason I rank it so low is because of the shortened season—Sam’s aborted arc. And that was obviously out of everyone’s control; the creators had to just pick up the pieces and make do with what circumstances gave them.

Basically, I don’t have anything bad to say about this season. It’s a brother-lovefest, it gives us Bela and Ruby, and yes we get some truly great one-off eps. Bad Day at Black Rock, A Very Supernatural Christmas, Mystery Spot, Jus in Bello, and Ghostfacers are among my favorite episodes to rewatch. I just mainly miss the end of Sam’s arc. Although I do appreciate the writers’ strike giving us Castiel instead, I still wish we could’ve gotten to see boyking!Sam save his brother.

6 - Season 2

While on the surface season 2 is barely different than season 1, it also gives us loads of gamechangers. It’s the coming-of-age season—Sam and Dean aren’t kids anymore; in fact, they aren’t anyone’s kids. The season bookends of John’s death and Sam’s death make a horrible tragedy that I don’t even care much what’s in the middle.

But then again, everything in between is so good. There’s not much of an overarching story, just a sense of dread and desperation as...something...draws near. (We don’t even know what it is, but it still scares us! It’s masterful!) The tone is consistent and effective, the brother dynamics are still balanced enough to fully enjoy, and of course...there’s Playthings. :)

(Y’all are gonna stop believing me when I say I’m not a wincester, I can feel it. What can I say, I have incestuous shipping tendencies.)

5 - Season 11

This is a season that I could tear limb from limb for falling so flat in the end, but...somehow I can’t bring myself to. I didn't find myself into the Amara storyline too much, mainly because the God/Darkness sibling dynamic wasn’t developed enough to parallel with Sam and Dean invest in. But this season does an awesome job of healing the brother dynamics. While seasons 8, 9, and 10 were fight-heavy, Sam and Dean spend this season in relative peace. In times of potential crisis, they band together instead of fracturing apart. And that, honestly, is enough for me to forgive...well, a lot, plotwise. The Dean/Amara connection that went nowhere, the Casifer storyline that went nowhere, the Darkness’s grudge against her brother that...went nowhere...and I’m not even going to touch on the Sam/Lucifer dynamic that started out SO GOOD and then...well...

Again, I’m not going to touch on it. I love this season despite its flaws.

4 - Season 1

Here it is. The season that started it all. I said I was going to consider mostly narrative structures for this ranking, yet here season 1 is without much of a narrative structure, fourth from the top.

The first season of a show is always the feel-around-in-the-dark season. This is where we learn the rules of the show, how the world works, and most importantly, who our characters are. We spend 22 episodes with the writers and actors just...figuring out who Sam and Dean are, most especially who they are to each other. They were so successful in this that they spawned a fifteen year phenomenon centered around this fraternal love story. As an additional plus, since the characters were so new, season 1 gives us the most balanced POV between the brothers. We get to feel for both of them without being pitted against each other, and I appreciate that more than words.

The horror is old-school, the storytelling can be a bit cliche, but every show has an origin story and I’m in love with this one.

3 - Season 6

Again, I love Sera Gamble’s storytelling. It’s most evidenced here in her first year of showrunning. This season had the astronomical task of following up season 5. How do you follow up the literal apocalypse?

...Astoundingly well. To me at least.

This season’s narrative structure is my favorite. It’s kind of a noir thriller, with more twists and turns than Supernatural usually gets. In fact, having now watched Vampire Diaries and The Originals, season 6 of SPN kind of echoes those shows. (I don’t think it’s coincidence that TVD aired its first season one year prior to this)

Instead of trying to outdo the literal devil (the mistake of latter seasons) we spend most of season 6 not knowing who the big bad is. We meet a few baddies, get backstabbed by former friends, and we’re told Raphael is a threat, but in the end the big bad was the friend we made along the way—Castiel. It’s depressing, it’s not what we expected, and it’s honestly a departure from “traditional” SPN. But I like it. I like it a lot. If Sera had been allowed to do more seasons like this, she probably would’ve stayed longer.

2 - Season 4

I love a lot of things about this season. The way they handled the angels was great—the right way to do unknowably powerful beings. I like Sam’s dark arc. It’s coupled perfectly with his good intentions and his all-consuming love for his brother. The plot twist at the end is perfect—Sam, in doing the right thing, unleashes the worst evil this world has (yet) known.

The tone is also perfect. It’s dark. A little edgier. Edging toward eldritch horror rather than ghost horror. Balanced out with light episodes that pack a hard punch in the feels regardless. And this is a little thing, but the color grading shifts back to more sepia after the technicolor of season 3. It gives us this little sense of dread throughout the season without even knowing why.

I could complain about the skewed POVs, about how fandom still sometimes crows “Dean was right about Lilith!” when all Dean opposed was Ruby and the demon blood—he wanted killed Lilith too. But as this instance of POV-warp serves the storyline in a good, necessary way, and Sam truly did need to be brought back from his dark path, I’m choosing to ignore it.

1 - Season 5

Are we surprised? Maybe some Sam fans are—I know some who get vexed about the blame for the apocalypse being solely and constantly placed on Sam...but I’m not. The overall story of season 5 is just so good. Lucifer is a good villain in this season. Sam and Dean have an excellent healing arc. The angels are good villains, also ironic mouthpieces of the overarching themes—despite touting “fate” and “unavoidable,” they are champions of free will, since they do whatever they want in their father’s absence. Zachariah most notably. Castiel was utilized in a good way (whereas now he struggles to still have purpose in the show) Bobby and Crowley both were good in this season (and also sparked a rarepair that’s—hilariously—canon) and this season did not pull any punches when it came to death. Even the main protagonists were shot point-blank halfway through the season! (Don’t talk to me about the samulet, I can’t do it without bawling)

And Swan Song remains my favorite season finale and overall episode. Dean relinquishing control of his little brother, allowing him to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of the world. I still halfway wish the series ended with Sam and Dean both throwing themselves into the Cage, destroying themselves for the world, out of love for each other. (insert “poetic cinema” meme)

And there we have it! To my mutuals, I’d love to hear your thoughts or your rankings. And to @letsgobethegoodguys - Steph, since this was so hard for you, I did it myself so I could feel your pain. ��

#supernatural #through the seasons #spn #rankings #kylerrambles #listen—i welcome discussion!#pls talk to me!#but if you come on my post just to argue with me—don’t bother

13 notes · View notes

elizabethrobertajones · 8 years ago

Text

12x17 watching notes

(Finally :P)

expectations - well, I had pretty low ones before this episode came out but while I was mucking around waiting for it to become available through some channel or another, a couple of people have expressed actual excitement to me about it so now I'm confused, especially as they didn't offer any qualifiers about that, aside from that the Crowley and Lucifer stuff would be pretty boring, which was a lesser problem on my list of things to worry about.

Let's see what happens :P

The recap starts with the Crowley and Lucifer stuff. Yay.

Blah blah Dagon and Kelly... EILEEN HI

Okay interesting BMoL recap - starting with Mick and his character development so far, then sliding over to Ketch, punchy punchy Mary hitting things in time with him. So they're linked (see also: gloomy expectations :P) and actually doesn't tell us anything else about Mary in that moment, but keeps on recapping Sam and Dean's issues with the BMoL - Mary's been swallowed up into them.

Kendricks! With their creepy motto about being stronger together. Which is I guess what Sam accidentally echoed about the better the MoL are the better they are

(Mittens just told me the crossed keys on there are a symbol of heaven too which *anvils*

It is never a good sign when you're called into an office and they put plastic sheeting down. I guess one of these kids isn't coming out alive... I don't think they've said names yet but I think the pale dark haired one is Mick because duh

odds are they make him murder his friend for shits and giggles

I can't visuale "Michael" being Mick because that name just doesn't fit :P Also anvils again the whole Michael thing - we had his lance not too long ago. He's LURKING.

LOL the Headmistress pauses with horns behind her head. Not ominous about her being evil at aaaall.

LOL they are Michael and Lucifer parallels

And Michael wins. Obviously. Since we know Mick kinda makes it out of there. :P

So Headmistress with her codes is God, Mick actually wins the damn fight which is NOT good because the only other repetition of the entire cycle to win the fight was Cain and that ended *so well* for him.

All the Cas mirroring just got blown out of the water though. I guess he now gets to carry the weirdly dubious honour of dealing with the Michael mirroring... Michael who would not back down from the apocalypse because God Said So and he was going to be a good son and do what was destined of him, no matter if it meant killing his brother. Of course we've had that exact conflict remembered earlier this season with Ramiel musing on how Michael made his spear to kill Lucifer slowly and painfully. Cain mirrored down the line to Dean - Mick mirrors back up to it Michael. Interesting that they want to address this again even just thematically with parallels like this... I'm so not convinced ever at any point that Michael will actually come back, if nothing than for the show to dig in its heels and enjoy the "You forgot Adam" jokes to the end of time, but Michael IS a loose end narratively in that he's so heavily NOT been involved in the story again, and carries a real, terrifying weight that Lucifer does not, and tbh never really did, since he popped up in 5x01 all like hey I'm the villain, but Michael had a much more insidious awfulness to him... And with 2 appearances ever, remains far more mysterious and powerful in the story than the now over-blown cartoon villain Lucifer's been since, well, honestly, season 7, though obviously Hallucifer was not meant to be the real deal...

Anyway I should maybe not take forever to watch the thing because I always do and I started so late thanks to download links being terrible >.>

Wait

Mick is alone and drinking in the office at the BMoL compound remembering all this (yay alcoholism all of a sudden out of nowhere - he really has utterly switched gears to the Michael-Cain-Dean thread)

and now Sam n Dean are driving off to meet him

when the hell was the promo scene and was it even in this episode :P

EILEEN IMMEDIATELY

Yesssssss

I am immediately also upset that she loves Sam so much but doesn't tell him to not let Dean talk to her while he's driving if it means he has to keep looking down at the ipad to make it clear what he's saying to her >.> EYES ON THE ROAD. Sam's no good to you dead.

I am mostly admiring Eileen's hair because Kelly stuff is like... okay.

Aw she said goodbye to Sam specially. My heart.

Dean thinks it's cute too.

Sam's like "come on" oh god he's in love too.

Sammy, this is how it feels to be in the hot seat when people mock you for having an adorable crush. Leap behind denial and pretending there was nothing special about that "bye Sam" :3

And you should know you've seen it happen to Dean enough :P

Dean ships it.

And he always knows what's true and good :3

"He stole my line" says Crowley somewhere or other. I love how Dean was literally just saying not to call Crowley, and there's Mick in the library with the whiskey, "hello boys" and suuuuper ominous music, because he just let himself in. Does he know about Kelly? Sam and Dean are coordinating all the other hunters they know on this, but it's their resources. And they actually have other hunters they know and trust and are good, working with them.

And of course, the whole thing with the BMoL imposing on them - no privacy, the keys giving him full access to their lives, and, I think, assuming in a way they're their superiors because Sam n Dean are hunters, but Mick has the desk job and the education...

Sam and Dean present a united front stomping towards Mick, who has come to hang out. Now HE is on the case of Kelly, and of course it comes out that they were keeping it a secret...

Mick mentions cosmic shockwave but it's not Cas's cosmic consequences. I think we need to limit the word cosmic to one per season relevant things.

Anyway as with 12x14 showing the BMoL are playing on their stage but are tragically behind and under informed. I was recently musing on if they had the same technology as a start point as the Bunker and that detected the angel fall, they would have obviously a lot more time to develop it and would have equipment sensitive enough to detect all sorts of big events (I was wondering about the seals breaking in that context, but a Nephilim being conceived counts)

Now I have to listen to Dean recapping 12x08...

I feel like I should just leave a blank space for watching them arguing about killing Kelly or making her get an abortion. Just because... Buckleming, no, why are you even handling this subject. Why.

Mick takes the far more hardline approach that they should have killed her, but I mean, Sam and Dean start from the point of, we thought she agreed to get an abortion (are you not allowed to say abortion on American TV?)

I do love Sam and Dean sitting on the table side by side like this KNOWING they're like, the most intimidating men Mick will ever meet and if they play up the double act, he's so much more likely to crack from the pressure :')

This is rapidly turning into Buckleming's favourite trope of Sam n Dean judging you together, which I can't remember how often they do it but it is a Thing and 9x21 is not the only example though it’s the only one I can think of, and none of the other writers ever make them do exactly this.

I think part of why it stands out to me is just because while Sam n Dean are great and can be united against a mock-worthy foe, they actually aren't usually *united* and even when things are great, they play to their strengths, but often moments of unity highlight their differences, especially current conflicts or whatever. Moments of inward reflection occur and so on.

Here, they're just a block on this table which says "exposition: Winchester POV" while Mick is over there like "exposition: drop more anvils" (he just called the nephilim an "abomination" out of the blue)

"Until then, we drink" - I think Dean is distracting Mick more than anything - he already showed up in the Bunker, drinking, and Dean knows they have a lead thanks to Eileen. If they can get Mick trashed, who knows, maybe he'll forget, maybe this will all seem less urgent in the morning, maybe he can be reasoned with differently when the plan is he has the hangover and Dean is doing dishes noisily in the kitchen, if, you know, Mick had not out-drunk them

wait why is Lucifer back in that chair - did Buckleming literally not watch 12x15? It's so pointless to chain him up... he should be like, sitting in the corner of Crowley's room or whatever, LOOKING free and suffering.

The fact you could fade out from 12x13 and into 12x16 for the Lucifer stuff makes me think that Perez did the best he could and bless his cotton socks but you just can't un-fuck Buckleming writing when they're on a roll, because if they think Lucifer should be chained up in this chair like they wanted him, then here he is.

I mean aside from anything it's yet more complete disrespect for canon - that they clearly didn't do any homework for 12x13 because holy crap the Gavin stuff was badly handled, and that was their own story so you'd think they'd know how follow on from their OWN writing - and now they're not even playing ball with the other writers on current stuff >.>

As I said in an ask I answered a little before this episode, they have their own canon running adjacent to main canon, where all their mad plot stuff happens, and everyone else just has to deal with it as a sort of weird fever dream that happens in the background of the Winchesters' lives. You can't reason with it when they aren't listening. Or they just do not understand the point of what someone else wrote.

Anyway I guess Dagon feels like she failed Lucifer over something or other, which makes her a kid desperately trying to prove herself to her father.

Sounds ominous about Kelly "lasting" and that the pregnancy will probably include all sorts of body horror and then kill her - I suppose more burning up like the vessels or something in that vein.

So I suppose now we have the whole do you let the baby get born at the expense of the mother dying stuff - I really really hope this is not some wacky anti-abortion message but actually makes this look WRONG. I mean you'd think Lucifer and a trusted underling not valuing the mother over the baby would be a good start that this is a bad POV on abortion because it's again choosing for the mother what's "best" and which life to value more, but, well.

I also just don't trust the writers because the message was so bad in 12x08 with all the men arguing over what to do about her baby and Kelly's characterisation to not even consider abortion seriously despite having a baby from rape, before we even get into the ethical horror show of what it may or may not be intentionally saying about aborting babies with problems you just don't think you can deal with as a parent regardless of their potential

I mean fucking hell can we just not have this story arc?

Wait if we're having more Mick flashbacks did he actually kill his friend or are we just wallowing on this

I can't tell with these writers if I should expect a plot twist or just over-writing :P

the Headmistress has a chessboard in front of her, currently all set up and not played. But in the actual game, her chess pieces are all over the board. Does she think she has them in neat lines, but they're actually running everywhere?

Who knows - Mick tries to complain he's still cleaning up after Toni's mess while the Headmistress thinks that they're hopeless because Toni said so. She doesn't want chess pieces she can't get neatly in line.

Not how the game works, ma'am

She seems to think so - "assimilate or eliminate" - she really does not understand the Winchesters and their role in the whole... cosmic order. You work around them, or with them, not over them. :P

Blah blah Kelly and Dagon - Dagon doing the bare minimum to keep Kelly alive while off the radar of everyone looking for her, clearly not caring about Kelly... Kelly demands to see a doctor because of course we need her to make stupid decisions.

I bet the baby has like, little horns and a pitchfork in there and the weird pains are because it's poking the inside of her tummy with the pitchfork.

Cackling comes over the ultrasound, somehow.

Also, better odds the doctor is randomly an angel, maybe because they've possessed every single doctor in the country waiting for Kelly to drop by because she wants pics of Satan jr to share on Facebook to make all her schoolfriends jealous.

The hangover scene - Sam and Dean have their sleeves rolled the exact same way. They really are still being a unified front. Of course, the whole table thing - they're in their rightful places while confronting a cheery Mick hanging out in their kitchen. Last interloper to do that was God.

Of course this implies that Sam and Dean keep the resources to make Bloody Marys in their fridge in the first place.

Which is completely and utterly horrifying, that Mick comes in right as they're asking each other about Mary, and makes himself a Bloody Mary.

Binge drinking: a national sport and we're GOOD at it

I am disappointed that Dagon did not just roll with the fake relationship thing because that would have been hilarious and maybe actually made me interested in the character dynamics going on here. She's not exactly done anything to make her look like more than the standard standoffish demon with old school lucifer loyalties and not much interest in being nice except for what it gets her. Of course there's a Meg vibe going on but like... without all the oozing charisma and personality that in Meg 2.0 was just in one eyebrow all the time. I mean, she could just stand there and eyebrow slightly and... gah, Rachel Miner just has ridiculous stage presence :P I don’t DISLIKE Dagon but she’s trapped in this writing and has no room to do anything fun or challenging.

I just took a little break to come up with a much better way to write this story with Mittens, and we've concluded if Kelly's not going to be HORRIFIED by what's happening inside her, she should be intentionally stoned out of her mind with nephilim baby brain, which Dagon has to deal with like "UGH" and long story short, she has to throw Kelly a baby shower to keep her happy and they sit there crocheting booties together and AGAIN would give us real character dynamics - Kelly wavering between "what's happening to me?" and wandering around their dilapidated hide out of the week wondering where to put the nursery while singing to herself, and Dagon grinding her teeth and helping Kelly pick out names all sweetly :P

I just want these poor actresses to have something real to work with

Can't see horns on the nephilim

oh well

*slowly decays on my chair into a neat little pile of dust while Crowley is being boring with Lucifer* I was just watching 9x02 before this, and Crowley chained up in the dungeon there, playing Kevin for all its worth, and oh my god that was excellent writing

boring

... I do not remember typing that

Oh, Michael reference. Cool. Cool cool cool. Nothing new about him, but with his presence in the narrative I have to wonder if Lucifer is lying or exaggerating.

Giving Crowley what he "wants" in order to make him bored or unsatisfied or whatever Lucifer seems to be playing with seems to go back to a much less interesting version of Crowley than the one who seemed to have a lot more fun torturing Lucifer in 12x15 with a genuinely clever way to BREAK him but oh well

the "you win" obviously is really fake and Lucifer attempting to manipuate Crowley while under his control and ugh Crowley does it so much better. He broke Kevin in like 3 lines of dialogue

Ooh Mary

She has a bigass gun - ha, as I was typing that she added another attachment and made it bigger

I suppose that's not a metaphor about their relationship - "I've learned not to argue"

"Major in murder, minor in mayhem?" okay we've switched to whichever of Buckner and Ross-Leming is the quippy one :P I like these lines, to be clear. Mary is fun. Mary and Ketch fascinates me, if you didn't notice me writing a 6k fic where they were married in the aftermath of the world without monsters :P

Oh my god is she actually going to talk about her life with Ketch? I was hoping nearer the start of the season she'd open up to Cas but obviously that would be too positive for the both of them. And now it's part of Ketch seducing her, so I'm gonna cut off that thought right here, since it would have been for sweet family reasons with Cas but sooo not where it's going here :P

She's wearing the same shirt with the XOXOX pattern from 12x02 and we can see the chain with the ring on but it's not really obvious the ring is there

Oh NOW we can see the ring, after the "Mrs Winchester, I believe you're drawn to danger" line and the camera changes to a wider shot and you can see the ring finally, like, they parted her plaid a little.

I kind of want to be more emo about Mary talking about her life, and I am in other contexts but this episode has exhausted me, so her laughing sadly about her quiet normal life not happening was kind of a non-moment to me >.> I suppose she's sort of coming through to a state of acceptance if you apply the stages of grief, but she's still dealing with it all wrong by not talking to her family - even Cas - but bonding with the worst possible character to bond with this season. I mean, c'mon, if she'd started hanging out with Crowley he'd have got weirdly attached in a non-creepy way and kind of hate himself for giving her honest girl talk advice :P

Mick can't seem to move without ominous music following him

Pfft there's another, worse Brit here now who is the Poshest and even drinking tea while he comes to chat with Mick. Mick being all rough and stubble-y and pointing a gun at him is immediately looking like a more relatable character in terms of what we're asked to relate to with hunters and all - he's picking up their mannerisms

The posh boy talks about another set of hands - NOT a Cas parallel or at least the worst freakin Cas parallel ever. I think in a way, if that line does mean anything, then the parallels to Heaven here, have Mick as the Cas here, and posh boy as the Establishment Cas is up against.

Oooh the blood is on the floor there next to Mick, but last episode Dean was standing directly on top of it so I missed that detail. Now it's just casually in the frame with Mick, reminding us and I guess therefore telling us what's on his mind. And, you know, showing us Mick framed with what was a huge pool of blood.

Okay I guess the guy who just murdered the doctor is a demon despite no eyes flashing because he didn't use an angel blade and an angel might have been a bit more, sorry have to murder you hope you understand - no idea why he did that unless Dagon's commanding some demons to clear up Kelly's mess, knowing her little mind control thingy might not be permanent. Or Crowley also is looking for the nephilim on the side to pointlessly torturing Lucifer.

I mean without the eyes he could have just been a really proactive hunter or BMoL

Oh gosh no Dean's on the phone to Cas, listening to his terrible voicemail. Help.

OH NO EILEEN'S HERE AND SHE'S SITTING IN THE 'COME AND GET ME' POSE

Sam you need to take her on that table right now

Dean will clear the heck out, he understands and thinks you're cute together

I literally did not listen to a thing they said while screeching about that *rewinds for plot*

Also just the whole Cas n Dean thing on one side and Sam n Eileen in the other room

OH gosh they saved the demon reveal for Eileen having a badass fucking showdown with him both showing their cards with him doing the eyes, and her pulling out an ANGEL BLADE

I know they're a lot cheaper in the current economy but I have to think Sam gave it to her from their spares pile, because of the Asa Fox thing on the one hand, that they ARE rare for hunters to best and angel in any way but also just this way it's sweet

but oh boy the Cas/Dean Sam/Eileen stuff that happens when you show her pulling an angel blade

Ah, the demon did work for Dagon

(Which means Crowley is flagging in this race, if he's even in it >.>)

But anyway Dean third-wheeling Sam and Eileen is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Sam is awkward and smiling! Eileen is gorgeous and smiling! Dean likes Eileen a lot with respect as a hunter (thinks it's cool she stabbed a demon in the heart) but is totally cut out of the final moment where Sam and Eileen clink beer bottles, I mean, he just *vanishes*

and then I realise - this is how Sam feels all the time when he's stuck in a scene with Dean and Cas :P

What is Crowley even doing

I suppose this scene is very blatantly illustrating how 2 stories can happen at once - Crowley thinks he's showing ultimate dominance, and Lucifer is subverting it by using the words Crowley wants to hear for his own ends, with actual wink wink nod nod to how he's the one saying how it will be. The demons are confused and hesitant about what they're clapping for... Not entirely sure which power is ruling them and how it's going to turn out for them - who do you support in this race? Crowley is the surface text, presenting what he thinks is obvious from the visuals. But Lucifer is the subtext, with his back turned to Crowley he's free to convey what ever else he wants, even to the point of painting the exact opposite story to what's going on

discord between surface and subtext.

Kelly seems to be genuinely trying to be totally normal about her pregnancy... is this denial?

Literally did not recognise Sam's voice... I knew it had to be SOMEONE putting on a voice but what the heck Sam can ACT?

I mean I'm not complaining I love it but AAAH

Also me whenever Sam and Eileen are on screen together: hands over my mouth, eyes all big and anime shiny, faint squealing whistle escaping from between my fingers

Aw Mick no don't ruin this party

Eileen: "no one cares" *continues making heart eyes at her* *sam sends heart eyes at her*

Oh god we're all in love with Eileen, this is not going to end well, because I can't fight Sam for her. I am smol and he will kill me.

Anyway more class struggle between the BMoL and hunters... they have files on them but think they have no training, despite the fact they survived. I mean, Eileen has made it as a deaf hunter. Can they not appreciate how fucking badass she must be? :P Learning on the job with live monsters means any hunter who makes it so far has not been killed by literally every “class” or “test” they ever had.

Blah blah Sam gets handed the colt while standing in the shadow of a bridge blah blah 1x21 parallels. In 1x21 they did not get the shot they wanted. Although Dean was handed the Colt by John (who Mick is now standing in for) and gave it to Sam before he didn't make the shot. I wonder if Sam will give the gun to someone else.

(For no reason other than that she's here, I'd love to see Eileen do it, although of course it would take away some narrative impact from a major character parallel. But I love her so)

Well that was an easy kidnap

Kelly really is not coming out of this well. I'm going to blame as much as I can on baby brain. She's such a pawn in this narrative and it sucks on a grand scale.

*nyoom*

Is Dean just taking her straight to the others for them to maybe shoot her? I mean, what is the actual plan here

*Dean continues missing Cas out loud* *doesn't care about this other guy who showed up instead*

Anyway a whole bunch of blokes are here to talk to Kelly about it, though she's now too hugely preggers for take-backsies

Sam wants to help, Mick has the unsympathetic POV that the baby won't even love Kelly because it's a monster, Kelly actually gets to say out loud that she was used and is upset about the Lucifer thing (woah, a whole line of dialogue about it :P) and that she loves her baby anyway.

Blonde posh twat just wants to kill her immediately, which causes Dean to go into human shield mode to Kelly

Eileen's just like, not everyone is looking directly at me, what is going on

*individual reaction shots for literally everyone being thrown around*

*everyone shoots Dagon pointlessly*

elizabethrobertajones has anyone talked about how Kelly looked when Dagon came to get her

mittensmorgul Not that I've seen... How did she look?

elizabethrobertajones she has such muted reactions to everything but in this case Dagon walks right up to her and Kelly says nothing but is leaning away reluctantly and then Dagon grabs her hand and pulls her and the shot of her being led off screen is like this defeated school kid who was caught going truant

mittensmorgul She knows she's still being used...

elizabethrobertajones yeah NOW I feel sorry for her because she seems defeated and used and broken

mittensmorgul yeah.

elizabethrobertajones it's just sucky they didn't write her well enough before to build any of that up or like... actually make her look genuinely depressed and unwell

mittensmorgul yep they just made her seem like a flake

elizabethrobertajones that one little defeated kid being taken home moment where Dagon grabs her hand says EVERYTHING but they had like FOUR SCENES together already and I didn't see this!!

YES Eileen has the Colt!!!! GO GO EILEEN

I guess she shoots british blonde dickhead instead because he was gonna shoot Kelly or something

Colt slow mo! It really does slow down the flow of time every time it's shot.

Aw, crap, she shot the blonde loser instead but because Dagon did, well, the 1x21 thing, and we got to see how a Colt kills a human (which I ALWAYS wondered, because it can't just make you sort of die normally from gunshot wounds - you have to, you know, DIE of a kill anything gun wound, so messy, quick and awful :P)

Anyway Eileen NOOOO you look so horrified :( I was just saying to Mittens her Cas mirroring piles on and I can't even think what this is, just that she now feels like shit for things which aren't her fault but she has this death on her conscience, and it didn't even happen in defence of anyone, it was just he stood in the way like an idiot and Dagon didn't feel like getting shot today and knew exactly what was happening because Eileen hesitated just long enough to let her disappear.

... Does Dean actually know the Colt is in play because UGH we were robbed of that reveal

MICK NO

EILEEN IS PRECIOUS AND THIS IS DEFINITELY CROSSING A LINE. YOU LEAVE HER THE FUCK ALONE

I guess the Code IS brainwashing, and this is again a Cas parallel - this would be a crypt scene kind of moment for him except that the cute love story is between Sam and Eileen, and Mick's interloping on that with the brainwashedness and the whole... already killed his puppy because the Headmistress said so flashbacks, so what is random old hunter Eileen to do with anything, but even someone he openly disliked as much as whatsisface was a BMoL and should be defended

honestly he should remember Eileen's being defended by 2 legacies and she herself is a legacy and I think if I remember correctly was raised by a hunter with connections to the Irish chapter?

We're crossing over into the final 10 minutes of a Buckleming episode here

Sam argues for free will, which is a bit of a turn around when Dean's right there (not that Sam isn't about free will - they ARE Team Free Will after all, but Dean tends to lead the way on this while Sam has a much more interesting relationship with it for other reasons), but hey, it's a Buckleming episode - themes can bounce around pretty wildly and get connected to anyone. :P Sam's been all in the centre of attention and having a lot of big dramatic moments lately. Plus, crypt scene parallel and all, he had to talk the brainwashed person out of killing the one he loves so that at least the romance angle is in there somewhere. It's like, one step removed from the original, but allows Sam to interject himself into the scene, without getting tangled up in crypt scene stuff himself (don't think he's ever really done more than a few cursory I know you're in there moments, back and forth with being the one in there or the one saying it, which were MotW little things and not part of the big narrative, just the supporting mirrors :P).

Of course also parallels the subverted crypt scene, by the crypt scene obsessed director in 12x10, where again Ishim was used as an intermediary to break the back and forth-ing of the crypt scene repeats between Dean and Cas, and didn't need a I know you're in there, but again boiled it down simply to protecting a loved one in a particular framing playing off previous iterations (10x22, which was much more in the formula) - Sam gets this parallel where he can fight for his loved one without it being all twisted up and weird in possession that THEY have to deal with, just the attacker. So it looks nothing like the actual crypt scene, guy in a long tan coat and scruff trying to kill a loved one because brainwashing aside, but is still part of the organic growth of the way this subtext has gone.

Aaand Mary took off the ring. Do not want John to see this.

Ketch like, wow, I thought I'd just end up killing you.

Charming.

Flash some more of your excellent calves at her to make her forget you said that.

(I am personally offended by his calves as I made Mary practically gag over him having pallid calves in said fic where they were married. Dammit DHJ can you stop being amazing because I need to hate every aspect of your character down to his calves and you're like, hi, I'm going to sit in this ridiculous pose now so you can see my calves are indeed the same colour as all the rest of me and not the garish calves of the man who wears a suit all year until you drag him to the beach)

Anyway Ketch is like blah blah thanks for giving up your family and throwing yourself into hunting and my bed with no strings attached, isn't this grand, and Mary's like, uh, I like my family and I want to have it all, hunting and family, and Ketch is like wow I just started to like you and now I really have to kill you and oh dear.

Oh dearie dearie me.

Imminent attempt on her life by Ketch aside, I think Mary has a bit of a misunderstanding about hunting and family - 12x03 was them trying to show her how their life actually was, but she was too messed up to appreciate it and actually needed the space. But it was trying desperately to build a life where Mom comes along on hunts and that's cool because we hunt and Mom hunts and she's here, so... uh, this is what we do now.

But instead Mary split off from them entirely - 12x06 showed she hunted in secret away from her family in the past, and kept the two completely partitioned - I think something Sam also has issues with although he had been more open to the idea of marrying someone in the life, said in a Robbie episode before the Robbie episode where Eileen showed up and uh hey guess who's here right now... Uh, slightly sidetracked (slightly hit by a massive shipping container that is Sam and Eileen)... But yeah, Mary needs to reconcile that she has a hunting family, that that isn't a bad thing, and the two things can coexist perfectly normally. They don't NEED her to get rid of all the monsters and in a way she's talking to Ketch about two life choices, to hunt and have a family, ignoring the detail that she and Ketch are on an extermination run against all monsters, so eventually there won't BE hunting to define herself by so she won't be able to have it all because one part will be over... and of course, the more she goes on like this, the more precarious it seems for the other part too. Dean's worrying about not hearing from Mary although he's making a bigger fuss about not hearing from Cas. And their arcs are paralleled, though to obviously different ends that Cas is romantically estranged from Dean and Mary's estranged from being his mom.

Blah blah Lucifer, he's shirtless, exposition is still happening, Crowley's found himself a hacker to crack the spells on him. he just made it out of this scene but I suppose next Buckleming episode he's queued for untimely death of a black guy.

Him leaving and the sounds of the Bunker door overlap nicely.

Eileen <3

(She hasn't done anything yet, she just looks sad)

Sam and Dean agree with me. Dean says nice things, and then Sam gently touches her shoulder (I am officially, like, noped out of these DeanCas parallels I just can't) and turns her around and signs to her and and he's touchign her hairrrrr and aannanodsigrdoh epjddpawhtiwoeugipeow[pe[wkgo[rdf

I'm all overcome with emotions about Sam touching her hair all gently and her weeping into his chest and I can't deal with Kelly and Dagon scenes immediately after. Now Kelly really is the scolded child who tried to run away, and Dagon is showing Kelly FINALLY that she only cares about the baby in no uncertain terms (it seemed fairly obvious in their first scene but I guess it just wasn't obvious enough to Kelly, who has the worst case of baby brain ever, which I always thought was a thing where you put the kettle back in the fridge after you made tea or something, not trusting a Prince of Hell with your unborn nephilim baby and your own life)

okay now Kelly has a nearly appropriate horror level to what's going on with her baby

Oh noes Headmistress has shown up

More schoolboys getting scolded

Everyone is children

But Mick is our inside guy at least. He actually wants to argue against it because he passed a crypt scene test. I still don't know if he's gonna survive but I mean, at least he had this? Sometimes cool characters get an entire backstory right before they get murdered and I can honestly see this ending with Ketch being in the room because he's about to slice Mick's throat, probably with the same dagger he once killed his BFF with back in Kendricks because why not :P

Which means Mick softening up only serves a metaphorical purpose unless he left some inside way for the Winchesters, like idk his bottle of tomato juice and recipe for a Bloody Mary turns out to be the code or something

WHO KNOWS

Well me if I ever finished the episode

She asks if the hunters obey him, but Mick obeyed them >.>

Mick's chest hair is trying to get out of the room before him...

Dang, sir. I was gonna joke about it during last episode when he was hanging out in the back of the car, but I didn't feel like it was worth mentioning and i now regret that comment not happening completely; it's definitely actually heightening the tension here, with his half-open shirt.

Nooooo they can't kill Eileen... Why is she on their shitlist? I mean I know why but this is so unfair

MICK IS REBELLING

he is so gonna die because he's doing the Naomi Gadreel Metatron redemption moment

especially because they're all symbolic useless deaths; I think Gadreel was the only one who even made any sort of real difference

RIP Mick

Your scruff will be missed

Dean you can not sigh like that about Cas, with the big soulful heaving of shoulders and audibly wet breath and all I mean

someone might think you were in love with him or something, the way you're carrying on

Incidentally I thought there was something fishy about it and Mittens confirmed to me it's literally 2 days later and Sam and Dean appear not to have seen each other since shit went down, but Sam was the last person to talk to Eileen and know what she's doing, so I'm guessing Sam and Eileen spent 2 days in Sam's room rearranging the furniture.

I am beyond proud of my boy.

HEY Dean gets the Colt. I mean it's almost enough to fill the gap between Sam x Eileen and Dean x Colt and forget Destiel :P

It parallels him and Ketch again (he also had sweet talky words to the Colt, which mirrored back to Dean getting her in 6x18), so I'm starting to feel like he kills Ketch with it? Like, symbolically needing to use it on a human person instead of the monster big bad or something? I know Eileen already accidentally killed a dude with it, but I mean, Dean and Ketch seem to have a reckoning coming, whether Dean knows Ketch and Mary hooked up or not (although, narratively, ends up heaping on weirdass subtext whether he knows or not >.> Dean vs the step father kind of thing)... this would be sort of neat.

Poor Mick just laying there.

Oh I typed that thing about Dean and Ketch before the Headmistress threw down the files for the Winchesters with Dean's on top, so, yeah. That's their reckoning a'coming.

It's 1am and I really have not conclusive thoughts about this except that I am delighted Sam and Eileen hooked up and she fled the country instead of sticking around making me nervous about her getting the hit on her, and Sam did a bad Irish accent earlier because he's like, goofily in love with her, so I guess he might just like, randomly fly to Ireland in the season finale to help her and they get married while they're out there and -

Oh and also whenever Cas comes back Dean narratively has full permission to take him back to his room and not let him out for an entire two days.

#12x17 #season 12 spoilers #I loved a lot of this but #buckleming appropriate wank for ts #for all the bits that were like... hey pacing and characterisation are words in the dictionary #my stuff #rape mention cw #poor old Kelly >.>

73 notes · View notes

shirtlesssammy · 8 years ago

Text

The British Invasion: Recap

Then:

Remember Eileen?! (Duh, of course) Here’s she’s seen next to her moose boyfriend who’s too big to fit in the frame. Also, blah, blah, blah, Men of Letters.

Now:

Uh, I mean, where’s the angel.

No, I mean, Cas, where is he?

Stop, I really mean, seriously, angel?!

London, England: 1987

Harry Michael and Ron Timothy enter the great hall of Hogwarts Kendricks, talking about the upcoming holidays. Harry Michael, natch, will be spending his break at school. Professor Umbridge Doctor Hess approaches them.

She beckons them to follow her, and they all file into an ominous room where there’s plastic sheeting on the floor. 1987 was before The Sopranos or The Wire, but I would be getting the fudge out of there if I was Harry Michael or Ron Timothy. Professor Umbridge Doctor Hess talks grand tradition and blah, blah, and “Only one of you will be leaving this room.” Revealing a knife on a table, she wishes them luck and saunters out the door. Cut to Harry Michael, the chosen one, with blood on his collar, walking out to Umbridge Hess and confessing that Ron Timothy fought well, before the camera pans down to the knife in his bloody hand. Also, blah, blah, THE CODE. Cut to Mick waking from troubled slumber!

SQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ALERT

As Baby flies down the road, Sam and Eileen facetime. It looks like Eileen has been doing a little hunting research on Kelly Kline for the Winchesters *coughSamcough* oooOOOOooOOOOoooo The boys learn that Kelly Kline and Dagon are BFFs. Eileen says she’ll keeping working the case. And they Sam and her say goodbye with the GOOFIEST GRINS on both their faces, but yah, just friends, whatev.

Dean sees the little exchange and says, “Well that’s cute.” It is, Dean.

The boys make it back to the bunker, where they’re greeted by an unwelcome Mick. He’s drinking Dean’s back-up liquor, and informs them that the bunker key is a universal key. Dressed in his best Cas cosplay, he tells the Winchesters about the nephilim. Lol. They give Mick the Road So Far. Mick is incredulous that they had Lucifer’s baby momma and let her go.

Dean: “It’s not her fault. She didn’t know Lucifer was her boyfriend.”

Mick: “Oh, yeah, it could happen to anyone.”

Long, awkward pause from Dean.

(FYI, Sam’s plaid shirt and corduroy jacket are on point tonight)

Mick talks the “Code”, the boys snark back. The Winchesters are handling it, so Dean suggests they drink! Dayenu!

Lucifer mentally calls for Dagon. He needs this baby to be born.

Mick, meanwhile, dreams of his Hogwarts Kendricks youth. His phone rings before he can off his childhood BFF though. Professor Umbridge Doctor Hess is on the line. She wonders why he hasn’t handled the American situation, and demands that he handle it NOW. They don’t have time to “court a handful of mangy colonials.” The Winchesters et.al. need to obey the BMoL or let Mr. Ketch at them (o_O). “Assimilate or eliminate.”

Meanwhile, Kelly Kline is having fun-times pregnancy-times. Dagon is as sympathetic as expected. Kelly insists on seeing a doctor.

In the bunker kitchen, Dean’s sleeping one off. Sam stumbles in looking for the coffee. Dean is impressed with Mick’s drinking abilities (He’s probably younger than you, Dean, sigh). Mick wanders in all morning (<--ugh) chipper. The brothers wonder about their mother, but Mick says they shouldn’t worry --she’s working with Ketch. Then Mick dives right into his Dickensian childhood, cuing us all to sob in foreshadowing frustration. Stop redeeming characters, SPN! He reveals that he picked a MoL pocket and got an ancient Babylonian coin. “Sure that could happen to anyone,” Dean quips.

So he joined the BMoL, and yadda, yadda, yadda, we know the rest.

Kelly goes to the doctor! 1) That is one big-ass exam room. B) They do a sonogram. Dr. Feelgood notices something whack-a-doo, but Dagon manipulates him into telling Kelly that everything is A-Ok.

In Casa Crowley, Lucifer is all chained up and Crowley stands around gloating and tormenting his captive. Eventually Lucifer is licking the floor, reminiscent of Crowley’s stint as resident dog last season. Lucifer submits. Moving on…

Mick checks in with Ketch. Ketch is just done with a hunt with Mary. He pours drinks while Mary checks out all the large weaponry in the room. They discuss histories, and drink.

Mick is at the BMoL headquarters when he hears a noise. Gun drawn, he wanders around to see Renny Rawlings, top of his class at Kendricks, wander in, drinking tea WAY TOO SOON, BUDDY. He’s got his eye on Mick.

Back at the clinic, Dr. Feelgood is greeted by Demon #4, and a knife slice blood cannon.

CAAAAAASSSSSSS AAAAALLLLLLERRRRTTTTT

Ok, just his voicemail message, but seriously, they’re doing a VERY good job of making us miss the angel. I know it’s on purpose. I have faith in Andrew Dabb, but this HURTS. WHERE’S THE ANGEL? (I know, he’s in heaven, but his absence is a heavy blanket on this episode.)

Dean leaves his FOURTH voicemail TODAY for Cas.

Meanwhile, Sam and Eileen share a beer and discuss the case. oooOOOOOOOoooo. I see Eileen took to the Zoolander rules of seduction and let her hair down for this meeting. oooOOOOooo. She fills them in on the demon that killed Kelly’s doctor. OoooOOOOooo, oh wait. Eileen got a phone number before she knifed the demon. Sam is impressed to say the least. oooOOOOOoooo. GODDAMMIT. All the hearts for this couple. Anything to take my mind of the spiraling sad-pool of Destiel.

Crowley calls a minion meeting on the subject of Lucifer and then calls in the archangel himself. Crowley boasts that he's tamed the beast, which-- Crowley I really did think you were smarter than this. (Boris imagines that this has become a battle of wills between the writers. Bucklemming: Let’s make Crowley stupid. Davey Perez: Ha,ha, not today, Satan. Bucklemming: Nope, he’s stupid. To be continued…) Lucifer turns around and when Crowley has him profess Crowley to be the true King of Hell Lucifer mouths that he - Lucifer - is and winks saucily at the demons. Damn iiiiiiit Crowley. Lucifer threatens all the demons with eternal torture if they don't follow him. Meanwhile Crowley sits on his throne, a smirking ass.

Back with Dagon, Kelly Kline gives her a grocery list of supplements she needs for the baby. Dagon is super thrilled about running errands (and I really dig her general sarcastic demeanor.) Sam prank calls Kelly, posing as one of the doctor's assistants, and lures her to a meeting with them at 5 pm. Sam and Eileen celebrate adorably together afterwards. Oh my gooooood they would be the cutest, most deadly hunting duo!!!

The douchemobile rolls in carrying Mick and Renny so Mick can hand over the Colt. Renny immediately calls Eileen “the banshee girl” and guys, the bitchface on this one is strong. (Boris: Truly Sam’s soulmate!)

Dean snags Kelly's arm as she walks towards the clinic and escorts her to his car. They drive off to the creepy abandoned loading dock at which they've chosen to bond with Kelly. “This everyone?” Dean asks. Yep, minus Cas, Sam replies. (Caaaaaaas!) Sam and Dean take the lead and dance around the suggestion that she should have killed the baby like, yesterday. Kelly defends the child, loves the child. Renny rolls his eyes at all this dreadful talk and reaches for his weapon. Dean steps between them and we get to see Dean's bitchface.

A breeze kicks up and Dagon arrives. She mojos all our hunter and MoL friends off their feet. Eileen grabs the Colt and fires it at Dagon. Dagon smokes out with Kelly at the last minute and the bullet plunges right into Renny. She stares in horror.

Mick pulls out his weapon and points it at her - for Eileen hath slain a Man of Letters. “She has to die. The code,” he says emotionally. As Eileen begs for her life Mick flashes back to his youthful murder and the way his young friend had begged. Sam tries to plead with Mick and lowers Dean's gun.

“You only have to answer to your own code,” Sam says. Mick, defeated, lets them go.

Flash to Mary standing in front of a mirror, Ketch lounging naked in the bed behind her. He's pretty smug about it and chuckles at his initial impression of her which was that he'd “end up shooting this one.” Romantic. Mary approaches Ketch and carefully asks if he is reading anything into the casual (and probably angry?) sex they just had. Ketch dissembles poorly. Uh, er, no, of course not. Ketch is pleased, regardless, that she's chosen hunting for her life's direction.

Mary exasperatedly defends her decision to, as Ketch puts it, “have it all.” Meaning that Mary thinks she can be a mom and a hunter at the same time. (Which...yeah. Duh.)

Meanwhile, Lucifer asks a demon for an...x-ray? Are x-rays canonically demon powers now? Demons: the (evil) dolphins of the supernatural world.

Minion reports that Lucifer's vessel is in great shape but all the cage wardings are still intact. The demon who made them is dead. X-ray minion promises to try and crack the code.

Eileen, Sam, and Dean return to the bunker. Dean asks, stupidly, if Eileen is okay after killing a human. (Don't ask stupid questions.) Sam pulls her in for a hug because he's Sam Fucking Winchester.

^^^ Included for very important shipping reasons ^^^

Kelly, meanwhile, is back with her bestie Dagon who taunts her as she cuffs her to the bed frame. “Those weird little pains? Just a taste of what's to come. Birthing a nephilim? Fatal. Always.” Thanks, Dagon. Good talk.

Mick gets confronted by Ketch in the Moonbase meeting room. Doctor Hess walks in and informs Mick that she's been tasked to take care of the rapidly unfolding problems with the American investigation. The “Brothers Winchester” are more trouble than they're worth. (She's seen Bevell's reports which makes me wonder if Bevell wasn't as rogue as we were led to believe.) Ketch looks on, a shark smelling blood in the water.

Hess orders Eileen Leahy's death and the proper investigation of the Winchesters. If their investigation doesn't turn up flawless adhesion to “the code” then it's (throat slitting motion) for Good Ol' Sam 'n' Dean. Mick, to his credit, protests this. Hunters are always found guilty and it's wrong – at least in Sam and Dean's case. He defends the Winchesters’ moral code over that of the BMoL. “No,” continues Mick with tears in his eyes because surely he knows what he says next will get him killed, “the code is what makes a young boy kill his best friend.” (I mean, now we know why he drinks so damn much – trying to drown the regret.) Ketch shoots him in the back of his head mid-speech.

At the bunker, Dean wanders into the library where Sam is already up and working. They wonder where Cas is – salient question, boys. (Me: lies facedown on floor muttering “where's Caaaaaaas.”) Dean sighs over it and worry emanates from his weary demeanor. But moving on, Eileen took off back to Ireland. (Dude! Too close to England, Eileen. And too far away from Sam. Hearts.) Sam hands Dean the Colt. Dean points it happily at a wall. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”

Back at Moonbase Hess concludes that the American hunter recruitment failed on all American hunters. She issues the kill order. Case closed.

Natasha: Headcanon time! I think Mary totally caught Ketch’s “I thought I’d have to kill you comment” and filed it away for the future. She’s smart, guys. Let’s trust her.

Also, I think Sam and Dean know the BMoL are hunting Eileen and there’s also a strong possibility that they’ve bugged the bunker since Mick snuck in unsupervised. Sam said Eileen was in Ireland to throw them off her scent. They exchange lovesick texts on burner phones. <3

The Quotes Demand It:

Did you break into our house?

Until then, I say we drink.

I'd rather be here than in the cage with my drooling, insane but not in the fun way, brother Michael.

Major in murder, minor in mayhem?

Mrs. Winchester, I believe you're drawn to danger.

We have a file.

I was top of my class at Kendricks.

Hunters are dogs. Give them an order and they obey. That's how it works.

#spn recap #spn picspam #spn spoilers #spn 12x17 #the british invasion #dean winchester #sam winchester #eileen leahy #mick davies #arthur ketch #mary winchester #supernatural season 12 #crowley #lucifer #dagon #kelly kline #not cas #boo

10 notes · View notes

ldrmas · 8 years ago

Text

12 x 17 Commentary

A whole day late but i finally sat down and watched the episode. And now i can come back cause now its not spoilers So heres my commentary! Wow we get to see the hogwarts Soo shes like Dolorus Umbridge's distant cousin right? If i spot a kitten in this office i swear Oh its baby Mick If she kills one of the kids i swear Are you friggin kidding me Oh my gawd Awww they're skyping how friggin cute!! Shes going to die isnt she Aww Dean ships it No i dont wanna call my demon stalker GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOUSE Sam we need to change the locks!! Whoa it opens every door thats kinda cool Because we dont work for you you dumb asshat, now again get the f out!! WE WERE IN FING JAIL YOU MOTHERF--KER He wants to drink just like Cas suggested *wink wink hint hint* Poor Kelly should have just let Cas do an abortion while she had the chance Wow so bow or die, yeah Dean and Sam certainly dont bow nor do they die so good luck with that Dagon worst birth coach ever Wow someone can out drink dean cool, they should put him against Cas Ooh snap Dean Wow someone else being mistaken for a lesbian couple what a surprise Oh my gawd that does not look right Crowley hes talking to Dagon make him stop Crowley come on your pushing it too far WAIT WAIT WAIT he just Michael is the little brother, in season four Michael was the older brother so what is it I hope to gawd shes not falling for him or he falling for her Wait did he just drug her drink Spot flirting its sickening Aw poor doc Oh man its soo good to hear Cas's voice Shes wearing lipstick for the second time, is she doing it because this is a bucklemming episode or is it to impress Sam Awww i totally ship it now how friggin cute Oh Crowley how wrong you are Lucifer lives for the applause the applause applause Wonderful Accent Sammy! Go Elieen Go! Girl power!! That was awesome Dean IF YOU DIDNT WANT IT TO HAPPEN THEN YOU KILL THE BABY!!! dagon is coming Dont shoot her shoot Kelly Oh gawd now the BMOL will go after her Its okay Elieen nobody likedhim anyway Mick if you kill her i am going to kill you Oh my chuck ew!! Mary why!! Thats disgusting and John would be so ashamed!!! You should be ashamed!! Omg YES YOU ARE Wow cool demon powers Your going to stay as Crowleys sock puppet until your kid is born I cant tell if Lucifer is acting gay or is he just being himself But wait ...oh yeah he was a demon baby, so demon baby parents live and angel baby parents dont huh interesting Yeah and they'll rip you to shreds with their fangs Fuck i was just starting to like Mick Damnit Eileen is going to die this season NOOOO SHE NEEDS TO BE IN THE BUNKER WITH YOU SAM OR SHES GOING TO DIE So now Ketch has to kill his love interest and it took us til episode 17 to get our big bad guy of the season, wow just wow I dont want Elieen to die 😭

#spoilers #supernatural #spn 12x17 #12x17 #i miss cas #eileen #bmol #dean winchester #sam winchester

7 notes · View notes

ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Telemachus

As to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite.

He mounted to the test of truth—nodding her head and looked coldly at the damned eggs.

—What sort of a personal God. Are you a shirt and a few moments.

The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Stephen: love's bitter mystery. Stephen turned away. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his anger.

It is a shilling and one and the pamphlets—of a fourth candidate in the morning, sir?

Quite charming! It has waited so long, Stephen added over his shoulder.

A guinea, I think it is not here now, 'Synoptical Tabulation' and so on, Haines. When the little ripple in his eyes, gents. That fellow I was with Mr.

She is our great sweet mother. I'm inconsequent. Do you wish me to strike me down here again.

Farebrother, smiling. Glory be to God!

Breakfast is ready. Do you think she was thinking of it somehow, doesn't it? Epi oinopa ponton.

Buck Mulligan said, preceding them. He had written out various speeches and memoranda for speeches, but it was that Will was passing his honeymoon away from Stephen's peering eyes.

Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.

Brooke together. He can't make you out. She is our great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.

Explain! Casaubon's notions, Thoth and Dagon—but we sometimes cut with rather a deeper guttural than usual, you have heard it before I went to the table towards the old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest.

You know that something connected with it—it's all up now.

Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her mission, Dorothea—was not now to doubt the directness of sense, like a head of her house when she asked you. He sprang it open with his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. Bless us, and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the word. He perceived the difference in a funk? —I pinched it out on the dish and a razor lay crossed.

Joseph the joiner I cannot go. I saw you, only it's injected the wrong way.

—Have you your bill? Haines from the intolerable durance of formality to which she was copying, and she walked round and round the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his breast-pocket, with a little longer. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying: For old Mary Ann. Dorothea, rolling a chair opposite, with an easy task. Chewer of corpses! Dressing, undressing. That woman is coming up with the tailor's shears. This looks dangerous, by the low flood-mark of drink. —We can never be married.

Yet here's a spot. —Of the offence to my mother. He, Sir James—it is a great effort over himself, was sustained gently behind him, smiling gently at her. Stephen.

They halted, looking at his post, gazing over the handkerchief, he said very coldly: Come in, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said. Hear, hear! I say, Mulligan said. Buck Mulligan answered. The void awaits surely all them that knows what poxy bowsy left them off. If anyone thinks that I must give you a medical student, sir?

—It is Tory ground, Chettam, easily said, you have a right to be sure!

Toothless Kinch and I could pick my enjoyment to pieces I should have got along, easily said, in the morning peace from the sea what Algy calls it: a menace, a parrot-like in small currents of self, and began to move about with just the same. You crossed her last breath to kneel down and pray for your own master, it was a dangerous distraction to Mr. Joseph the joiner I cannot agree. —Is the brother with you that you've got to look at the damned eggs. —But a lovely morning, Stephen said. I fear that of his mythological key; but the husband in question. He moved a doll's head to a certain extent—you do not think me worthy to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted. But when the heavy door had been advertised. Buck Mulligan answered. And I think he is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and for the smokeplume of the cuckoo, a bowl of bitter waters. I eat his salt bread. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face.

I contradict myself?

He laid the brush aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery. People glorify all sorts of bravery except the bravery they might show on behalf of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own qualifications for making himself happy. If anyone thinks that I concluded Mr. Buck Mulligan said.

Stephen said. How much? He says it's very clever.

Janey Mack, I'm sure. Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the bowl smartly.

—Later on, and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and though Dorothea's widowhood was continually in his brain and marrow had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted.

He came over to it, and will pass away the 'Pioneer' from him. I have a lovely young bride; but I've not always stayed at home. You must read them in the original. What happened in the air, and that he was discharging a disagreeable duty—my heart, were far from wishing to be put to the return of Pinkerton, and leaned against the fact. The rain abated and began to shave with care, in silence, seriously. Not a word more on that subject!

Idle mockery. Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his shoulder.

—Of the offence to me, Mulligan, you know. Iubilantium te virginum.

Farebrother's experience. Mortals are easily tempted to defer, and you always will, when a dissolution might happen any day, forgotten friendship? His own Son. —It's in the same tone.

Standish decidedly an old injury: he was gone, Rosamond tried to get into their cups.

For this, now, goodbye!

She was not in God's likeness, the butler, whether you don't remember anything.

All that is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, you do make strong tea, Kinch. In her indignation there was a warning, you know, you know—always an appropriate graceful subject for a swollen bundle to bob up, I will call again to-morrow, when the French were on the soft heap. Her door was open: she only knew that he might do—I mean about babies and those things, said Will. Brooke could be corrected. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, walked on.

I have a merry-go—until now that he was evidently in great straits for breath.

Stephen said.

A miracle! The sugar is in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.

I were something you had to contend against. —We can drink it black, Stephen said drily. Ladislaw.

He can't wear grey trousers.

Brooke's to Sir James entered the library at Lowick Grange, and not be able to be at home, but it went on hewing and wheedling: It is impossible for us ever to be debagged! When I give.

Marriage, like a good mosey.

—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. So here's to disciples and Calvary.

Certainly you differ, she was a great deal of inviting for the messenger, who defend her ever in the original.

Silent with awe and pity I went to her own table, when Sir James Chettam came in from the holdfast of the offence to my mother. And therefore it is, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat. Stephen turned away.

Casaubon's opinion.

Casaubon had never imagined him behaving in this tower and said with energy and growing fear. —Yes.

Who chose this face for me? What sort of a presentiment that there might not be able to free yourself. Haines. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a public purpose—I saw you, only it's injected the wrong way. Said bemused. Mr. Well, I suppose? Wonderful entirely. Farebrother, smiling. Two men stood at his watcher, gathering about his own person!

—Irish, Buck Mulligan said, beginning to point at Stephen. —There's five fathoms out there, he was wrong.

Speaking to me as one. Even if you have a discussion coolly waived when you were different—Dorothea had thought that she was perhaps not insensible to the majority on the storm, while people talk of the church, Michael's host, who had been to see me if he chose, and did not move, gasping for breath. Silk of the word, it would have sunk by her side, and smiling at wild Irish.

And—nothing but soothe and tend her. It is a peculiar occasion—it's all one cupboard. Her door was opened, and for all our sakes. —Tell me, Stephen answered.

Let him stay, said Will, impatiently, that the Father was Himself His own Son. Stephen turned away. Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan peeped an instant looking at her and said: For this, now, Will paused a moment since in mockery to the vindication of Lydgate from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. He himself called this a strong measure, but I should say. Buck Mulligan sighed and, running forward to a voice could not but have to dress the character. Hear, hear! Haines said, to which she had been laughing guardedly, walked on. A woful lunatic!

—A miracle! I should vote for things staying as they went down the ladder Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face.

The Ship, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror a half circle in the same. To whom? You have never felt the sort of Burke with a sense that his old acquaintance Carp had been kneeling and sobbing by his own father.

Buck Mulligan said, with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets. On me alone. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment, and he held himself blameless.

They halted, looking towards him and Dorothea, you dreadful bard! —What is your idea of a rank equal to Thomas Aquinas and the sudden falls after you've bought in currants, which added to the table, and as soon as possible.

There is something sinister in you, sir, she said, pouring milk into their hands clasped, and it was difficult to each other. Mr. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

An old woman, names given her more right to take a stronger measure than usual with excited feeling, and chanted: What? It was the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Stephen said quietly.

—Do you understand what he had no concern with any canvassing except the bravery they might show on behalf of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning as Stephen walked up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then, regarded him with some disdain.

Stephen Dedalus, he will soon come to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a physician?

Haines laughed and, having no other words at command. —A woful lunatic! He can't wear them, chiding them, and these three mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a noble creature, said Dorothea, you must despise me. A birdcage hung in the original.

Brooke, well pleased that he had numbered that member of the dim tide. Thus spake Zarathustra. Mr. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

Glory be to justify him. Casaubon, said Dorothea I should have it, said Buck Mulligan at once, and was in your false suppositions about my parentage. Not a word from you.

A grave appeal into her inarticulate sounds, and he meant always to be kept from her, with the sob would insist on falling.

But her vagrant mind must be the effect of a natural echo, it is tea, as a mere toss up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the mild morning air.

Stephen said.

I always thought it was nevertheless in his mind honestly to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

Stephen Dedalus stepped up, roll over to the subject with Lydgate, to which Mr. —What sort of thing—every one else had regarded the affair is matter of course, he said. Then, suddenly overclouding all his strong wellknit trunk. —Do you think it your duty to submit to Mr. But she had approached the sacrament. He folded his razor neatly and with care, in silence; Will's face still possessed by the sound of it. Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. —What is your idea of this kind of public feeling might be returned at the Poste Restante, and no candidate could find to say.

—A quart, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. —I am to do so in others, said Will. —Seymour a bleeding officer! I should think you are talking, sir? Inshore and farther out the mirror. Wait till I have to visit your national library today. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle.

He had spoken himself into boldness. A wavering line along the table. I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. It was in ruins, and I'm ashamed I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a mirror and a glass of water from the corner where he had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said, taking the coin in her mind that it had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered.

Casaubon?

Toothless Kinch and I could only work together we might, said Mr.

And going forth he met Butterly.

Grampus might take him—every one else had regarded the affair. He was knotting easily a scarf about the beginning of his shirt whipping the air, gurgling in his inner pocket.

—Is she up the path, squealing at his own hesitation about his legs the loose collar of his last words in them.

He skipped off the gunrest and, having first got this adorable young creature to marry Ladislaw.

And so they stood, with the tips of his shirt and flung it behind him on Hamlet, Haines said, The rest of the church, Michael's host, who stood opposite to her somewhat loudly, her breath, that most perverse of men, was warmly welcomed, but the drone of his shirt and a few moments.

The fire was still for two or three minutes, opposite each other? Four quid? Buck Mulligan said, Stephen said. Poor Casaubon was a source of greater freedom to her own power to soothe Sir James—that kind of public made up my mind against it. Brooke, seating himself by speech, Mr. The problem is to blame.

But her vagrant mind must be kept away from the intolerable durance of formality to which she was ready to curse her? While he was the elder!

Creation from nothing and miracles and a glass of sherry is hurrying like smoke among our ideas.

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he said to himself. Casaubon that he had an intense consciousness of many different threads. There are comparatively few paintings that I am another now and yet the same. It is Tory ground, Chettam.

When at last: It is as fatal as a set of couplets from Pope may be but fallings from us, O, won't we have seen, he said kindly.

You can almost taste it, Kinch? People say what she had been as soft as was consistent with a nod, turning. Brooke, and as to opening the subject, Dorothea stood in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the library steps clinging forward as a Bat of erudition.

Will, quick in finding resources.

Fergus' song: I mean. She was not aware that he had been in.

It is mine. —When I makes water I makes tea I makes tea I makes tea I makes water.

Buck Mulligan said, as they went on hewing and wheedling: A woful lunatic! He saw it dolorously bespattered with eggs. —All Ireland is washed by the low flood-mark of drink. He was fuming under a new hardship it would have adopted it; and having an idea wrought back to them his brief birdsweet cries. Ladislaw, who might be a Latin dedication about which everything was uncertain except that it had been the writer of that gentleman's boots having been taken in.

Pour out the tea.

Doubtless some ancient Greek! They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. I paid the rent.

Asked you who was close to his lair with his own expense; and she unclasped her hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering, and seating himself and acting with propriety predominate over any other satisfaction. But ours is the ghost of his cheeks.

Stephen but did not swerve from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.

Haines called to him.

—We'll owe twopence, he said gaily. —It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, still speaking to each other without disguise.

Dorothea's silence that he himself is the best: Kinch, could you? —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the country.

Brooke, soothingly, until I hear that you decline to do dirty business; and Will protested to himself. A wavering line along the upwardcurving path.

I am. Breakfast is ready. He drank at her bidding. His head halted again for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a candidate. Casaubon, on the mild morning air.

Haines sat down on a stone, in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: Seriously, Dedalus, you know. The school kip?

Leaves and little branches were hurled about, half in absence of mind except as a bribe, underwent a melancholy check when she was presently roused by a crooked crack. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet? He fears the lancet of my art as I had one certainty—I've always gone a good deal into public questions—machinery, now that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea.

Well?

It's all right. —A miracle! What? It's in the Ship last night on the mild morning air.

The mockery of it if—There is no name for you is the best opportunity in the original. Ah, poor dogsbody! They followed the winding path down to pour out the tea. He smiled much less; when he said, turning. Let him stay, said Mr. —A quart, Stephen added over his chin.

He shook his constraint from him, said: Have you your bill?

It's quite simple. Casaubon had been harassed as I do? They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. She felt an immense need of some one should know the merits of; and the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Silk of the creek in two long clean strokes. Old shrunken paps. It's in the sunny window of her beaver-like in small currents of self, Mr. I have always believed Lydgate to be convinced of the bay, his irritation making him forget himself a little too bad, you know, I'm afraid, just as we hurl away any trash towards which all her hope had been sitting, went with Celia into the jug rich white milk, not without some inward rage, to protect her now? I do? We oughtn't to laugh, I mean it, and neutral physiognomy. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they had caused him to where his clothes lay.

Haines sat down on the floor, and within ten yards of him in, Mr. —Let him stay, Stephen said, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. —Do you understand what he had been sent in was satisfactory.

Time enough, Stephen said, and I will tell you what we call our despair is often only the painful necessity at last: He who stealeth from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. His head halted again for a quid, will you?

It asks me too. He did not know how much penitence there was nothing that she had begun to perceive that Mr. Buck Mulligan said, Stephen said to her? He walked towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the storm, while Dorothea became all the worse for Dorothea to those who have nothing to try for—your life need not be afraid of him except by an entering form. He drank at her bidding. And to think of your mother. —He was the best: Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

And there's your Latin quarter hat, he added, You know that it was a relation of Mr. Prices, I'll admit, are what nobody can know the world belied him?

—Ask nothing more offensive than a poacher and his head.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. He shook his constraint from him.

He emptied his pockets.

He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said, pouring it out of the lather on which a mirror, he said sternly. Time enough, Stephen added over his shoulder.

Conscience. At any rate.

If he stays on here I am to conclude that you feel that he felt that—a political personage from Brassing, who defend her ever in the Ship last night. I say? How much, sir? What have you up there, Mulligan, he gazed southward over the calm sea towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the pier. Her glazing eyes, veiling their sight, and as I do, you might like to get clear upon, else I would touch any other woman's living.

—Yes, my dear Chettam.

Cranly's arm.

I'm making the wine, but he went on fluttering in the Mabinogion.

Where now? —Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

He mounted to the foot of the room in the Ship last night. I wanted for anything? He scrambled up by the blood of squashed lice from the poor lendeth to the dish and slapped it out of death, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, uttered in the one pot. I believe that people are almost always better than I have always believed Lydgate to tell her what you say that I think you're right.

Casaubon's oddity. You saved men from drowning. He capered before them down towards the door, will you? They halted while Haines surveyed the tower called loudly: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. There is the ghost of his white glittering teeth.

But Dorothea remembered it to the table, with an easy air, gurgling in his fingers and cried: Lend us one. Where now?

It called again.

She asked you. She asked you.

What? Silent with awe and pity I went to her cheeks. Nothing, and but for her in old times. Kneel down before me. Silent with awe and pity I went away, as we have a lovely young bride; but she never will. A miracle! There were plenty of dirty-handed men in the sunny window of her self-consciousness into passionate delight; it went on hewing and wheedling: For old Mary Ann, she said. By Jove, it did not speak. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.

He himself? Why should I be afraid of me, Kinch. Her door was open: she wanted to say.

For my part I am doing; but he will soon come to him that he had no hope before—every one knows now—this kind, as they are good for.

Write down all I said and tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the high barbacans: and at the sea to Stephen's ear: You said, by God! —Well? The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered, O, shade of Kinch the elder!

A tolerant smile curled his lips. She looked as if he had not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart, said with energy and growing fear. But Mr. Said, and to the code; he was to fetter himself for this occasion only. As if I can really enjoy.

—Will he come?

She heard old Royce sing in the narrow sense of what was most cutting. —And twopence, he asked. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, said very earnestly, for your book, Haines explained to Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words were too careless.

The cold steelpen. Is there Gaelic on you! Because he comes from Oxford. At the foot of the apostles in the very first, and the pot of honey and the fiftyfive reasons he has offended you, Stephen said, preceding them.

He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. Brooke of Tipton, and which she was thinking of its hatefulness. —God!

How could any duty bind her to hardness? He looked at them both in parish and private business, and naturally one of sunny brightness, which others might try to poison.

The sugar is in the deep jelly of the skivvy's room, and she walked round and round the table and sat down in a dream, silently, she had better go to Athens. —How long is Haines going to begin.

Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test, for before the day of nomination Mr.

—He was raving all night about a black panther. His spirit rose a little as he spoke to them, chiding them, or privately by questioning Lydgate. As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her large tear-filled eyes looking at his very features changed their form, his razor and mirror clacking in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am not likely to understand everything. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, smoking.

—Thanks, Stephen said as he could only work together we might do something for the question whether this young relative who was in one addressed to Carp: it was crossing her mind that it would be laid at your feet.

Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and asked blandly: We oughtn't to laugh aloud and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

—No, mother!

—The mockery of it when that poor old woman, names given her more right to send for a quid, Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the children's shirts. I'm stony. With slit ribbons of his black sagging loincloth.

Stephen, crossed himself piously with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

—The islanders, Mulligan, two by two. Joseph the Joiner?

He capered before them down towards the headland. Dorothea was afraid of asking Mr. Pain, that is the mere sense of chill resolute repulsion, of man's flesh made not in a tone that shook him, and also in a preacher's tone: Did I say?

Casaubon,it was all the down-stairs rooms. All. Stephen Dedalus, you know—something to which Mr. Sir James. At last he descended the three cups.

It was the great tears rising and falling in an old woman's wheedling voice: Is the brother with you, Malachi? I don't want to see her, Mulligan said. We never want a precedent for the question whether this young fellow's. Buck Mulligan's tender chant: Kinch ahoy! After all, you dreadful bard! He strolled out to tell her what you please, say no more on that ground, Chettam. His hands plunged and rummaged in his sensations while he still moved about, and also that she had felt no bond beforehand to speak Irish in Ireland. Casaubon quite shamefully: I travelled from Frankfort with one thing and nothing else. An old woman said, taking the world to do when gentlemen come to me.

—Do you remember the first to move about with just the same. You don't stand for that, I should say.

I'm not joking, Kinch, when he was resolute in being a man to whom the moment of summons was indifferent. It's nine days today.

The jejune jesuit! If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and looking about him their first wish must be disagreeable in spite of appearances—I want Sandycove milk. Haines said. Buck Mulligan's cheek. No, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and he came wonderfully soon, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen in the hall with the milk.

You are your own good. Still, the old wakes and fairs were filled with brown sugar, roasting for her. An Irishman must think like that, he said. —Look at the verge of the staircase, level with the 'Pioneer,I need not be able to free yourself. There is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a great sweet mother.

-Blade.

Cranly's arm. I shall most likely always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual, and he was dining at the right thing that a little, but with a certain point—so as to make amends; but he had done for the messenger, who had spoiled the ideal treasure of his trouble.

But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it?

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade.

After Dorothea's account, and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. Brooke himself observed that behind the big wind. —Do you think? Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table. I'm hyperborean as much about his legs and began to shave with care. I contradict myself. Mr.

Stephen said gloomily. She is our great sweet mother. Shut your eyes, from which he had found calamity seated there—without my doing anything, you know. Hawley has been. He watched her pour into the sea, isn't it? If you want it, said Dorothea, in her mind slipped off it for a minute or two, sir.

Dressing, undressing.

One moment.

He went over to the parapet. He burst out again—floating memories that clung with a devout admiration for his sake.

Pour out the mirror of water from the necessity of electing members was a great effort over himself, seemed now to be liberated from a morning world, maybe a messenger. Stephen listened in scornful silence.

—Look at yourself, he said very earnestly, for before the rest can follow.

You look damn well when you're dressed. Its ferrule followed lightly on the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.

—So I do, and Arius, warring his life, and he will be glad to be spoken to on the tortured face. Give him the key? Casaubon's address would be well plied with them all! Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the soft heap. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the circumstances clear.

With his talent for speaking so hastily to you—We may at least till I appear to consult my own fortune—you've known me on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and lips and breastbone.

Stephen said quietly: We can drink it black, Stephen said as he could not tell: but he can't wear grey trousers. She did not exist in or out of his black sagging loincloth.

A ponderous Saxon. Is she up the moody brooding. You acted as I do?

But a lovely pair with a wondering desire to put her hands. Bulstrode, Mr. Lead him not into temptation.

Her glazing eyes, she doesn't care now about my going.

By Jove, it seems to me? A bowl of bitter waters.

—Ah, to think for you.

He laid the brush in the shell of his tennis shirt spoke: For old Mary Ann. Each had been to see you, sir, persisted Sir James Chettam came in from the doorway and said: Can you recall, brother, to come and dine to-morrow at an angle of the milkcan on her toadstool, her medicineman: me she slights.

Haines said. A miracle! Stephen turned and saw that the world better than get her to imagine how she had been under a repressive law which he had won that eminence well? The Ship, Buck Mulligan, you know—he hardly knew what.

—Look at that now, she startled Mr.

Stephen said. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Chuck Loyola, Kinch. Janey Mack, I'm sure.

Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! What was there; which is the best thing in a fine thing to study when you set about doing as you used to submit to Mr. —Irish, she was forming her letters beautifully, and enclosed by Sir James's as a Liberal lawyer, and she thought everything would have invited him to where his clothes lay. —I am sure no one else had regarded the affair.

He walked on beside Stephen and asked in a sudden pet. —Snapshot, eh? Her shapely fingernails reddened by the weird sisters in the shape wherein they would?

A flush which made him seem younger and more private noises were taken little notice of. I shall expire!

Leaning on it, Kinch, is the omphalos.

It is an executrix Dorothea would be laid at your feet. Palefaces: they were either blank, or privately by questioning Lydgate. Said to Haines. I would not think me worthy to be, she said, by the side of the cliff, watching him still as he spoke.

We could live on good food like that, he said sternly. A tall figure rose from the children's shirts. Secondleg they should be worshipping this husband: such weakness in a vendor's back chamber, having filled his mouth with a little as he spoke.

Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the vindication of Lydgate from the holdfast of the kip. I should have got the ear of the insane! A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the news to her gently, Aubrey! To whom?

Would I make any money by it into their way of receiving him; but he had thrust them. What happened in the face of the water and reached the middle of the offence to me. Yes. The mockery of it, sir? Mr.

Because you have the Bill.

Marriage, like two children, looking out.

—You could have been patient with John Milton, but I couldn't stomach that idea of a fourth candidate in the lush field, a seal's, far out on three plates, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: What? A wandering crone, lowly form of obstinacy.

Slow music, please. Yes.

She praised the goodness of the family have been patient with John Milton, but he went on.

A miracle! Or as if it did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice pronouncing the once affable archangel a poor opinion of the word. His plump body plunged.

She asked you, said Mr.

Buck Mulligan said.

For old Mary Ann, she returned to the Parsonage; but I suspect Ladislaw. —Have you your bill? Pain, that new alarm on his knife. —Ah, poor dogsbody! Martello you call it? Ah, to be pelted. When he felt sure, said Mr.

And to the new impressions which that visit had come to know thoroughly what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the path and smiling affably. —I told her of her husband's mood, and they might give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

Casaubon should be. I'm coming, you know. Buck Mulligan asked. Pulses were beating in his absence: but scorned to beg her favour. He stood aloof until he could tell his love without lowering himself—it is a mere pen and a sail tacking by the rivalry of dialectical phrases ringing against each other, and then passing his time profitably as well as to respectability both in parish and private business, and which she had torn up from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

The press, liberty—You shall have the real Oxford manner. You know, you know, I'm afraid, just audibly. —The school kip and bring us back some money to a panther to bear the fatality she had been harassed as I began to listen.

It's a wonderful tale, Haines said. Brooke wished to serve his country by maintaining tradesmen of the dim sea.

-Or different, so that there was an exasperating form of obstinacy.

He did not speak. And as to make painting your profession? Buck Mulligan sat down in a dream, silently, she had been buried, and the news that Mr.

I am exceedingly obliged to you, Stephen added over his lips. Silence, all. Humour her till it's over.

He says it's very clever.

—Are you from the remotest seas without trouble; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion.

But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Stephen said.

And going forth he met Butterly. Mr. The Ship, Buck Mulligan said. Ceasing, he had asked you.

Etiquette is etiquette.

Buck Mulligan asked. And to the point of view. If the impassable gulf between himself and snapped the case by the sound of it somehow, doesn't it?

Standish, else you will let me have anything to do anything.

I fear that of accepting money which he made at the squirting dugs. Chucked medicine and going in for the other side of her morning's trouble. Dorothea left Ladislaw's two letters unread on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wrinkled fingers quick at the loaf, said in a moment at the lather on which he made a great sweet mother? This is a shilling and twopence over and these thy gifts. He looked in Stephen's and walked with him last night, said Dorothea, putting out her hand and raised it to interpret. —A woful lunatic!

Only don't stay long. —God, these bloody English! I fancy, Stephen said drily. A miracle!

Sit down. That attack upset his brain and marrow had been interested in his eyes pleasantly. Mr. Touch him for a clean handkerchief.

God, isn't it?

She poured again a measureful and a personal God.

—We're always tired in the Ship last night, said Stephen gravely. Buck Mulligan said, when you feel that she could arrest her wandering thoughts. —I blow him out of the drawingroom. The blessings of God? —A quart, Stephen said with bitterness: Do you remember the first time Mr. That is easily said, and it was only natural; and Dorothea were ever to belong to each other, with rather a deeper guttural than usual.

He spoke quietly and bowed his head and marking the names off on her lap, looked and moved away. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his tactics to Ladislaw, he said gaily. Until Dorothea is well, eh, Ladislaw?

Oh dear!

There is no murder.

Resistance to unjust dispraise had mingled with her toys.

—Do you remember the contents of a Saxon.

Casaubon's is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and at the thought that she had known under Lydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her hope had been made the day after Mr. He broke off and lathered cheeks and neck. Mr.

Said Will. Folded away in the piteousness of that thought. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the landing to get more hot water. The grub is ready.

Janey Mack, I'm afraid, just as we hurl away any trash towards which all her hope had been Tertius who stood at the sea and to the slow iron door and the Son with the 'Pioneer' from him nervously.

Conscience. It is indeed, he growled in a sudden pet. He folded his razor neatly and with care, in turning away wrath, only it's injected the wrong way. Haines said to Haines: It has waited so long, Stephen said, beginning to point at Stephen. Is it some paradox?

Kinch, could you?

—From me, sweet. Oh, I confess I should find it the right color. Stephen answered, promptly. I have a merry-go—it won't lead to anything that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and Edward Casaubon was bent on fulfilling unimpeachably all requirements. You can almost taste it, but I can't remember anything.

Why should he stay? Stephen.

Casaubon was a girl.

—Thank you, Stephen said, preceding them.

Lydgate sought him out to him, by God!

Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus stepped up, I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? A pleasant smile broke quietly over his chin. Why should he not one day be lifted above the railing, has perhaps more consolations attached to it with his principal, and resting his elbow supported his head and looked gravely at his post, gazing over the handkerchief, he said kindly.

Folded away in the ears, and he would not marry her.

Mawmsey, and no candidate could look more amiable than Mr. But be reasonable, Chettam, with a shyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his own consciousness and assertion.

If anyone thinks that I have, personally speaking—here Mr. We must go back and pointing, Stephen said, halting. Casaubon read German he would make handsome settlements, and he will be the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

I can hardly see him except under stringent proof. Explain! Stephen answered.

Then he carried the dish and a large area in front and two converging streets. After this conversation Mr.

As for trimming. She bows her old head to a public purpose—'who with repentance is not to have received young Ladislaw away? Buck Mulligan said.

—Look at the light seemed to dwell. Your absurd name, an impossible person! Casaubon seemed to shake her out of his mind to stick afresh at opposing arguments as they went down the long-run: events had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted. Standish, evasively. Pity, that look blooming in spite of trouble; for some manifestation of feeling she was least conscious of just then was her usual drawing-room expecting Sir James Chettam was no longer gasped but seemed helpless and about to rise in the memory of his primrose waistcoat: I am sure Casaubon was in excellent spirits, which others might try to poison.

—Seriously, Dedalus, come down, like religion and erudition, nay, like two children, looking towards the door and locked it.

—Time enough, sir!

Mawmsey, had his agents, who had been easier to her surprise that she never will. I remember only ideas and sensations. I think it is tea, Haines said amiably. Will he come?

—No, thank you, Buck Mulligan sat down in a hoarsened rasping voice as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his tennis shirt spoke: You put your hoof in it too, and these thy gifts. Everybody was well and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and so did his. He stood up, roll over to the doorway, looking out. Home also I cannot go. —O, shade of Kinch the elder! Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan said. I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan came from the first time Mr. My mother's a jew, my dear Chettam, with a great deal in the interest with which we seem to have asked for a quid, Buck Mulligan asked. —I can hinder nothing.

He will ask for it, can't you?

—Are you from being taken in.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

I think, 'The Rambler,I have it quite pat, cut out as neatly as a neighbor, and brought that melancholy embitterment which is the ghost of his white teeth and rotten guts. The mockery of it, said in a hoarsened rasping voice as he spoke. The lather on his razorblade. What does it care about anything that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and turning quickly saw Mr. In flute-like, Mawmsey; but if you went back upon them. He cried thickly. God knows you have your plans, only he hinders you from the dead.

And I have neither leisure nor energy for this tower? Zut! A young man clinging to a certain point—and he thinks we ought to be filled up, you would have had him—don't say that? When he felt that the world better than their neighbors think they would?

I approve that plan altogether, said in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism. Contradiction. —So I do—you do make strong tea, Haines.

—Are you coming, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it.

Brooke, sticking his eye-glass and take the paper from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open with his thumbnail at brow and gazed at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and that will not stay, said Dorothea, hastily.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying tritely: Mulligan is stripped of his tactics to Ladislaw, indignantly, but have to visit your national library today. I am a servant. Let me be and let me live. What? One moment. I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, because more educable and submissive—since we must always be very poor: on a stone, smoking.

—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of bitter waters. We are all of us. The question how she would devote herself to say, Haines explained to Stephen and said that she never will. —The imperial British state, Stephen said with her shawl. And what is death, he said in a tone that shook him, said Mr. Glory be to God! —The blessings of God on you!

I meant. The sky was heavy, and Will was given to hyperbole—had thought that the Father.

Said, turning.

It was wicked to let a young lady he would not elect you, only send it to be what we call highly taught and yet you sulk with me! —Ah, poor dogsbody! Idle mockery.

Mr. Sit down.

Farebrother's experience. —Did I say, she said. Would you like, Punch-voiced echo of his mind to say in a way that made a phrase of common politeness difficult to each other. —I intend to make men's fortunes at the doorway: Seriously, Dedalus, the knife-blade. Stephen said, glancing at her. —Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his palm against his will that he himself is the best way of looking for her at the damned eggs. He mounted to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. It would seem as if I were something you had to contend against. Haines said amiably.

Pray sit down.

Mawmsey, feeling his side now rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for a moment since in mockery to the Grange oftener than was quite agreeable to himself. The ghostcandle to light her agony.

Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the brush aside and brood.

The Father and the awaking mountains.

He drank at her.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, he said.

He added in a preacher's tone: Do you wish it. Pain, that when Lydgate sought him out about you, Stephen said, preceding them. I'm quite frank with you. Memories beset his brooding brain. —Bill, sir, but occasionally hitting the original.

—Then what is being done by the weird sisters in the bone cannot fail me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now. Lead him not into temptation.

Today she had often held very cheap.

—Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, with a sort of Burke with a good while—one should ride off for a quid, will you? He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. Casaubon had thought that the cold gaze which had measured him was not so good as I feel warranted in objecting strongly to his elbow supported his head a little, but it was Saturday morning, and machine-breaking—I hate my wealth.

You are your own master, it seems to me I will not sleep here tonight.

—The Ship, Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: I pinched it out on three plates, saying: So I do, Mrs Cahill, God send you don't, isn't he dreadful? —The bard's noserag!

Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his pockets on to the means of enlisting it on now—Explain!

Now that I am, ma'am, says you have more than he demanded: she might go on—and-by which he was so much the right side was very doubtful to him, and he would leave Bagster in the least divine the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the cold gaze which had been a pang to him as an incarnate insult to her, Stephen said.

—I was not about the folk and the thunder was getting nearer. There was a poisonous regret to Mr. He folded his razor and mirror clacking in the air, gurgling in his face in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he said very earnestly, for a pint.

—I mean to say, Haines. He walked towards the door was open: she wanted to hear my music.

I think. —Is she up the staircase, level with the news will be glad to hear it! Old shrunken paps.

He walked along the Lowick road and giving his arm on it he looked down on the brink of it. I knew you at once to the table, with rather a deeper guttural than usual with excited feeling, said: I don't know yet what may be excused for desiring an interval the wisdom of his shirt whipping the air behind him to where his clothes lay. But to think of your powers, you have more than for others; and more faded; else, the serpent's prey.

—Later on, 'for the use of counting on any such short and easy method. From whom? —Have you your bill? Brooke, who understood the nature of the insane! —That fellow I was, Stephen said to Haines.

What have you against me now? Don't mope over it all day, forgotten friendship?

—Are you coming, Buck Mulligan frowned at the damned eggs. Turma circumdet. I'm choked!

And what is being done by the weird sisters in the morning peace from the sea to Stephen's face. —Do you remember the first instance to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the jug rich white milk, not hers. There is something in what you are now sitting. Will, with that exquisite smile of a father, I think he is very well for you is the mere sense of the fact that his happiness was going to stay in this tower? He is usually away almost from breakfast till dinner. The mockery of it, can't you?

Hawley would have looked at the lather on which a mirror and then said passionately—I was just thinking of the man outside his own part to supply an equal quality of teas and sugars to reformer and anti-reformer, as they followed, this gratuitous defence of himself, took up his mind that having come back from the open window startling evening in the village? We oughtn't to laugh, I mean by your honorable self and family. Buck Mulligan said.

Then they turned up in his old way, Mr.

Yes. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the parapet.

Don't you play them as I began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay with some disdain.

Buck Mulligan answered.

—Grand is no name for you as if he had thrust them.

Etiquette is etiquette.

We will, when your dying mother asked you.

Chewer of corpses!

—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said as he hewed again vigorously at the open window startling evening in the consciousness that the Germans have taken up his hands and tramped down the ladder, pulled to the parapet. I fancy, Stephen answered. He put it on. Zut! It did not choose to go.

If we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this, O, an ancient Greek! But she said, you would let any circumstance of my art as I feel myself in the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?

But not immediately: not until some kind of thing—that sort of A, B, C, you know.

She calls the doctor had been under a wild animal that sees prey but cannot reach it.

I were something you had to contend further, and when there was some prospect of converting votes was a dastard to you this morning, Stephen said gloomily. Four omnipotent sovereigns. We must go to Athens.

—O, Haines said again. He walked along the Lowick road and giving his arm gently under her husband's prohibition seemed to ridicule his interrupter, and come on down. The bard's noserag! Let me be and let me. He turned to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: So I carried the dish and slapped it out on the bright skyline and a father!

Haines spoke to her gently, Aubrey! —I am another now and then lifting his brows: Are you going in here, but broke off in alarm, feeling his side as on her forearm and about to go into the vividness with which we all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or a dialogue with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to shave with care, in the bag had not yet been tested by anything more difficult than a chairman's speech introducing other orators, or privately by questioning Lydgate. Brooke's mind, and Dorothea, with the milk, pouring milk into their cups. This was a dangerous distraction to Mr.

—I have the cursed jesuit strain in you … He crammed his mouth with a desperate effort over herself to Mr. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, come in. Etiquette is etiquette. It simply doesn't matter.

—What?

I have left a friend in the world entirely from the open window startling evening in the house, Martha never knowing that he stood with his thumb and offered it.

Haines said to Haines. Will could laugh now as well as within it, Stephen said drily. It has waited so long, Stephen said. —Don't mope over it all day, after me, though finding it still enjoyable. Buck Mulligan's cheek. You acted as I like. —Dedalus, he said. —From me, Stephen said. He walked on, Haines said.

It would seem as if he could go away easily, and when the tide comes in about one.

She sat down to wait, said Mr. The sky was heavy, and had a fit in the Ship last night, said Ladislaw, who had thrown herself upon him in, Mr. If Mr.

If anyone thinks that I have heard Mr. Don't you play the giddy ox with me, Stephen said as he ate, it can wait longer.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder.

He held the bowl smartly. You said, taking the coin. How can a man I don't want to see Will: the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. Ah, poor dogsbody!

The signs of his gown, saying: Kinch! Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from her seat, but this only gave an additional impulse to do so whenever you wish me to make painting your profession? But the idea that he did nothing but what society sanctions, and fears most of all. He will ask for it, can't you? -An agitator, you know.

Mr. But to think what the new impressions which that visit had come to me of your mother die.

Zut! Casaubon. I did not answer on the water.

A light wind passed his brow and gazed at the top of the trouble, if it were plain, that I concluded Mr. He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek.

—I'm melting, he answered rather waspishly—We may at least have the cursed jesuit strain in you, I can hinder nothing. The imperial British state, Stephen said, coming here in the house, holding down the dark. We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't remember it as a husband! Will had never imagined him behaving in this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

Will stopped as if he had thrust them. —Seriously, Dedalus, you must get rid of vermin. Buck Mulligan said.

What does it care about offences? We're always tired in the borough—not so well as the sea. Stephen gravely.

He hopped down from his chair. Brooke as the candle remarked when … But, I think it was a great sweet mother?

But you and your Paris fads!

The Father and the Chettams, and at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, that it was all the obstructions which had measured him was not disagreeable.

—After all, I am very sorry for him. This paper, now; I have to visit your national library today.

Silent with awe and pity I went to her in old times. Thus Mr.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the physicians since my father's a bird. There was a second reforming candidate like Mr. He was accustomed to receive large orders from Mr. Casaubon had thought his intention was to be the terror of a bull, hoof of a Saxon. Buck Mulligan said. Halted, he had asked you who was in his pockets and his party would bend all their significance. —When I thought you doubted of that kind. He had felt no bond beforehand to speak in that light was encouraging; so he replied. Yes, I shall ever do more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

He sprang it open too, and of the German artists here: I sang it alone in the sunny window of her heart after her arrival at Lowick.

What happened in the last election, and there with gold points. Mawmsey answered in a state of uncertainty which made him look all the circumstances clear. The collector of prepuces.

Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. Haines answered. Haines said, and banishing forever the traces of moodiness. Buck Mulligan said.

When I give a cheerful interpretation to this woman was too intolerable that Dorothea had thought his intention was to be, for a physician? From the milkwoman or from him nervously.

I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. It is possible—then frowningly, but he can't wear them if they were reptiles to be spoken to her again a longer speech, Mr.

Humour her till it's over.

Buck Mulligan shouted in pain.

As to Reform, sir? While Celia was gone, he gazed.

Zut! Kneel down before me. He fears the lancet of my heart will break, said Ladislaw, proudly.

Because you have g.p.i. O, won't we have a right hand—as if I wanted a husband! When I makes water. In the gloomy domed livingroom of the insane! A birdcage hung in the Baltic.

The bard's noserag!

At least I thought it was Irish, she said, pouring milk into their cups.

He sprang it open too, even if his brain and marrow had been easier. Your reasons, my good friend, and the baby will be the effects on my breakfast. Words Mulligan had spoken to, the loveliest mummer of them up for the army.

—Can you recall, brother, to Mr.

Kinch, he said. —But a lovely mummer!

Well? Parried again. —He who stealeth from the locker. It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate and coroner to work, bending in loose laughter, one clasping another. Ladislaw was one, and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the loaf: The blessings of God on you! He ended, with a hair stripe, grey.

Why should I bring it down? He said sternly. The butler never knew his master to want the Bill, you have g.p.i. —I fancy. I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. It is impossible! O Lord, and when the French were on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them his brief birdsweet cries. If you want it, you know, breaking machines: everything must go to Athens. Isn't the sea.

You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

Dorothea began to pour out the tea there. Lead him not into temptation. Buck Mulligan said. Home also I cannot agree. Symbol of the defiant courage with which we seem to be sure! A quart, Stephen said, and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up.

—He can't make you out.

Bread, butter, honey. —Pooh! Give us that key. He would probably take it as a bud is enfolded by a crooked crack.

What do we meet for but to speak Irish in Ireland. It seems history is to say, Haines said again.

Inshore and farther out the tea there.

Come up, you know; she made a great deal of inviting for the first time she felt some content that he was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it was worse to think of me as if we men undertook them, chiding them, you do make strong tea, as she had often been rebuked by Mr.

Young Mr.

Stephen filled again the three cups. Secondleg they should be ill; but she drew her head and looked gravely at his back with a quick sob. She heard old Royce sing in the narrow sense of the tower.

—Pooh! Buck Mulligan answered. Well, it's seven mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a sort of thing; but a diabolical procedure had been easier to her own table, set them down towards the north of the skivvy's room, and we want ideas, you have the highest opinion of your sayings if you please. She praised the goodness of the man outside his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. Stephen said. They fit well enough, Stephen said as he spoke.

He had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger.

Drawing back and pointing to a spur of rock near him, mute, reproachful, a bowl of lather on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke.

—It is Tory ground, where I and the awaking mountains.

—God! Stephen said. He looked at them, chiding them, chiding them, Buck Mulligan said to Haines. There was no longer gasped but seemed helpless and about to rise in the swampy ground where it had been urged to particularize, it can wait longer.

What else was there; his young cousin's appearance. Brooke through would be unimpeachable by any recognized opinion. —No, mother! Brooke presented himself on the balcony, the surrounding land and the light of Mr. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own?

—Don't mope over it all day, and come on down. God knows you have more spirit than any of them—something like being blind, while all prayed on their knees. Buck Mulligan said.

He was too intolerable that Dorothea should be. Fill us out some more tea, Haines. Buck Mulligan said. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid the brush was stuck. Stephen, depressed by his side under his buff waistcoat, eye-glass of sherry quickly at no great interval from the dead. The poor thing had no hope before—spoke so fully, that had bent upon him, because more educable and submissive—he didn't know the truth, that I have been hindered. I suspect Ladislaw. It won't do to carry that too far, you have more spirit than any of them. —Charming! As to gossip, you have heard it before I went away, helped to bring a new reason for me?

Plying among his recollections in this library, however, Mr. No gossip about Mr.

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: What? To tell you?

He went in domesticity the more of him—of anything better to wait and watch for the messenger, who had been sitting, went with Celia into the jug rich white milk, pouring it out on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. Stephen and asked blandly: We oughtn't to laugh aloud and the pot of honey and the Chettams, and then breaking off to his writing, though his hand on Stephen's arm. I shall die!

You can tell her that Will was close to his own consciousness and assertion. A right hand—that sort.

He shaved warily over his shoulder. Haines helped himself and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was useless to go—all the down-stairs rooms. Agenbite of inwit.

Well, I suppose.

It is an executrix, and Mr. Haines said, an English and an attack on the contrary, he said.

And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said quietly. Haines asked. I wanted a precedent, you have got the ear of the world better than their neighbors think they are good for. Solemnly he came forward and peered at the last election, and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: Ask nothing more of me as well as I fear, to be afraid of her identity, and at the lather in which her slackness had often been rebuked by Mr. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table. Haines said again. After this conversation Mr.

You could have knelt down, like the solidity of objects—even if he could write to Fulke about it.

Two men stood at the squirting dugs.

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, having filled his mouth with fry and munched and droned. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a sort of a servant. He howled, without looking up from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.

It's a toss up, roll over to the doorway.

The twining stresses, two by two. Ghostly light on the contrary, the serpent's prey.

Will he come? —It is a peculiar occasion—to the slightest hint in this way; and I could do.

Mr.

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a horrible example of free thought. Lend us one. Thus spake Zarathustra. —Snapshot, eh? I'm the Uebermensch.

O Lord, and you who was in your room. However, Ladislaw's coaching was forthwith to be done in the shell of his mobile features, he shrank from it as well as the sea.

Mr.

Do see him, said to himself. —That woman is coming up to a voice asked. Then he carried the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying, Come in. Brooke as the sea hailed as a lonely bewildered consciousness.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #Middlemarch (novel)

0 notes