#about her. mary is forgotten about the moment she's out of his sight. somebody needs to tell her to girl get up

[dolokhoded]

i'm supposed to be studying but i have a hot take which is that could we start again please should have been an ensemble number mostly led by mary and peter's verse should've been divided to him, john and james if not more of them

#🧅 #like think. sort offf but not exactly stay i pray you from anastasia. #it only makes sense being a duet between mary and peter in 2012 arena where it actually build a dynamic between them #otherwise like. where did peter even come from. that guy is Not an equal part to mary #i actually do like it as it is i just haven't seen many productions that have worked out how it clicks in my brain #i understand the show can't be 2000 hours long and im just biased and want them to talk abt mary constantly but ideally i think peter's #character should've been used to kind of ground mary. cause yeah she does love jesus but also realistically that guy does Not give a shit #about her. mary is forgotten about the moment she's out of his sight. somebody needs to tell her to girl get up #which is sort of what happens in 2012 arena! there's this part after the last supper where mary kind of hesitantly goes to approach jesus to #comfort him and peter just takes her adm and he's like girl. get up let's get out of here. and she leaves #and tbh we love to see it

[littlestarofthewest]

Valentine drabble request you say? Well, if you're up for it, could I maybe request something Morbell related (if you even write that)? Maybe a flustered Micah trying to find a good gift for Arthur? Thank you!

I've never written Morbell before but I gave it a shot. Hope you like 😆

Guns make for good Flowers

Pairing: Arthur x Micah | Words: 2260 | SFW

Micah lifts up the bottles in the box one after the other, trying to find a full one. It's hard to get smashed if you don't have the booze. Behind him, Pearson talks to Strauss, saying something about when to give his present to Susan. Micah wonders what the occasion for a gift would be, but then he finds two full bottles and forgets all about it.

At least until two days later. Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen are talking about gifts as well. Micah hangs around, curious after all, and finally catches on. Valentine's day. It seems that everybody gives somebody else a gift. 

Micah shrugs it off. He most certainly has better things to do with his time and money than gift shopping. Besides, he knows for sure that nobody would give him anything, so why would he bother?

Despite his disinterest in the whole ordeal, it keeps coming up. Abigail has something for Jack, of course, and Jack wants to give something to Sadie to cheer her up. Sean's got a present for Karen, Charles is making something for Tilly, and so on. 

Every day, Micah hears something new, caring about it or not. Even lazy Uncle gets involved, and two days before Valentine's day, John, of all people, found a great gift for Abigail. 

Micah's about to give him shit for it when all the conversations of the last days wander through his mind. Mary-Beth insists on giving a present to the O'Driscoll boy, Molly and Dutch give each other gifts, and Susan takes care of Hosea, but there's one name Micah hasn't heard at all. Arthur.

For the rest of the day, Micah keeps snooping around. This time, he actually tries to find out who will give something to whom, and by evening his first assessment still stands. Nobody thought about Arthur.

While most of the gang already sits by the fire, Arthur comes in late after a job. He hands Pearson two rabbits he must have shot on the way and puts some money in the collection box before he passes out on his cot, not even caring to take his boots off.

The sight gnaws at Micah, and the happy chatter of the others annoys him even more. He wishes he could laugh about Arthur being left out, but somehow it doesn't sit right with him. 

Micah can certainly live without an ugly Valentine's card, but ever since he joined the gang, he's never seen Arthur rest longer than needed. It's a shame that the gang members forgot all about their little workhorse.

After emptying his bottle, Micah gets up to find a place for the night. He doesn't need much sleep, but shutting his eyes for a moment can't hurt. On his way, he avoids the singing Reverend, and Uncle who's asking around for money. That's how he ends up hiding behind a wagon, Arthur's wagon. 

Micah sits down and leans against it, enjoying the irony. He can hear Arthur's quiet snores, knowing that this man is in for a surprise soon. If Arthur's lucky, he'll be out of the camp on Valentine's day. Maybe that's what people are counting on.

----------

"You want some company, mister?"

Micah turns to the girl approaching him. She's fairly pretty, and probably older and therefore more experienced than she looks. All in all, she would be a nice thing to spend his money on, but ever since yesterday, Micah's thoughts drift when he's not careful. 

Instead of taking a closer look at the girl's ample bosom, Micah thinks about Arthur, and the money in his pocket feels heavy as if it wants to stay in there. "Not today, sweetheart."

Micah downs his drink and walks outside, looking along the street. On the other side, the general store's doorbell is ringing when a customer leaves, and Micah is drawn to it like the moth to a flame.

It's empty inside except for the store owner, who greets him with great enthusiasm. Micah ignores him to take a look around, his eyes falling on some journals and pencils, but he knows Arthur has enough of those. 

Walking along a shelf with booze, Micah stops, horrified. He asks himself what Arthur might like, and it dawns on him that he's looking for a gift for Arthur. He didn't mean to do it, but the thought of Arthur not getting a present seems so wrong.

It's probably just him thinking ahead. Micah might act as a simple bully, but he has ways to make people lean his way. If everybody but Micah has forgotten Arthur, then they might be grateful that he thought of him.

Booze doesn't seem enough, though. Micah checks out the products for horses, knowing how fond Arthur is of his horrible black monster, but again, it's something Arthur could get himself. Even a watch doesn't come close to an appropriate gift.

With an annoyed grunt, Micah leaves the store, looking along the main street again. There's a tailor, but Micah can't be sure about Arthur's size. He could invite him to a drink at the saloon, but Micah doubts that Arthur would agree to it. 

Taking a deep breath, Micah looks up at the burning sun, hoping for inspiration, when something hits his eye from the side. A reflection. Turning to it, Micah watches a guy who puts a shiny new rifle onto his horse, and Micah's eyes fall on the building behind the man. It's a gun store.

An idea pops up in Micah's head, and he crosses the street with a smile on his face.

---------

The whole day, the camp is busy like a beehive. People hurry back and forth, giving away their presents, and soon, everybody walks around with something new. A lovely shawl around a girl's shoulders or a new necklace or braclet - made, bought, or probably stolen -, bottles of booze, books, a new shirt, or even boots. 

The only person not in the midst of all that is Arthur. He's sitting on his cot, writing in that stupid journal of his. Micah keeps a look on him for a while, but nobody's approaching him, and Arthur doesn't seem to be giving away a gift of his own. 

Micah is tempted to keep what he bought to himself, but the longer he looks at Arthur, the more curious he gets about what his reaction would be to the present. Even if he tells Micah to piss off, Micah wants to know. He wants to hear it from Arthur.

When the rest of the gang seems busy enough, Micah walks over to Arthur, the gift hidden under his coat. He gets in position, ready to greet Arthur, but Arthur already slaps the journal shut and looks up to him.

"What do you want, Micah?"

"Oh, I could think about a few things I'd desire," Micah says, determined to stand his ground. "The question is what you want."

"Peace and quiet," Arthur grunts, and Micah is about to tease him about Valentine's day when he takes a look at Arthur's table. 

Yesterday, it was empty except for a photograph and the stupid little glass flower. Now there are arrows, cigarettes and a cigar, sweets, hunting and fishing materials, and other small trinkets. 

Micah can feel his heart sink. He's been so focused on thinking that nobody would give Arthur a present that he didn't consider the obvious alternative. It looks like everybody gave Arthur a gift. 

Arthur follows Micah's gaze and rubs his neck as he looks up to him. "Look, Micah-"

"I've got something for you," Micah interrupts him, forcing himself to say it before he can chicken out.

"What?"

Micah gets the box out from under his coat and pushes it at Arthur, who looks like it's stuffed with dynamite and might explode in his hands. He still opens it, and his mouth falls open.

There's a chance Micah might have overdone it a little, but he didn't want to look cheap. The revolver he bought has a unique grip, and the letters A and M are carved in next to a coyote. Micah's not even sure why. He just liked the look of it, and in a weak moment, he entertained the idea that the M might not stand for Morgan.

"Remember the holster I gave you?" Micah asks, feeling the need to explain himself. "Didn't make much sense without a gun."

Arthur still looks like he's in a trance, running his fingertips over the weapon. "You're giving me this? Why?"

If Micah only knew. He's still not sure what devil rode him the last few days. "I'm actually a pretty nice guy, cowpoke."

"Yeah, right," Arthur huffs, but he takes the weapon out of the box, squinting at the engraving.

Micah feels heat rushing up his neck and to his ears, afraid that Arthur might catch on to the double meaning of the letters.

"So, don't shoot anything I wouldn't," he says before walking away.

"Micah!" Arthur shouts behind him, and when Micah turns around, he sees that Arthur has gotten to his feet. "Thank you."

Arthur's voice is quiet, barely audible over the camp's noises, but the words still ring in Micah's ears. He can't remember the last time Arthur has spoken to him in a friendly manner, and he definitely never thanked him. Micah tips his hat, unable to speak, and he decides to get out of there.

He heads for the main campfire, but then he takes a detour, passing behind one of the wagons and heading into the woods. He finds a quiet spot and pulls out one of his own guns. It looks a little worn compared to the new one Micah gave Arthur.

With a sigh, he puts it back in his holster, ready to get himself something to drink and pass out somewhere, when a figure steps out of the trees next to him. Micah's about ready to draw and shoot, but it's only Arthur.

"You following me, cowpoke?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, his hand hovering over his holster. Micah's heart beats faster, but it makes no sense that Arthur would pick today of all days to shoot him.

With a swift movement, Arthur draws his gun, but he points it at a nearby tree instead of Micah. "That's a fine weapon, not cheap. Why would you give me that?"

"What would you want me to give you? Flowers?"

Arthur comes closer, the weapon still in his hand. Micah figures that he probably shouldn't mouth off to him, but he can't help himself.

"Why would you give me anything at all?" Arthur asks.

"These degenerates out there have been talking about giving each other gifts all damn week, but nobody ever mentioned your name. Just didn't seem right."

Arthur huffs a laugh. "So you decided to be my Valentine?"

"Shut up, Morgan, or I'll-"

"You what?" Arthur interrupts him. He's not raising the gun, but Micah knows full well he's playing with his life, so he stays quiet.

Arthur swirls the gun around and slips it back into its holster before stepping even closer. "I've got something for you, too."

Micah looks Arthur up and down, waiting for a knife to appear, but instead, Arthur grabs him by the throat. Adrenaline rushes through Micah's body, but Arthur's fingers only rest there, not choking him. Micah swallows a few times, knowing that Arthur can feel it. He wishes he could draw his weapon or fight back in any way, but he's too curious about what Arthur might do. 

For now, Arthur's holding Micah's gaze with those piercing blue eyes, then he runs his fingers along Micah's neck, down to the first button of his shirt that he actually cared to close. Arthur fists his fingers into the fabric and pulls Micah close. They're only inches apart, breathing the same air.

Micah's still waiting for something terrible to happen, a trick, or Arthur at least insulting him. Instead, Arthur puts his other hand on Micah's neck, his fingers digging into his hair. He draws Micah closer, so slowly that it borders on torture. Micah's heart is about to leap out of his chest, but then it just seems to give out when Arthur kisses him.

It's not nice and soft, but harsh and with force. Arthur kisses him as if he needs to punish Micah, but Micah can't say that he minds. He grabs Arthur's arm, feeling how his muscles strain, unwilling to let him go. Not that Micah wants to escape. 

He lets Arthur in, getting a good taste of him when their tongues rub against each other. Arthur barely gives him a chance to breathe, and when he finally lets go, Micah feels like he could pass out any second.

Arthur leans in, his lips touching Micah's ear as he whispers to him. "Tell anybody about this, and I'll make good use of that new gun."

Micah's still too overwhelmed to answer, only able to look after Arthur as he disappears into the trees. Taking in a deep breath, Micah leans back against the tree behind him. From all the possible outcomes, Arthur picked the one Micah didn't see coming in a million years.

With a sigh, he walks back to camp, longing more than ever for a drink. When he settles down by the fire with a bottle, he finds Arthur already sitting there. They share a look, and one thing becomes clear to Micah. He's prepared to give Arthur the whole damn gun store if he can get another kiss like that. 

#morbell #rdr2 fanfic #fulfilled requests #my writing

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Red Desert - A. Irwin

original story by sarcastically-defensive17. Requested by the lovely @twinkyjohnson. Hope you enjoy, love! I finished this at 3AM so the ending sucks!

It had been a long time since Ashton was back home. Australia seemed like a whole world away from his life in L.A, but he was more than glad to be spending some time with the people he loves the most.

His mum met him at the airport and captured him in her vice-like grip the minute he walked away from baggage claim. He hadn't noticed the blonde woman bounding towards him until he was clasped against her shoulder and his phone was nearly knocked to the ground.

"My baby boy!" Anne Marie squealed, tightening her grip on her son, "I've missed you so much!"

He couldn't help but laugh and wrap his arms around the woman. His heart almost physically swelled at the feeling of his mother holding him, and he didn't even try to fight the smile that took over his face.

"Hey mama! How are you? How's Lauren and Harry?" His mother's blue eyes hold such a warmth that he had missed.

Calum had left L.A almost a week before Ashton to return home, and Luke and Michael were taking their respective significant others' on vacations to celebrate the well-earned break they had.

When Ashton learned of their time off, he knew exactly where he wanted to spend the next few months. His childhood home, with his siblings and mother. So, fresh off the stage after the last concert of their world tour, he booked a flight with no return trip in sights.

"You will see them at home!" she shushed him, before grabbing his wrist and adjusting her bag on her shoulder, "Come on, Mini's driving the car around because I refuse to pay for the price of parking."

His heart stalled at the name.

"Wait, why did you bring her?" He asked, but could barely hear the reply over the sound of the crowd. Anne Marie pulled him along behind her, much like she would when he was a small child and he chuckled at the nostalgia.

A blue jeep pulled up in front of the entrance, and Anne rushed him to get in before they were driving off.

The woman behind the wheel was possibly the scariest driver that Ashton had ever encountered and he kept a death grip on the handle above his seat.

"Whats up, Rockstar?" He heard her ask, and his eyes reluctantly darted to the front of the car.

Her own eyes were hidden by dark aviators, and he noticed the septum piercing that decorated her button nose.

"Hey, Y/N, how are you doing?" He could barely find his voice. He had always been nervous around her, his childhood crush getting the better of him even after years of being away.

He had never truly forgotten about his Mini-me.

Red, red desert, heal our blues, I'd dive deeper for you.

"Looking good, feeling good, Irwin."

He had never once been nervous around a girl. Not unless you count Y/N. They were best friends for so many years, until his career took off and she headed off to Uni. They lost contact. Now, the sight of her, matured into a woman when he left her as a girl, lips curled into a smile as she spoke to his mother.

It all came crashing back to him.

What a blessing to feel your love, Twilight moments with you.

They pulled up to the familiar house and Ashton scrambled out of the car as fast as he could.

Does that woman even know what a speed limit is?

A scoff sounded by the boot of the car and he turned to see the woman holing his bag out to him.

Rather than taking it, he took the moment to soak in the details of the person he had missed for many years. Despite the numerous times they had toured in Australia, their paths never crossed.

She hadn't gotten any taller, but the doc martens on her feet made her stand a few inches taller than her usual 5 feet. Hence the name 'mini'.

Her face had lost the baby fat, and it was if he were staring at a completely different woman.

She whistled sharply, snapping his attention from her half-covered face, "You gonna take your bags? Or am I your pack-mule as well as your chauffeur?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah. Sorry," he could have sworn he felt a spark when their skin touched, but it could have been his nervous state reacting to her warm hand.

He didn't know, but what he did know, is that he wanted nothing more than to hug his former best friend.

I've been asleep so long, I'm so far away. Visions I see are strong, I hear what they say

"I don't know about you, Irwin, but I think we have a lot of catching up to do," she smiled. The dazzling gesture that makes his knees tremble.

He unconsciously ran a hand through his red hair, pushing it out of his face.

"What do you say? Pizza, beer and trashy movies at my place tomorrow night?"

His eyes widened, "Of course! I'd love to!"

He sounded more enthusiastic than one normally would, but the idea of spending time with somebody who holds such a dear place in his heart was thrilling to his mind.

She chuckled softly as he bounced between his feet, a sign, she knew too well, that meant he was embarrassed.

"Cool beans. Catch ya' later, Rockstar."

She called out a quick farewell to Anne, before climbing up into her car and speeding away.

He watched her turn off of his street with a small smile on his face.

"You coming in, kiddo? Harry's waiting for you," Anne called. She could tell from the sight of her son that he was revisiting the memories with the woman. The woman he thought he kept his feelings for a secret.

He turned back to his house, wrapping his arm around his Mum's shoulder and bursting through the door.

He missed the Red Desert he called home.

Won't you leave all your fears at the edge of the world?

He missed his hometown so much, but he also found himself missing L.A while he was gone.

He planned six months in Australia, and he was sure as hell going to spend every moment he could with his family.

And with her.

He knocked on her door five times, in a rhythmic pattern that they used as kids. She was living in her childhood home, having been left the place after her mother had passed a few years back so his mother told him.

"Come on in," he hard her call from beyond the wood.

Her back was turned to him as he walked in. She had no jacket on, and he could clearly see a crescent moon tattoo inked onto the back of her shoulder.

"It's been a while, Rockstar. I'm surprised you still remember our knock," She had a smile on her face as she turned.

"How could I forget?" He laughed softly, eyes locking on the dimples that sunk in her skin. "When did you get the tattoo?"

"After mum passed. Wanted something more permanent to remember her by, y'know?"

He nodded softly. He hadn't known about her mother passing. Not until a few months after when he was on the phone to his own mum, and she shared the news.

From what she said, Y/N wasn't coping too well since.

"I missed this place," he accepted a beer she handed him, his eyes moving to the walls that lacked photos.

She had removed so much from the home. He noticed boxes piled up in the corner of the lounge room.

She didn't reply to his comment.

"What made you decide to spend the next couple of months here?" She didn't meet his eyes, instead she kept focus on the rings on his fingers.

A little item of wardrobe that he adopted along with his band mates.

He was hoping she wouldn't ask him that question, as he didn't want to admit it to himself more than he had.

She noticed his silence.

I've been asleep so long, wasting away.

She remembers seeing that look in his eyes when they were teenagers. He wasn't okay.

She put her beer down on the counter, and closed her arms around her best friend. He slowly wrapped his around her much smaller frame.

He always loved how short she was.

"You can tell me anything, Ash. Always," She finally met his eyes, and he could see the hidden pain just as she could in his.

"I, um, I just needed some time back home. Some time to heal and find myself again." He cleared his throat, "It's getting a bit bad at the moment. Too much drinking, too much partying. Just scared of it going too far."

She pulled him to the lounge, and curled into his side like they would do many years ago.

"I've got you, Irwin. Take as much time as you need to heal. You've always got me," she promised, grabbing his large hand softly.

"I know, Mini."

The pizza arrived a few minutes ago, and she managed to get Ashton raving about his last tour, only for her to raise her hand and silence him half way through.

"Hold on, I need to call the police," she hid her smirk well.

"What? What for?" His eyes widened in alarm, and he dropped his plate to the table.

"I need to file a missing persons report," She went so far as to pull her phone from her pocket and unlock it. The man simply cocked a brow and waited for an explanation.

A giggle fell from her lips before she halted dramatically.

"I need to report that your accent is missing. You're sounding like a real yank," she winked at him, and before she knew it she had a piece of pizza slung at her face.

Ashton's loud laugh echoed through the room.

Red, red desert, heal our blues I'd dive deeper for you.

Being home worked wonders for his mood.

Unfortunately, the months went by faster than he would have liked.

He still found himself pining over the same woman he had for many, many years. At this point, he was adamant that he was in love with her.

He loves the random tattoos she had over her body, the way her eyes shine in the daylight. The way she took pride in the country she calls home, going as far to support the aussie cricket team despite disliking almost every person on the team.

The passion she has for music, the kind heart that has her offering assistance to the Irwin family, whom she treated as her own blood. Even the way she answers the door is amazing to him.

He simply adores every fiber of her being.

His nerves around Y/N has lessened dramatically in the time, and it is simply a nostalgia trip of their childhood life. One that is coming to an abrupt end in a few weeks.

He knew he needed to make his move.

What a blessing to feel your love, Twilight moments with you.

He knocked on her door - five knocks - and it swung open a few seconds after.

She saluted him as she had since they were younger and he beamed at the sight.

"What brings you here, Mr. All-American?" She winked and he threw his head back, a sigh leaving his lips.

"You did not just mock me with my own song title."

"You can bet your firm ass I did."

He blushed at the comment but stalked to the lounge in an effort to hide it.

"Uh, I have something to ask you, Y/N, and I'm kinda nervous about it," he twisted one of the many rings in his finger. A thick silver band with a large 'A' decorating it.

She entered the room with two glasses of water in hand, not wanting to bother Ashton too much after his confession about his fear of alcohol addiction.

"What's up?" Her eyes were wide and curious. She held the innocent look of a doe, and he smiled at her before sipping his drink.

"I'm heading home in a few days..."

Tell me, would you pack up all your bags, stay true to North? You're the only one I'd do this for.

"Oh," her voice was quiet, her eyes dropping to her hands.

"But, I was hoping you would come to L.A with me. If you want to, that is. There's no pressure! But I would love it if you did!" He began to ramble, but halted when he felt her smaller fingers thread with his.

"Ash, why do you want me to come with you?" She laughs slightly, almost in disbelief. "Why not take your mum? Or one of your siblings? I know Harry would love it."

"Mum needs to take care of the kiddos and Harry goes back to school soon. But that's beside the point - I don't want you to come for a visit, Y/N."

"Then what are you -"

"I want you to come and live with me."

The room goes quiet, and the only expression he can read on her face is confusion.

"I know you're not happy here, in this house," he pulls her hands in his lap, holding them both in his as his eyes connect with hers, "and I can't stand the thought of not having you with me."

Her heart races at the thought of Ashton wanting her around permanently. She can't deny the influx of feelings that had overwhelmed her since he returned.

Hell, she distances herself from him all of those years ago because she started to fall for him, but she knew a confession would affect his career. She wanted him to follow his dreams, rather than chase after a girl they both knew he had been in love with for years.

"Ash, our friendship can handle the distance," a quiet laugh leaves her lips, "We can keep in contact better this time round."

"Don't you see, Y/N? I can't handle the friendship anymore!" His voice was raised, causing her to jump.

He grew frustrated at himself. If he had told her how he felt all that time ago, maybe things would be different. Maybe he wouldn't have needed the break from the famous life.

"What?" Her eyes were glassy, and his hands went to her face.

"I don't want friendship, because I'm in love with you," he all but whispers, and her mouth drops open.

Red, red desert, heal our blues. I'd dive deeper for you.

"You- what? You are?" She gapes, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find the words.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that-"

She pushes her lips against his, wrapping her arms round his neck and holding him close.

They melt into the kiss, both of them longing for the simple gesture for so many years.

What a blessing to feel your love. Twilight moments with you.

She pulls away slowly, resting her nose against his.

"I can't for sure tell you that it is love at the moment, but I have been in the process of falling for you since you got back. I liked you all those years ago but I was terrified of holding you back, because we both know you would have done whatever you could to make me happy."

"Y/N, I don't mind if you don't feel exactly the same way as I do, I just don't want to be without you. As long as you're willing, I want to be yours," his eyes were pleading, and she could see where his natural hair colour is growing through the red.

She brushed a hand through his soft locks, and kissed him once more.

"It would be a blessing to feel your love, Ashton," she smiled against his lips, and he wrapped his arms around her waist tighter than they were before.

Pack up all your bags, stay true to North. You're the only one I'd do this for.

He broke the kiss this time, searching her eyes for the answer he was looking for.

"Does this mean-"

"Yes, I'll go up north with you!"

He let out a hoot sound, standing and spinning the smaller girl around in his arms.

He set her on the ground when she squealed.

"So, did your 'red desert' heal your blues?" She gestured the quotation marks with a teasing smirk on her lips.

"Oh I am so stealing those as lyrics."

Red, red desert, heal our blues. I'd dive deeper for you.

#ashton irwin #ashton irwin x reader #5sos #luke hemmings #michael clifford #calum hood #C A L M #songfic

[xxxvioletskyxxx]

Rating: T

Fandom: Harry Potter, J.K Rowling

Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter

Characters: James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black, Marlene McKinnon, Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore, Peter Pettigrew, Alice Longbottom, Amelia Bones, Mary Macdonald, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10  Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

...

James threw a jumper over to Lily while he rummaged in his chifforobe for trousers. They dressed in silence, and James experienced a rush of emotional vertigo at the sudden turn of events. He tried not to watch as Lily slipped on a pair of dungarees over his favourite jumper; his mind reeling with what he had said, had almost said.

And guilt, too. Guilt at feeling this way when somebody was kidnapped, someone who so undeserving of their plight was taken and used for purposes not of their own. It made him sick to his stomach, and his eyes hardened as he considered the most likely assailants.

Another attack in Hogsmeade was terrifying, to strike so close to Dumbledore's stronghold was foolhardy, dangerous. There were so many opportunities to be discovered; a sliver of moonlight could turn the tables for a reliable physical description. The ranks of the Death Eaters were swelling, and James was frustrated, irate at the complete lack of news.

After Crouch had told them that the Ministry was restricting the media, James couldn't believe it. There was something to be said to inhibit the actions of fear mongers, but this was a war, and people needed to know the facts. Most importantly, James needed to hear about the resistance efforts, weren't there people fighting back? Taking to the streets? Where were the freedom fighters in the host of the enemy?

James started as Lily reached her arms around his torso and hugged him from behind. His expression softened, and he turned to face her with what he hoped to be a hopeful demeanour.

It was as if he was looking at a different person. Lily had dressed, her hair twisted into a loose plait and face clear of outstanding emotion. The lust he had felt for her five minutes before was absent, unaccounted for. There were more important things to worry about than whatever it was that they were these days.

"Whoever it was," James said. "Whoever was kidnapped if we know them or not, we're going to face it together, yeah?"

"All your mates know we're sleeping together," Lily said bluntly.

James rubbed a hand over his forehead. "That's a—fair assessment,"

"But we haven't," Lily said, her eyes trained on his. "Not actually, not like the way they think we have,"

"I don't think it matters," James said, looking nearly as uncomfortable as she felt. But was he imagining it? He thought he might've heard a faint tone of disappointment in her voice.

Lily slipped the strap of her dungarees further up her shoulder, and he unconsciously reached for her, brushing the curls away from her face. James touched her so often now; he had almost forgotten how precious it was, how important she had become to him. Lily looked shy in the small light of day, and he wished that they could always be as free with one another as they had been before. James wished he could kiss her in front of his mates without her shying away, hold her hand in the corridors where others could see. Was she ashamed? Was she ashamed of them together, in public? It was one thing to snog and claw each other's clothes off in private but in front of others?

He tried to push his age-old feelings of inadequacy behind. Lily loved him, didn't she? Wasn't the reason she began sleeping in his bed to stave off his nightmares? Didn't she stand up for him to his mates? And hadn't she stayed? Certainly, for much longer than he had expected her to. It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind, the very idea that he loved her more than she loved him. But didn't she know how much he wanted her, how often he thought of her, how the sight of her knicker-less would fuel his daydreams for years to come, climbing on top of him like that? Didn't she know?

And now that he knew that she dressed that way for him? He was done for, stock and barrel. He loved her; God help him.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," James said, his expression set. "We're both consenting adults, who are both on the same page, ready to take things—"

"Take things…" she said, and he took a deep breath. Simultaneously wanting to seduce her without disappointing, but wasn't the moment gone? Taken away like a sheet in the wind, as if it had never existed? He felt silly, standing in front of her without a shirt, and he wished that she would come back and touch him as she had before. He reached into his chifforobe for a cardigan, and—had he imagining it? Had she watched as he did so?

"Yeah, to take things—"

"We should get out there," she said, and his heart sank. "They're waiting for us,"

"Okay," James said, and he opened the door for her only to have her walk past him without looking up.

The other Marauders were waiting in their Common Room in various states of dress. Remus looked tired, but much the same as he always did, Peter was slouched half-asleep in Lily's favourite armchair. Sirius was both clothed and pressed, his hair tousled and out of his face. He was smirking, and James rolled his eyes to feign the extent of his profound embarrassment.

"Took you long enough," Sirius said with a smile. He looked over to gauge Lupin's reaction, but he responded with a stony glare and crossed arms.

"It's hardly dawn," James said, pulling on a collared shirt and then a cardigan. Lily watched with a sort of delayed sense of time as James dressed, as he spoke to his mates. When his collar shifted, more than one love bite appeared red and agitated. Her breath caught, but his shirt settled, and the moment was lost.

"So sleeping with Evans, eh?"

"That's none of your business," James said shortly, trying not to follow her movements as Lily walked over to stand beside Remus. "Don't embarrass her,"

There was a tense silence, Sirius muffled a laugh into a cough after a swift elbow from Lupin. Peter looked lost, Sirius' leather jacket tossed over his jumper, but the seams were tight around the shoulders.

Lily crossed her arms and tried her damnedest not to look over to where James stood in front of his open bedroom door, looking as handsome and put together as she had ever seen him. She'd never tell him, but she liked his hair like this, mussed and uncombed. He looked more himself, more the boy and less the person he was trying to be but wasn't. "I'm assuming you woke us up for more than a chastisement," she said tartly, reaching down to pull on her chucks.

continued

#jily #jily fluff #marauders era fanfiction #marauders seventh year #marauders era #James Potter/Lily Evans #Sirius black #Remus Lupin #peter pettigrew #Lily Evans

[sasha-whos-askin-racket]

BTHB - Big Brother Instinct

Bad Thing Happen Bingo - Square 9 Square - Big Brother Instinct Fandom - Ritchieverse Sherlock Character  - Sherlock Holmes Ship - Holmes/Watson (Also Irene’s kinda there for a little bit) Requested by - N/A.

A/N: This is a prequel to Cry Into Chest (also for this challenge), so I’d read this one, then that one to get a good idea of the plot. I’ll hopefully publish a 3rd part soon, so look out for that too.

The initial blast had knocked Holmes to the ground, but he’d been back up on his feet again in a moment. He’d stopped, momentarily unable to tell which direction the explosion had come from, and which direction it was heading. In the end, he just picked a direction and ran, his feet skidding out from under him as he came to an ungraceful stop next to Irene, who was curled behind a crate along the edge of the wharf. He grabbed her, and the two clung to each other as they battled their way in the direction the explosion had started. Holmes’s only intention was to get to Watson, was to somehow make it through the wall of flames and smoke, but another explosion tore through the air, and Holmes and Irene tumbled away.

The second time Sherlock Holmes got knocked down, it took him considerably longer to get back up. He rolled onto his hands and knees, raising his head slightly. The explosions had stopped, the smoke mostly dissipated. A glance to his right showed him Irene had disappeared, most likely run off to whoever she was working for. A glance to his left revealed the carnage and rubble that had once been the main part of the wharf, the little pieces that had survived being completely eaten up amongst the flames were now laying in crumbling piles and blackened with soot. There was something he was forgetting, something important, but he didn’t have time to think about what it was as a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him upright.

He was face to face with Clarky, who was saying something Holmes didn’t quite catch because he was too busy trying to remember what he’d forgotten. It was something important, he knew that. Something really important. No. No, not a something. A someone. Watson!

He pushed against Clarky roughly, but the Constable stood his ground, repeating whatever it was he’d said the first time, but Holmes didn’t care enough to even try and listen. Somewhere, in front of him, was Watson. Somewhere, scared or hurt or dying or dead was Watson, somewhere amongst those charred splinters of wood and cracked stonework was the only person who really mattered to him, lying in broken and bloody pieces, distant and alone, and no Scotland Yard lackey was going to keep Holmes from him. Holmes tried to swing an arm forwards and shove against Clarky’s shoulder, but he was still somewhat unsteady on his feet, and with a surprising strength that Holmes hadn’t given him credit for, the younger man shoved back. “Watson’s alive, but there’s nothing you can do for him at the minute.” Clarky told him, and Holmes sagged and allowed himself to be dragged out of sight. “Now, Lord Coward has issued a warrant for your arrest. Go, sir. Go!”

Holmes stumbled but turned and sprinted away, head still pounding. He wouldn’t go far, he’d wait a few minutes and double back on himself. He had to see Watson, even if it was just a quick glance, just enough to reassure him Clarky had been telling the truth. He sat at the water’s edge for a moment, and looked out across the Thames. There was a boat, sleek and black, sailing smoothly across the small waves.It didn’t look like Tanner’s boat, but Holmes was unsure who else would be on the river this late, unless it was somebody who had heard the explosion and was coming to help. He entertained that idea for a few seconds before realising the boat was moving away from the wharf, not towards it. Having exhausted all deductive possibilities around him, Holmes stood up and made his way back to the main section of the wharf.

All sign there had been anyone there a few minutes ago was gone. Clarky was gone, any other members of the Yard had gone. The tell-tale mark of a certain bootprint in the damp mud along the waters edge showed Lestrade had been there only minutes before, but now he had gone too. The explosion had started from a pile of crates, from here the tripwire used to activate it caught the light from a streetlamp. It was thin, a dark metallic colour. Watson would have been running, he wouldn’t have noticed it. It wouldn’t even have crossed his mind to check before he stepped out. Watson. Holmes moved his gaze to where his friend had been standing, then adjusted his position accordingly. Watson had been thrown backwards and off to the left, so if Holmes turned slightly this way he should be able to- Oh.

A few barrels were left standing, but most of them had been smashed to pieces, torn outwards in jagged splinters from the force of the blast. The wooden panelling on the wall had also been ripped to jagged lances, and darkened gouts of blood splattered brutally across the little that remained in its proper place. But what had caught his attention most was the slick section of stonework barely visible between the stained debris, the cracks in between each set of stones running free and heavy with blood, spreading in an ever evolving labyrinth. Watson’s blood. All of that was Watson’s blood. There was a burnt scrap of fabric caught on a splinter; a shred of light brown tweed soaked through with blood as well, and Holmes took an instinctive step back, unable to tear his eyes away from the carnage.

There was a hand on his shoulder, gentle and reassuring, and he finally glanced away from the wreckage to see Irene at his side, a streak of blood trailing down her face from the cut next to her eye. She trembled slightly in the cold, and Holmes pulled her closer to his side. The two stood there for a moment, like frightened children, and then Irene spoke. “Watson?” Holmes didn’t answer, and Irene’s hand found its way into his. “Watson’s alive. Coward has a warrant out for my arrest. I’m assuming there isn’t one out for Watson.” “We need somewhere we can lay low.” Irene told him. “The Grand is too obvious, and we can’t go back to Baker Street.” Sherlock turned to look at Irene in something like surprise, “We?” he echoed. “What about your employer?” Irene shrugged. “Circumstances change. We adapt. Right now, you need all the help you can get. Besides, I haven’t been on the run from the law in at least a few months. I miss it...Now, please tell me you have somewhere we can wait this thing out?” Holmes considered Irene suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. “Follow me. And keep your head down, the last thing we need is a price on your head as well.”

Sherlock had been pacing the small attic for almost an hour now and Irene was growing frustrated. “It’s not safe.” “I know damn well it’s not safe, Irene.” Sherlock replied, folding a hand into his pocket. “Then why are you so insistent on going back out there?” She asked him, having a feeling she already knew the answer. Holmes stopped his pacing and shot her a glare out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” Irene swung herself forwards on her chair. “I know what you’re thinking, okay? But you told me yourself what the Constable said, there’s nothing you can do for Watson there. The best thing you can do is focus on stopping Blackwood.” “I have to see him.” “You can see him when this is all over-” Irene didn’t know how easy it was going to be to rationalise with Holmes, but she had a feeling it would be harder than she anticipated. “-right now, Watson needs you out of prison to be able to fix this mess, okay? He needs you safe and he needs you alive.” Holmes whirled around with a speed and agility Irene hadn’t expected. “You think I don’t need the same for him?!” His voice cracked and he swallowed. “You think I don’t need him safe? I don’t need him alive?” “I didn’t say that.” “You think I wouldn’t give anything to undo what’s just happened out there?” Holmes raised his hand to point at the grubby window behind him. “I’d let Blackwood tear London to shreds if it meant Watson would be okay. Hell, I’d pick up a revolver and I’d help him bring the city to its knees if it made even the smallest bit of difference in the end. Don’t tell me that he needs me alive, Irene, because what good does being alive do me if I have to scrape through every day in this world alone?!”

Irene didn’t say anything for a moment, simply sat back and allowed the trembling Holmes to catch his breath. “Are you honestly considering it?” “I’m long past that.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Use a disguise, at least. Don’t stroll around looking like that; you’re practically pleading to be taken into custody by the first officer who spots you.” Holmes looked over his shoulder at Irene. “Disguises take time. I don’t have time. I need to see him. Besides, Lestrade knows I’ll check up on him, with any luck he’ll have known enough to station Clarky doing the rounds there. He won’t take me in, he had the chance at the wharf but he warned me instead-” Holmes stopped, a sudden thought dawning on him. “Do you think someone’s told Mary? Watson was supposed to be meeting her this afternoon, she’ll be wondering where he is.” “I’m sure it’s been seen to.” Irene tried to reassure him. Holmes nodded then picked up his coat and made his way over to the door. “I’ll be back soon.” “Where are you going?” Irene asked, knowing full well where he was heading, but deciding if she did end up getting caught by Scotland Yard’s finest, it wouldn’t hurt to have a small alibi in place. “I couldn’t possibly say.” Holmes replied calmly as he reached for the door handle. “Sherlock?” “Yes, Irene?” “Be careful.” Sherlock opened the door and looked down at the staircase. “Stay in here,” he said by way of answer. “We’ll be of no use whatsoever if we’re both in chains.”

The door slammed, Irene heard his descending footsteps on the heavy wooden stairs, and then she was alone in the silence.  

#bad things happen bingo #square: big brother instinct #fandom: sherlock

[wellhellotragic]

Dreaming of a Pink Christmas

Summary: Emma Swan despises the pink christmas tree currently living in her apartment. It's nothing short of an abomination. But when Emma decides to replace it with a freshly chopped tree of her own, Her bug gets stuck in a storm, and she'd forced to call the last person she ever wanted to see again. The man that broke her heart. Also on AO3.

Rating: Mature (there’s smut)

A/N: Imagine signing up for the CSSecretSanta and waiting patiently for a name to be assigned you, and when it finally come you're just like crap. Not because you've been assigned a person you don't care for, but you've been given someone who is just leaps and bounds above the cut in fiction writing. Someone whose work everyone in the fandom loves an adores. And then you realize that you have to write a fic for them. Ya, no pressure there.

So with that said, this is my CSSS gift for the lovely @alexandralyman. (Surprise!) She asked for angst and I hope I've delivered. There's a bit of humor tossed in too. I wasn't able to fit in forced bed sharing like you'd mention, but there is force cohabitation and definite bed sharing. I hope you like it Alex, and Merry Christmas!

I was mostly joking when I told people that this was going to be 10K, but apparently I have no self-control and it just kept growing and growing.  

(P.S. If you've never seen Sandra Lee's Kawanzaa cake, you might want to check it out on youtube before reading this fic!)

Another A/N: I also want to thank @best-left-hook-jones​ first and foremost for kindly helping me polish this bad boy over. I had this vague idea of Emma hating on MM's princess themed tree that was inspired by a conversation we had on different types of Christmas trees. There were pink ones, white ones, upside down ones. There are even ones that look like dresses on mannequins. Then after talking to Alex, everything seemed to fall into place. 10K later, Best-left saved this fic from being tossed in the garbage.

I'd also like to thank @optomisticgirl​ and @distant-rose​ for helping me brainstorm. I've never been to a tree farm or to a tree chopping so I had no clue what I was talking about. Boston isn't exactly the prime spot for me to have set this story, as there aren't any actually forests with evergreen trees near by, but if A&E can throw logic out the window, so can I!

Have a Merry Christmas everyone (or whatever holiday you celebrate!)

Word Count: 10K+

                    Dreaming of a Pink Christmas

Emma lay in bed, waiting until the she heard the roaring of David’s engine fading down the street. As much as she loved her roommate, and even her roommate’s boyfriend, there was only so much of the sickeningly sweet couple she could take. On a normal day, Mary Margaret was someone who Emma felt completely comfortable around, but the holidays brought out the monstrously sappy side in her best friend, and with it an overly motherly quality.

Emma, I have this friend who would be perfect for you.

Emma, I can’t just let you spend the holidays alone.

Emma, there’s somebody out there for you. I just know it!

So when David invited Mary Margaret to come home with him to meet his mother, and Mary Margaret systematically invited Emma to tag along, Emma quickly came up with an excuse to remain in Boston. Family had never really been her thing - not that she’d ever had enough experience with them to really know. Her knowledge base came from watching her friends. The sentimentality of missing them in complete conflict with the reality of being trapped in a house for a week, tense dinners, arguing. None of it was her.

No. Instead she told Mary Margaret that she’d picked up some extra shifts at the stations so that a few of her colleagues could spend time with their families. Technically speaking, she’d offered, but her captain had told her that she had enough man power. Still, Emma had insisted on them leaving her on the oncall list if something came up.

And that’s how Emma Swan found herself hiding out in her room Christmas Eve morning like a coward. Once she was sure that not only were they gone, but also far enough out of town to not pop back in for something forgotten, she forced herself out of bed.

What greeted her downstairs was an abomination. There was no other term fitting for the montorous pink christmas tree Mary Margaret had purchased for their apartment that year. There had been mention of how it reminded her of a tree fit for a princess. Emma just thought it looked like someone had soaked it in pepto bismol. Standing at seven feet tall, it dwarfed the room, and no matter where she stood, it seemed to taunt her from it’s spot near the door.

She hated it. Plain and simple. Four more days. She just need to ignore it for four more days and then Mary Margaret would be home again dismantling the atrocity and preparing for the next holiday. Originally, Mary Margaret had wanted to keep it up through the New Years, but Emma had been adamant that it shouldn’t be there at all. As a compromise, David had promised that he would make sure it was down before their New Year’s party. For Emma’s part, she just had to let it stay in the apartment.

Frustrated, Emma marched into the kitchen, digging out a bowl and spoon for her morning cereal. She sat at the bar, facing away from the tree. If she couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist. But as she sat there, eating her second bowl of lucky charms, her disdain for the tree grew.

Screw it.

She’d promised to let the tree stay in the apartment, not that she’d let it stay in the living room. It was a wonder that the bowl didn’t break when she tossed it into the sink. Pausing in front of the tree, hands on her hips, Emma took a moment to ready herself. It was a big tree and was going to take a lot of effort to move.

Her roommate had already strung lights  and ornaments in the tree, so taking the tree apart and moving it in sections was out of the question. Instead, she walked to the backside of the pink monstrosity and began pushing it towards Mary Margaret’s room. It was heavier than she’d expected, and the stupid tree base may or may not have made a gouge in the old wooden floors. She’d have to remember to cover that up with a rug before anyone saw it.

She took a break halfway through to regain her breath. Her arms were scratched from the fake leaves, which only reignited her fury towards the beast. Refocused, she pushed it to the threshold of Mary Margaret’s room, where it quickly became stuck in the door jam. Try as hard as she might, she couldn’t get the whole thing across the metal lip, and after an intense battle, she conceded defeat. The pink tree would remain in sight, but Emma was content with it being much less prominent.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t realized just how accustomed she had become to the imposing pink presence, and the gap left behind was just a bit unsettling. It was another reminder of a holiday she had never been able to have as a child. Growing up in foster homes and group homes normally meant that Emma was shuffled around a lot. There was something about the holidays that made people want to spend time with their families - just their families - and she’d get shipped back before any presents could be wrapped with her name on them. There was never a tree, never a stocking, and never a santa. Just a sad lonely little girl.

Damn it.

She was almost thirty years old, and while there may not be some mystical grey haired man bringing her presents at midnight, she at least deserved to have a tree. A normal green freshly cut tree.

She quickly got bundled up in her warmest outfit and headed to her bug. It gave a groan of protest as she started it up, the engine sputtering loudly. It was only a matter of time before the damn thing gave up on her completely, but she wasn’t ready to part with it just yet. Once the dial on the dashboard had finally moved up enough to signal that the engine was warm enough to drive around without dying she set off for the hardware store.

The first one was a small mom-and-pop type store three blocks from her place. It was only after she’d parked and walked up to the door to find the shop locked down with all of the lights out that she remembered it was Christmas Eve and nearly every store was going to be closed. She ran back to the bug, willing the heater to work, and pulled up a search for ‘hardware stores’ on her phone. Luck was on her side; one of the larger chains was staying open until six for last minute shoppers, and it was on the way to the tree farm she’d read about at work the other day.

The hardware store was packed. She’d largely underestimated the number of people buying toolboxes, new appliances, and whatever else significant others gave each other to say ‘I love you’. It took her twenty minutes of rummaging around the store to find the saw, rope, and tree stand she needed, and another thirty minutes of standing in line before she was able to check out. The day was slowly slipping away. Not that she minded. She didn’t exactly have a schedule to keep.

According to the flier pinned up to the corkboard in the police station break room, the ‘Happily Evergreen After’ tree farm, was just ten miles from her place. With any luck she’d be home in less than an hour.

But, of course, Emma Swan wasn’t exactly a beacon for luck, and what the flier hadn’t advertised was that people had to pay $65 to chop down their own trees.

“You can’t be serious,” she exclaimed, staring at the sign posted at the lot entrance. “I’m the one doing all the work!”

The owner of the farm, a man dressed like a medieval Robin Hood, hadn’t taken kindly to Emma’s ranting, and as Emma got in her care to make a show of leaving, she’d mumbled under her breath that they should be arrested for highway robbery.

Totally vexed by the con that were tree farms, Emma found herself on auto pilot out of the city. If she were going to do all of the work of cutting down the tree and tying it up to her bug, she wasn’t going to pay some astronomical amount.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later that Emma found herself coming to a stop on the side of the road. Off to the right was a forest, the perfect place to find the perfect tree - especially one that didn’t cost a bloody $65 to cut down. She parked her bug in the grassy area, as close as possible so she wouldn’t need to drag her tree too far.

As she wandered through the wooded area, she couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t what it was supposed to be like, at least, that’s what it was like in the movies. Instead, she found her boots sinking into deep pockets of snow, and she was sure she was spending more time struggling to stay upright than actually walking.

When she stumbled on the six foot evergreen, she knew it was perfect. It was taller than her, but not so wide that it would get stuck coming through the door. She may not have any experience with Christmas trees, but she was no Clark Griswold. Setting down the rope, she gripped the small saw she had purchased as started working on the base of the tree. Another thing she hadn’t anticipated; tree bases were not easy to cut through. The saw kept getting stuck and her hands were freezing cold. By the time the tree was finished, the temperature had started to drop and the sun was much lower than it had been when she set out.

It didn’t help that she’d made more than a few turns while searching for the tree and getting back to the bug wasn’t exactly a straight path. Not to mention the fact that the tree was deceptively heavy, and it was only due to the combination of ropes and police training that she managed to drag the tree along at all.

By the time she’d managed to get the tree up on top of her bug, the sun had begun to set dangerously low on the horizon. The snow fall had begun to pick up as well, and she knew that time was running out if she wanted to get home before the storm hit. She tied the tree down using the entire length of the rope, fastening it to the roof of the car in a way that prevented her from rolling the windows up all the way. She knew getting home with it was going to be miserable, but she’d been through worse.The bug groaned as it came to life, and once again she waited for it to warm up before she tried to pull back out onto the road.

Mother nature had other ideas though.

As her tires spun out she realized that it had been just warm enough during the day to melt some of the snow, but as the day drew to an end, ice had form in its wake, and she was stuck.She gunned the engine one more time, but the bug only slid around. Emma started to worry. There was no way she was going to make it home in the bug, and she didn’t have enough gas to keep the heater running all night.

Her options were limited, given that most of her friends had left town to visit family. In fact, she didn’t actually know if anyone was still in Massachussetts, let alone close enough to Boston to help her.

Pulling out her phone, she found Mary Margaret’s number and hit dial.

“Hey Emma.”

Her friend’s chirpy, optimistic side was the last thing she wanted to deal with in her frustration.

“Hey, I’m in a hurry, but do you know anyone who might still be in Boston right now?”

There was a pause, her friend obviously contemplating the answer.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I know Ruby is but she’s working the night shift right now. Have you tried Liam? I think he said he and Elsa weren’t heading out to Anna’s until tomorrow.”

Liam. Not her first pick, but there were certainly people further down the list.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll try him.”

Emma hit end on the phone before her roommate could ask what was wrong - or worse yet, suggest calling a different Jones.

Looking through her phone, she realised she didn’t have Liam’s number. Odd, since they’d been friends - or at least acquaintances - for years now. She did, however, have his fiancee’s number.

“Hello,” came a male voice. “Elsa’s phone.” Damn, she was really hoping her friend would answer instead.

“Hey Liam.” She hesitated. Clearly she needed help, but she had never been very good at asking for it. “Are you in town by any chance?”

There was a sigh.

“Sorry, lass, but we left early this morning. Elsa was worried about the storm blocking our path to Anna’s house. Why?”

“Um, it’s nothing really. Do you know of anyone else who might be staying local this weekend?”

Please don’t let it be him. Please God.

“You’re not going to like it,” No. “but the only one I know of is Killian. He was supposed to come with us but something came up at work and he had to stay behind.”

Killian Jones. The man that had broken her heart one year ago. The man she had vowed never to speak to again.

“And there’s no one else?”

“Afraid not.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She’d deleted his number from her phone in hopes of  avoiding any drunken temptations to call him, but there was still one text message she couldn’t ever bring herself to delete, and with it, seven digits burned into her phone, unassigned.

One ring. Two rings.

“Swan?”

He sounded worried.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, I just- you never call. I figured it was an emergency or something.”

True. She hadn’t dialed that number in over a year, having cut off all communication with him.

“Ya, well. Um- Are you still in Boston?”

She explained the situation and, without any of his usual teasing, he asked her to send him her GPS location and informed her that he’d be there as soon as he could.

As she sat in the bug, her traitorous thoughts drifted to him and that night. The night when everything had gone wrong. Killian and Emma had become close since he’d moved to Boston two years earlier. He’d finished up his degree in mechanical engineering at Stanford before taking a position at a local maritime company that designed boats. When a position had become available in Boston, he’d jumped at the opportunity to live near his brother.

Quickly, Killian had become a fixture in their group of misfits, and had become Emma’s best friend. The problem was that she’d fallen for  him almost immediately, a fact that only grew more depressing as it slowly became clear that her feelings would not be returned.  With his inky black hair and piercing blue eyes, he was beyond attractive. Women flocked to him in droves at the bar, and he was never lacking for companionship options. Emma would always make an excuse to leave before she had to watch him leave arm and arm with the newest flavor of the week, but judging from the way Victor Whale spoke, Killian had bedded half of Boston in their first year.

He was a flirt, she’d known that from the beginning, but after a while, she started to hope that maybe there was a chance that they could be more, that he’d see her as more. His eyes would linger on hers just a little bit longer each time the saw each other. He’d always wrap his arm around her waist as they’d wait for their turn at the pool table. And the night before the previous Christmas party, they’d nearly kissed. Ruby had interrupted them, and though neither had ever acknowledged what had almost happened, it had been enough to give Emma hope.

He was quicker than she’d expected, which could have only meant that he’d driven faster than what would have been deemed safe given the weather. He probably had other plans to get back to, someone else to get back to. That idea was enough to make her stomach twist.

As they worked silently in tandem removing the rope from Emma’s bug, she became hyper aware of his presence, of every accidental touch of hands and brush of shoulders. Together, they shifted the tree into the back of his truck and he re-tied it down in the bed while she grabbed the tree stand out of her back seat.

“I’m afraid the bug may be a lost cause tonight, but we can try to come back for it tomorrow if you’d like. Or I’m sure Ruby could bring you out if you’d prefer.”

It was the only thing he said as they both crawled into the cab of his truck. He started it up and shifted the truck into four wheel drive mode, easily moving back onto the street towards Boston. A few minutes later, Emma began to feel warmer than she had all night, only just noticing that he had turned her seat warmer on for him. They remained quiet the rest of the way back to her apartment as she replayed that night in her head.

Emma Swan was not a baker. She could cook enough to get by, but anything that required more than four ingredients was generally considered a lost cause on her end. So when she had come across a festive cake recipe online that was labeled as “semi-homemade” she’d jumped at the opportunity to try it. If she played her cards right, she might even be able to impress everyone at their annual Friendsmas party. Sure, the cake was considered a harvest cake, but it seemed festive and easy enough.

Killian had showed up early, halfway through her working on her cake. She’d paused the demonstration video just past the instructions on how to mix the icing. Killian had joined her in the kitchen and had narrowed his eyes as he’d watched her place the tan colored icing in and around the angel food cake.

It wasn’t until she had been opening a can of pie filling that Killian had seemed to take more interest in the cake, asking her what it was. She’d explained that she’d found it online and that it had over six thousand ‘thumbs ups’.

“Swan, are you sure about this?”

“Of course. Look at it. There’s almost two million hits on this thing. It’s like ‘the thing to make’ this season or something.”

She’d heard him mumble ‘or something’, but kept going, adding the acorns and pumpkin seeds, although her acorns looked different from the video, but she’d just chalked that up to using a different brand.

She had been just adding the last candle to the top of her cake when the doorbell had rung. She’d called out for Mary Margaret to answer it, but her friend had still been in the shower.

“Killian, can you grab the cake and move it onto the dessert table while I get the door?”

She hadn’t waited for his answer as she’d run to the door to greet Ruby. But when she’d heard the clatter of tin hitting hardwood, she’d come back to find the cake she’d been so proud of all over the floor. Her eyes had glanced up to Killian to see an apology on the tip of his tongue. But it hadn’t been real. He had been lying when he’d said it had been an accident.

“I’m sorry Swan. The candles set the balance off and I couldn’t catch it in time.”

He’d held his fake hand out as evidence, but Emma was unconvinced. She’d seen him do plenty with his prosthetic, and knew that he was more than capable with or without it. No, he’d done it on purpose. That much she was sure of. She just didn’t know why.

It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done and her best friend had just lied to her face.

There had been an argument, words had been said, and in a tantrum, Emma had left the apartment, making sure not to return until she had been certain he’d left. It was the last time she spoken to him, the last time she’d heard his voice.

It was completely dark out as they returned to her apartment. The street lights in front of Emma’s apartment were out, just as they had been for the last three weeks - Boston wasn’t exactly know for keeping up with public works during the winter time - so Killian insisted on leaving his truck lights on so they could see where they were going. Together they hauled the tree inside the loft style building. Emma and Mary Margaret's apartment was mostly situated on the third floor of the building, but Emma’s room ran up to the fourth floor, and as with many older buildings, their wasn’t an elevator.

“Where did you want it?”

He’d taken the heavier end of the tree, and was clearly a bit tired from trying to finagle up to her floor.

“Hold on.”

Emma pulled the tree stand out of her bag and set it on the floor, moving it just slightly in every direction until she felt it was perfectly centered on the wall.

“There.”

While she’d been playing with the tree stand, he’d removed his coat, revealing his favorite red t-shirt over a green long sleeved henley. The shirt had come from his alma-mater - a graduation gift from Liam - and Killian always wore it proudly, especially at Christmas time. Stanford’s mascot was a worse for the wear tree of some sort that he said looked festive. She’d loved him in that shirt.

He lifted the tree and placed it in the stand, asking her to hold it steady as he screwed the trunk in place. She couldn’t help but notice the way his back muscles flexed as he worked, and she mentally chastised herself for noticing. There was no point in going down that road, not anymore.

“Okay, well you should be all set now.”

She should have thanked him, offered him something to drink. That’s what polite company would have done, but Emma was a mess. Memories had turned her into an emotional wreck and she just needed him out of her apartment as soon as possible.

“So I guess I’ll just get going.”

She simply nodded and when he left she locked the door behind him, hoping her longing for him would follow. The snow had picked up, not quite yet a blizzard, but she knew he’d have a hard time seeing more than three foot in front of him. The eighteen blocks to his apartment would probably take an hour. She’d text him and make sure he got home later. It was the polite thing to do she told herself, ignoring the part of her that wasn’t quite as ready to let him go again as she had wished.

She was startled from her thoughts a few minutes later when a knock came from the door. Karma. That’s the only word she could come up with with the man stood before her once more.

“I’m sorry to put you out like this lo- lass, but my truck battery seems to be dead. Is there any way I could crash in Mary Margaret’s room. I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning and you won’t even notice I’m here.”

Yup. Karma. All of that no good deed goes unpunished crap. She just wasn't’ sure if it was hers or his karma at work. As much as she didn’t want him to stay, as much as she worried what she’d do if she was around him for too long, she knew she couldn’t send him back out to freeze to death.

She opened the door wider and ushered him in.

“Mary Margaret’s room is just down the hallway.”

Idiot. Of course he knew where her room was. He’d been there countless times. She was just at a complete loss as to what to say.

He nodded back and headed down the hallway to keep his word of hiding away. But that damn pink tree had struck again.

“Uh, Swan. This tree seems to be stuck. As in, stuck stuck. It’s really wedged in there.”

She’d forgotten about that. Damn.

“Oh right. Sorry. I guess you’ll have to take the couch. I’ll go grab you some sheets.”

He thanked her and she bolted up the stairs to her room, needing a few minutes to pull herself back together. She couldn’t avoid him forever though, not this time, and with all of the courage she could muster, she made her way back down stairs, handing a spare set of sheets. His hand grazed her slightly as he took them from her and sparks blazed across her fingers where their skin had touched.

He set to making up the pullout couch while Emma started wrapping lights around her newly acquired tree. Even if the situation had changed slightly, Emma was determined to wake up to a decorated Christmas tree. The lights she’d found had been a few extra strand in years passed. Some of the bulbs were burnt out, and only half of them twinkled anymore but it would have to do as all of the other lights were trapped in Mary Margaret’s doorway.

Killian was quiet, but she could feel him behind her, feel his eyes on her. When she’d finished stringing the lights she plugged them in and stood back, taking stock of her tree.

“It’s lovely.”

She hummed to herself in response.

It was awkward. Being around Killian, but not speaking to him. No playful banter. It left her unsettled.

“It’s still early. Would you like to find a movie to watch?”

A tiny grin flitted across his face but disappeared just as quickly. They both understood the offer for what is was. A temporary truce forced on the from circumstance.

“Sure thing.”

She left him with the remote to find something on netflix as she went to the kitchen to grab some snacks. She had a bottle of his favorite rum stashed away above the fridge, the christmas gift she’d never given him, but even now, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It would have been too much like them, and they were them, not any more.

She grabbed two beers from David’s stash instead and made some popcorn. When she joined Killian again he had the tv paused on the title screen for Die Hard. An old inside joke at Liam’s expense. It was too much. “Um, can we watch something else instead?

“As you wish.”

He handed her the remote and she scrolled through the Christmas section until she landed on Love Actually. Everything else reminded her of him, of sitting on that couch together watching Christmas Movie marathons. She needed something they’d never seen together before.

The credits played and they both settled in to opposite ends of the now bedlike couch. They drank their beers, pausing midway for new ones. Once or twice they both reached for the popcorn at the same time, Killian always insisting that she go first. If it had been a year ago, she would have thought it perfect.

As the movie progressed, and scene with the necklace played, Emma’s thoughts returned to that fight.

She’d been an idiot. She knew that. She’d completely overreacted. Sometimes she forgot that she wasn’t in the system anymore, that not everyone was out to get her. It was just her stubborn pride that had kept her out so late. She couldn’t apologize to him in front of everyone. Not when she had made such a big scene.

So she waited. She waited for him to leave. She waited until she woke up. And then she waited as she stood in line as the coffee shop picking up his beverage of choice and his beloved healthy bagels as an apology.

And then she waited some more for him to answer the door, but he never did. It was Tink who greeted her, Tink who was wearing his blue button up from the night before. A shirt Emma had purchased for his birthday.

“Emma?”

“Hi. Uh- Is Killian here?”

Tink looked behind her for a second before shutting the door a bit more.

“He’s in the shower right now. I was about to-”

She didn’t finished, but Emma didn’t need her to. Tink was about to join him. Because they’d slept together.

He’d lied to her, broken her trust, and shattered her heart. And she’d let it happen. Let herself believe that she was somehow special to him. But she didn’t. She was just like every other girl. Just another notch on the bedpost.

“No, um. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You don’t even need to bother telling him I stopped by.”

Tink closed the door and Emma threw the coffee and breakfast out into the nearest trash can. It had been a miracle that she’d kept it together long enough to drive back to her apartment. But once she was safely behind the closed door of her bedroom, she let it all out. She wept for her stupidity, she wept for the friend she’d lost, and she wept for the loss of hope.

She ignored his texts and calls for three days. When he didn’t get the hint, she sent him back one last message.

Go to hell.

“Swan?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you’d like another beer?”

She must have zoned out for longer than she had realized.

“No, that’s okay.”

She was worried that if she drank to much she do something stupid, like tell him that even after all that time she was still in love with him.

He nodded and stayed in his seat, toying with the label of his empty beer bottle.

“Careful, love. If you tune out like that again I might get ideas of what your daydreaming about over there.”

Her eyes snapped up to him, caught off guard by his brazenness. That was the old Killian. That was before.

“And what would that be?”

“Well, you did choose the movie. A slightly romantic one.”

She wasn’t sure where it had come from, but wanted to wipe the smug grin off of his face.

“Oh, that. I just thought you could relate to Alan Rickman’s character.”

She looked over just in time to see his jaw clench and a haze cloudy over his face. His eyes never left the floor, and in that instant she realized she’d gone too far. A small smile tugged at his lips, but Emma recognized it for what is was.

Defeat.

In the past, she’d always believed it to be some sort of smug smirk. Something that told the world to fuck off because he was better than everyone else. But thinking back, it had been a defense mechanism. The same look he got when Liam was chastising him for something, the look he got when he spoke of Milah, and the look he got when she’d told him to go to hell that night.

It was the look of a man who’d lost all hope.

And she was the one that put it there.

He was off the couch and grabbing his coat before she could even swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“It looks like it’s died down a bit,” he started, gesturing towards the window.

The snow fall had died down but there was atleast a solid two foot of snow littering the sidewalks.

“I think I should be able to get home now so I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Killian-” She had to cut off her own words as she nearly stumbled trying to remove her legs from the tangle of blankets.

“Really, Swan. It’s getting late and I’m sure you have more important things to do than to entertain me.”

He was halfway out of the loft before she was able to catch him, wrapping her hand around his blunted wrist. He stilled, the muscles in his arm tensing beneath her touch.

“Killian, I didn’t mean you had to leave-”

“It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”

God. How had this all turned around in her. Five minutes earlier she was seething over the memory of seeing him with Tink. Five minutes ago she was just hoping to get through the night without any more awkwardness.

“Is that really how you see me?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“Is that how you see me? As an adulterous letch who only cares about himself?”

Milah.

How could she had been so stupid. When she made the off hand remark about Killian relating to Alan Rickman’s character she’d been referring to Tink, and how she thought that she and Killian had something, but all along he had his eyes set on someone else. She was bitter and spoke without thinking, and as inadvertent as it was, she’d knocked him over with a low blow.

Milah had always been a sore spot for him, but she’d just assumed it was because she chose to go back to her husband, that she hadn’t picked him. A bullet to his ego. But maybe there was more to it.

“Killian, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how do you see me, Swan? Because a year ago I thought things between us were great and then you suddenly just cut me out of your life.”

Her stomach sunk and the pleading in his voice.

“It’s complicated.”

“Emma,” he never called her by her first name. “Please, just tell me what I did to make you hate me.”

She wanted to run, but her hand was frozen in place, still gripping fiercely to his wrist, just above where the brace for his prosthetic hand rested.

“It’s not- I can’t-”

“Just tell me, please.”

“The cake.”

Yes, it was a complete cop out, but it was safer than the truth. A half truth that wouldn’t mean exposing her heart to him. Not again.

“The cake. This whole time it’s been about that bloody cake?”

His voice had risen and she’d never heard him speak with such anger, at least not directed towards her. She released his arm and took a step back. She could feel her own rage building inside her. He had no right to be mad at her. She was the one that had her heart broken by him. She was the one who felt like a fool.

“You did it on purpose and then didn’t even have to decency to feel bad about it!”

“I apologized multiple times that night. And how was I to know those candles would throw the balance off so badly?”

“You apologized? You know I can tell when people are lying to me and their wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in a single one of those apologies.”

It was the truth. He told her sorry over and over when it happened, but not once did he look truley regretful. His words were nothing more than a way to placate her, like a child trying to get out of being grounded.

“What’s with you and this bloody cake? Swan, did you even look at the comments on that blasted video you were playing?”

He had the audacity to look affronted, and from somewhere deep inside the fire rose, and Emma refused to back down.

“I told you Killian, it had over a million hits and six thousand thumbs up. People loved it. You know I’m not much of a cook, and I was proud of myself, but for some reason you saw fit to destroy it.” She had to stop herself before she added on just like everything else.

From her battle stance, with both arms crossed over her chest, she watched as Killian brought up his one good hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. It was what he did when he was trying to calm himself, trying not to let his anger get the best of him. She wasn’t ready to give up the fight though.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. He simple reached down and pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping away with his thumb until he found whatever her was searching for. Then he held it out, facing her.

“Will you please just read what people said?”

It was a genuine request, his voice calm and steady as he asked.

Emma jerked the device out of his hand and started scanning the comment section, noting for the first time what Killian had meant.

Guilmon4703: Mmmmmm, a cake that looks like someone took a big shit on your plate.

FijiUnited: Clearly the decades of alcohol consumption have rendered her tastebuds withered and useless.

Maria Kazakopi: I...I...am...dumbfounded by this culinary blasphemy. It must've been during one of her 'Cocktail Times' that she came up with this shitty cake. This is really HORRIBLE!

G Hayes: I'm usually pretty open minded when I see cooking shows. There's a lot of people who like a lot of different foods across the world. But this cake looks so awful I want to barf. Angel food cake? Fine. Everything else is a magnificently disgusting combination. When she stuck those huuuuuge candles in the cake I thought I was going to pee I laughed so hard. Poor Sandra. She never stood a chance with this one. 

Fuck.

When Emma turned back to look at Killian, she finally saw the sincerity in his eyes that she had been looking for that night, and a part of her walls started to crumble.

“Swan, I couldn’t let you present that cake to people.” He took a step closer. “I care about you too much to let you be humiliated in front of our friends, especially not when I knew that your heart was in the right place. I thought it would be easier if you were just mad at me for a little while, and that it would spare your feelings.”

There was something there, something in the way that he looked at her, just a glimmer that gave her hope of more. Hope that maybe he cared about her as more than just a friend. But she was just being stupid.

Damn him.

She could feel tears starting to well in her eyes, but she could let him see her cry. She couldn’t let him see how much he affected her, so she slammed her walls back up just as high as ever.

“If you cared about me so much, then how did you just move on? How did our falling out not have any affect on you?”

“Where’d you get that foolish idea? This last year has been hell for me!”

“Obviously.”

She hadn’t meant for him to hear that part as she mumbled it under her breath.

“Swan?”

She turned and started to walk away, not ready to have that particular conversation. Not now, not ever. But this time it was his turn to stop her.

“You know what. You’re right, the snow has let up. You should be fine getting home now.”

She saw him waiver briefly, debating what to do. He made his way back the door, and although it was exactly what she had wanted him to do, it wasn’t really. Not when the sight of him walking away from her caused her heart to constrict. Unable to breath, she was helpless to do anything but watch the door close behind him.

There. She’d really done it that time. She ruined their relationship, or whatever was left of it at that point, beyond any point of salvation. Finally, she allowed the tears to begin falling. God. She was an idiot.

“No.” She hadn’t even noticed the door open again through the curtain blurring her vision.

“You don’t get to do that again. You don’t get to just decided everything and not even give me the courtesy of knowing why!”

He was shouting and she couldn’t even bring herself to care, couldn’t force her walls up any higher, because he’d come back. He’d always come back, and it didn’t make any sense. Nothing about them made any sense to her anymore.

“You really want me to leave?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even move her head to nod yes or no.

“Then tell me. Tell me why you really just brushed me off and told me to go to hell, because there’s no way this about a stupid cake. Emma, what did I do to you that was so terrible that you assigned me the role of villain in this little story of yours?”

Against her will, the word slipped past her lips.

“Tink.”

“What?” His head tilted to the side, but he didn’t try to come any closer, didn’t try to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

“You want to know what you did? You did her!”

Her voice was nearly broken and she hated herself for it.

“Swan, I didn’t-”

“Stop. I saw her.” She swiped her hand under her eyes, trying to erase all of the evidence of how much she’d let him affect her. “Killian, I saw her there in your apartment, wearing your shirt.”

“I don’t-”

No. It wasn’t his turn to speak. He didn’t get to try and turn it all around on her. He’d broken her heart, and if he really wanted to know why she was so upset, she’d make damn sure he knew.

“You almost kissed me, and then we had that stupid fight over the cake. I came by the next morning and she was there, in your shirt and nothing else. You kissed me and then slept with her. God, Killian. I felt so stupid. I thought-”

She let the words die off. She’d already said too much. Revealed too much. Now he knew, and there was no taking it back. There was no going back to the friendship she’d so desperately missed over the last year.

“Swan.”

“Killian, please just go.”

She turned away again, walking to the window, waiting to hear the door click behind him. But it never did.

“Emma, I don’t know what you saw, or what you think you saw, but nothing happened.”

She snickered. Like hell it hadn't. Later that month Tink had practically been living with him.

“That’s crap and you know it. You guys were living together!”

“Swan-”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

Something snapped in him. She saw a storm brewing deep in his ocean blue eyes. A storm so fierce it was reflected in the window pane.

“And if we had slept together? What would it have been to you? You made it perfectly clear where we stood the last time we spoke.”

She tried to run, to hide in her room waiting for him to give up, but he was faster, using his body to block the stairway.

“Ah no you don’t. Why did it matter what I did or who I was with?”

His voice was eerily calm and it terrified her. Even more so than when she’d seen Tink after their fight, more than when Neal had abandoned her, more than any foster home she’d ever been in.

She was broken, and with it, her walls started crumbling around her.

“You almost kissed me, and I thought-” Her voice cracked. “And then Tink was there and I realized that I’d built this whole thing up in my head. That I was no different than all of the other girls who fawned over you.”

“Oh, Emma.”

He was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“And I couldn’t stand seeing you and her, or you and anyone. I couldn't get over my own pride, and I know it’s my problem, but-”

He cut her off, taking one more step in her direction, their chests almost touching. His right hand came up to cup her cheek as his thumb swiped away the tears that were still falling.”

“Swan, I have no idea what I ever did to make you think you were ever just another anything to me. You’ve never been “just” anything to me.”

“But Tink.”

God. She hated how pathetic she sounded.

“Aye, Tink was there, but not as anything more than a friend. That night, after our fight I attempted to drown my sorrows in the bottom of Dave’s bottom of rum. Tink took me home and stayed over to make sure I didn’t choke on my own sick. Some of which unfortunately got on her so she borrowed a shirt from me.”

Realization hit like a punch to the gut. She’d misunderstood it all.

“And then I pushed you away and right into her arms.”

Her heart fell.

If she’d just talked to him, answered any of his text messages, returned any of his voicemails, she wouldn’t have just lost the last year with him.

“Yes and no. I’ll not lie. You avoiding me hurt, but I didn’t find solace by shacking up with anyone.”

But they were living together. She saw the boxes.

It had been about two months since their fight. She still hadn’t spoken to him, and while he messaged her occasional, the messages had become few and far inbetween. In fact, it had been three weeks since his last one and she’d nearly given up hope that he was still trying. Silly as it was, given she’d been the one to shut him out, it hurt to know he’d finally given up on her.

It was for the best though. She couldn’t go through it anymore. Allowing herself to be strung along by a man who would never want her as anything beyond a bed mate, not that he’d even wanted that much.

It was getting easier not to think of him anyway. She’d buried herself in work, taking on extra cases. Anything to avoid going home to Mary Margaret and her constant questions. Anything to avoid their group gatherings where he’d likely be in attendance. It was easy to not return people’s phone calls when she was on a stake out.

But it wasn’t that easy, because his phone number was still sitting in her phone taunting her. More than once she’d had to give her phone to Graham while they were out drinking after a hard case. She new that if she’d held on to it, she’d call him somewhere around drink number four.

Graham was sweet enough, listening to her drunk ramblings about Killian and her broken heart. He tried to give her advice about moving on, and a few times she saw something in his eyes that suggested he wanted to be the one she moved on with. She always ignored it though. Even if she had felt something for him, which she didn’t, she refused to put herself out there again. She’d been wrong before, and wouldn’t let her heart fool her again.

Eventually August Booth, the newest detective, started joining them at the bar. It helped Emma feel less like she was on a date, and the guy was damn good at his job. And he didn’t beat around the bush the way Graham had.

“You know there’s an easier fix than giving us your phone every night right?”

Before she could process what he’d said, he was handing her phone back to her, with one less contact, and one less text thread. Her last link to Killian had been severed and she thought maybe she was free.

Three more weeks passed. Three uneventful weeks, and the pain was starting to fade. But then, as she drifted off to sleep she heard her phone chirp. She checked it to make sure it wasn’t work related, and seven little number stared at her. Seven numbers she’d once new by heart, but not anymore.

I miss you.

She tossed and turned that night, unable to get him off her mind.

The next day, she decided to stop by his place after work, if nothing else than just to hear him out, but when she got there her heart was ripped apart. Killian was helping Tink move boxes into his apartment. Boxes labeled sheets, pictures, clothes.

She’d let him break her again.

Sensing her confusion he continued.

“The lady Belle and Will Scarlett had just started dating, and new love and all can be quite loud when you have paper thin walls. Tink asked if she could crash in my guest room while she looked for a new place. She wanted to give them space, and keep some sanity in the process.”

“But.”

“But what?”

“But when I talked to her, she implied that you were together.”

“Ah, that. Yes, I gathered that she had a slight crush on me when she tried to kiss me. I told her that I didn’t share her feelings and suggested that perhaps it was time for her to find a new living arrangement. Needless to say she wasn’t happy about it.”

It made sense. Whatever had happened between them had been messy, with Tink saying some less than pleasant things about him, and while at the time she thought his lack of response was due to guilt, she now knew that he was just too much of a gentleman to say anything.

“Emma. Did you ever see us do anything affectionate like holding hands or kissing? Have you ever seen me that way with anyone?”

Admittedly she hadn’t. Her brain had told her that he was just smart enough to keep his affairs private. She shook her head no.

“I haven’t been with anyone since I moved to Boston. I haven’t been with anyone since the moment I met you, because it’s only ever been you, Emma. It’s always been you.”

There was no hesitation that time. No pulling back. When her hands found the lapels of his coat she yanked hard, pulling his body flush with hers. And when their lips finally met, it was as if  the world had finally righted itself. After twenty nine years of giving her nothing but pain and suffering, it was finally giving her hope.

Everything happened so fast after that. The kiss deepened and on instinct, Emma felt herself pulling him up the stairs with her, never parting her lips from his. Once in her room, clothes began to litter the floor as they both hurried to explore each other.

She felt him gently press her to the bed, his chest hair tickling the tips of her breasts. His weight settled into her further as he nibbled at her pulse point. Something he’d quickly picked up drove her mad with want. His body shifted, lips moving down her torso, his tongue following the curve of her breast. Instinctively her back arched.

“Killian.” She whined, trying to implore him to hurry.

A year was long enough. Tired of waiting, she reached down, wrapping her hand around him, gently squeezing it as she twisted her hand.

“Love, all in good time.”

He had the audacity to chuckle at her. Moving even lower he peppered her stomach with kisses. Finally he slid from the foot of the bed, kneeling before her.

“Killian, I need-”

“Shhh, now. It’s come to my attention that in the past I’ve not succeeded in showing you just how much I want you, and only you. I’ll be damned if you leave this bed without me recifiying such an egregious error.”

His lilt left her a quivering mess, and if she hadn’t been so enraptured by the lust in his eyes, she might have let herself feel nervous at how exposed she was before him.

Then something changed. A shy smile replaced the smug smirk.

“Is this okay, Emma?”

There it was again. He’d said her name more times in the last ten minutes than in the entire time they’d known each other, and she understood what it meant. No more dancing around each other or playing hard to get. The time for games was over. He wanted her to know, to feel how much she meant to him. She’d been such a fool that past year.

Unable to say anything, she nodded her head, and it was all he needed. His prosthetic hand splayed out over her stomach, trying to keep her still as his lips and fingers toyed with her, bringing her to the verge of her release, but never letting her fall.

“So perfect. So bloody perfect.”

It was a whisper punctuated with kiss to her thigh.

When his thumb finally brushed circles of the place she needed him most, the one that finally gave her the release she’d so desperately needed, it was like time stood still. The explosion of light behind her eyes seemed to last for an eternity, stealing her breath away.

Eventually, she came back to herself, feeling Killian’s lips tracing their way back up to the hollow of her throat. Her hands cupped the sides of his face and pulled him to her. She tasted herself on his tongue, not minding when his tongue twisted just so.

“Killian. I need you inside me.”

She expected him to lunge, to push her legs wider apart, to do anything really. What she hadn’t expected was for his face to fall. Had she misread everything?

“Swan, I- Uh-”

“What?” She asked cautiously. There was nowhere to run.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting this turn of events when you called me this afternoon. I didn’t really come prepared for such an occasion.”

I’m always a gentleman.

Of course.

“Table drawer.”

She lifted her chin and nodded towards the nightstand to her left. He reached out, shifting his body so that it laid almost parallel next to hers. Her teeth found his earlobe and she gently gave it a tugged, hoping he’d feel as impatient as she did, but instead he pulled away a little. Her eyes followed his line of site, the the very full drawer.

It should have been simple. He just needed to grab a packet and rip it open. He’d been so eager before, so why was he suddenly apprehensive?

“Hey,” She started. “What’s wrong?”

He gave her a small smile, one that didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s nothing, Swan. Really.”

“Don’t do that. Please, Killian.” She hoped her used of his first name would have the same impact on him that it had her. “What is it.”

“I-” He paused. “I’ll sound like a fool.”

She let the back of her fingers caress his face.

“Never.”

He tried to smile again, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

“I just- I know that we weren’t on speaking terms, and I have no right to feel this way, but seeing that drawer only reminds me of all that I missed. It reminds me that you’ve probably not been devoid of company in this bed of the past year. I told you, love. I sound like a bloody git.”

Her eyes fell back to the drawer and it all clicked. He’d been jealous of her using them with other men. He hadn’t known that she’d been just as gone for him as he was her, even during their fight.

“Killian, I-” He still wasn’t looking at her so she grabbed his chin, tilting it so that he couldn’t not face her. “I bought those last year, the morning of the Christmas party. We’d almost kissed the day before, and I thought that if I could just muster the damn courage to tell you how I felt, that maybe we’d get some use out of them.”

His face fell again, obviously upset at himself for allowing the misunderstanding. She was horrible at this.

“But if you were to count them, you’d find that they are all still there.” Well, except for the one Mary Margaret had pilfered the week before when she and David had run out. “I haven’t used any of them.”

His mouth came down over hers with such an intense force that she shrieked in surprise.

They’d ended up using three of the foil packets that night before they passed out from sheer exhaustion. He was warm curled up next to her, and had it not been from the rustling noise downstairs, she’d have been content to stay in their little cocoon forever. Unfortunately, the noise from downstairs continued, and as the groggy haze faded she realized that there were people in her apartment. Uninvited people. Her gun and badge had been left in her bug. Rookie mistake, she chastised herself.

As quietly as possible, she extracted herself from the covers, and Killian’s embrace, but it wasn’t quiet enough to not wake him.

“Swan?”

“Shh, I think someone is downstairs.” She whispered as she grabbed his shirt to cover whatever bit of modesty she could. Tackling a burglar while naked wasn’t high on her list of ways to spend Christmas morning. “Just stay here.”

Of course her words fell across deaf ears. He muddled around searching for his boxers, which had somehow landed on the window sill. Slowly they creeped down the stairs, Emma clutching a curtain rod and Killian holding plunger from the bathroom. Emma was really going to need to rethink apartment safety when this was all over. Just before they came to the exposed part of the stairs they heard hushed whispers. There were at least two of them and suddenly Emma was grateful that Killian had ignored her command to stay upstairs.

She moved down two more steps trying to get a look around the corner at the intruders when she heard a crash.

“What the hell is the tree doing in here?”

David?

Emma flipped the hallway switch that controlled the living room, illuminating a very confused and weary looking roommate.

“Emma? Did we wake you?”

“What the hell guys? I thought you were burglars! What are you doing back so soon?”

Emma relaxed, setting the curtain rod down in a corner, stepping fully into the large open space.

“We tried to call you but you didn’t answer. About thirty minutes after I talked to you the small snow storm turned into a full on blizzard. We got stuck in bumper to bumper traffic until the snow plows could clear the road enough for us to move. Ruth said that the roads leading into Storybrooke were all closed so we had to turn back.”

“Oh.” Emma flushed, looking around for her phone. It was still on the coffee table where she had left it.

“Emma?” David tilted his head. “What are you wearing?”

Shit. “Oh, this? I- Uh-”

She turned back to find Killian still hidden from her friends on the stairs, waiting for her lead.

Before she could decide either way she heard Mary Margaret gasp.

“That shirt! I can only think of one person who went to Stanford...”

David smiled, something closely resembling Ruby’s wolfish grin that signified he had something up his sleeve.

“Oh, honey. Do share with the class.”

“Guys.” Emma grumbled out, clearly embarrassed.

“Killian?” Mary Margaret called out.

Finally he slinked down the stairs, finger scratching just behind his ear. “Guilty.”

Mary Margaret just hummed in response.

“Well guys. It’s been a long day and we’re exhausted.” David looked like he was about to argue the opposite but the pint sized pixie elbowed him in the side. “I think we’re going to hit the sack now. David, remind me to tell Liam he owes me twenty dollars when he comes over later today.”

“Wait. Later today? Liam’s out of town.”

“Pardon?”

“Um, I may have called and told him to tell you that so you’d be forced to call Killian.”

“He bet Mary Margaret that you’d chicken out again and not tell Emma how you felt.” David added for Killian’s benefit.

Emma glanced over at him to find his face beat red.

“Oh and Emma.” Emma snapped her head back to her roommate. “Tomorrow you’re going to have to explain to me why there’s a scratch in the floor.”

Quickly Mary Margaret grabbed David’s arm and dragged him into her room, shutting the door behind him. The tree no longer in view. David must have been able to push it the rest of the way into the room.

“Swan?” He was holding a hand out to her. “If you’ll follow me, it’s officially Christmas Morning, and I believe there’s another present upstairs that needs unwrapping.”

His brows rose and he gave her a salacious grin. As she raced him up the steps she couldn’t help but think about that damned pink tree, and how maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

#cssecretsanta #Alex's Secret Santa #Dreaming of a Pink Christmas #wellhellotragic #cs ff

[abutterflyscribbles]

Art School AU: Part 12

Part 11 and Ao3

I gotta, gotta believe I can more then survive Still one trick up my sleeve We're gonna make this one shine I... I'm at the edge of my life I got no time to think twice When I'm standing with the weight Of the world on my shoulders I... I'm gonna fight the good fight Cause i, I know I'll get by When I battle every day through the pain Like a soldier Just don't look down And you'll never fall

“Don't look—don't look at the—”

Don't look at the board. Don't look at the pictures. Don't look at me, don't see how broken I really am. Because if you do you'll be like everyone else. Pitying the broken doll with the cracks in her china face. Cracks in her heart.

No one would ever know anything happened, darlin', Roland had said when Marianne confided in him about the accident, her injuries, the surgeries. He had tapped the underside of her chin, tilting her face up so he could better search her face for flaws. Marianne had been tight with fear, watching Roland's face in turn for disgust or pity, praying that her makeup smoothed out any possibly traces of the accident.

Roland had rewarded her with a relieved smile, “No one would ever know what happened, darlin'.”

No one would ever know anything happened.

That day was just erased, never spoken of. Best forgotten. Marianne had woken up one day into a world where her mother, Maeve Woods Summers, had never existed at all. Every picture, every memento, packed away, her daughters snatched away across the country, away from all reminders of her. Marianne's scars were tidied away and sometimes she doubted she had ever been hurt, that it all wasn't part of a monstrous dream.

But nothing had been able to remove the scars inside her, even if they were ignored. Sometimes she wished her skin was still marked so that her pain and anger would be visible and everyone would see how much she hurt. Only the faintest shadows remained on her body, traces that you could only see if you knew, if you were looking.

“It's my fault,” Marianne said to Bog, a detestable quaver in her voice, “Dawn saw—my fault—Dawn--”

Dawn was never supposed to know. To see the consequences of that car wreck. Marianne couldn't save her mom, couldn't save herself, but she thought she could save her sister. But, as it always was when it came to the most important things, Marianne failed.

“She's okay. She's inside. She told me to find you.”

Bog was standing over Marianne, cupping her face in his hands, blocking out everything but his face and his voice. Marianne tried to turn her head, see the board. Bog wouldn't let her.

“I have to—to take it down—this is my fault!” Marianne grabbed his hands, some fleeting thought of shoving him away occurring to her. Instead she clung to his hands, afraid that somehow he was going to disappear. All the good things in her life seemed to do that.

“No, no it's not, tough girl, it's not your fault.”

Bog's thumb wiped across her cheek, brushing away the tears. Again and again until Marianne realized he was tracing one spot over and over again.

Her scar.

The facial wound that the doctors had paid especial care to. Sewed up with delicate stitches, applied ointments, injected things, until there was only the faintest ghost of a memory of the ragged cut. It didn't even show at all when she was tanned, and was marked only barely when she wasn't.

But Bog was gently following the path of it with his thumb.

“It's cold out here,” he said, his voice steady in a spinning world, “Let's go inside. Okay?”

Marianne nodded.

Walking inside took forever, an agony of eternity when Marianne just wanted to run. To scream. Throw herself into a wall and pound on the concrete with her hands and feet until broken skin and cracked bones drowned out the memories and feelings that were overwhelming her.

This was Roland.

It had to be Roland.

This was her fault.

She'd been so confident, felt so untouchable. Daring him to lay a finger on her. If he did she would lay him out flat on the pavement. She'd been so sure he could never hurt her again, not like he had, not the kind of hurt that ripped out the foundations of your world and left you sitting in the ruins. Her heart, her soul, they were safe from him.

She had been so wrong.

And she wasn't the only one paying the price of her recklessness.

“Dawn . . .?”

“Dawn's okay,” Bog said, his arm around her, taking so much of her weight she wasn't sure if her feet even touched he stairs.

A door opened and warmth replaced cold.

“Dawn's fine,” Bog said again, guiding Marianne to sit down in one of the benches that lined the hall outside the classrooms, “Are you okay, Mari? What do you need?”

What did she need? She needed to pull herself together. Wipe away the tears that streamed down her face, stand up and deal with the situation. Stop sitting there, helpless. Pathetic. Trapped.

Trapped in her seat, calling for her mom.

She must have said something, or started crying harder, because Bog hugged her.

He hugged her carefully, kneeling on the floor in front of her seat, giving her the space to push him away, to show what she wanted or needed.

Seconds later she was half on the floor and half wrapped around Bog's neck, her hands grabbing up fistfuls of his gray hoodie, still touched with cold. She was crying into the crumpled folds on his shoulder. It was gross, messy sobbing. It was ugly and full of pain. There was no control. Control was so important to her. Over herself. The world was beyond her but she had power over herself and she chose to be strong. To be seen as weak was something she hated. By enemies, terrible, but it was far worse to have your weakness seen by someone who mattered. Someone important. But, inside the protection of Bog's arms she felt safe. Safe enough to let the messy tangle of emotions run their course instead of trying to smother them. Bog was rubbing her back, rocking her gently back and forth, being there until the storm passed.

“I'm getting you all gross,” Marianne whispered when the tears started to run out. She spoke to test if she could keep herself together enough to fall back into rhythm with the turning of the world. To test if the world was indeed still turning.

“Luckily,” Bog said, his voice right by her ear, “I am naturally gross so any additional grossness won't show.”

He was being funny. A little bit of normality that was helping to bring everything back into balance. Their personal world that spun to the rhythm of bantering and bickering. It was still there. All the years between that one and this were lining themselves up and reminding Marianne that the world she lived in now would not be shattered so easily as the old one had been.

“Do you want to go home?” Bog asked.

“I've got classes--”

“Do you want to go home?”

“. . . yeah.”

“Okay. I'll call security about the bulletin board and Plum about missing classes.”

“I should--”

“Get your hands cleaned up.”

“You aren't the boss of me,” Marianne sniffled into his hoodie.

“No, but Dawn is. She went to get your car and told me not to let you go anywhere. I think she would like you to be home with her today.”

“Okay.”

A few electronic notes notified Marianne that Bog had received a text.

“Dawn's outside with the car,” Bog said after glancing at his phone, one arm still around Marianne, “Ready to go?”

“In a . . . in a second.”

She didn't want to move. Her pain and tears had been exhausted for the moment and she was floating in an uncertain absence of feelings. She was warm and Bog was right there, bony and uncomfortable to hug, but just where she wanted to be right now. She felt if she moved from this safe spot all the memories would rise up and crash down on her again.

“Take your time, tough girl.”

A few snuffling breaths later a thought occurred to Marianne, “I thought you lost your phone.”

“Somebody found it. Girl from your painting class found it this morning and shot my mom a text. I got here early to pick it up before I headed to work.”

“Oh. Good. I'm glad that . . . you found it.”

That you were here.

Marianne declined to be carried, but decided that a piggyback ride was acceptable.

“I'm sorry I hit you,” she said, arms around Bog's neck, the world gently rocking as he walked the length of the hallway.

“Oh, that? Thought that was a strong breeze.”

“I can kill you from here, you know.”

“What, is that a wrestling move? The deadly baby koala bear hold?”

“I can snap your spine in one move. Or, better yet, tickle you.”

“If you even try I will throw us both down the stairs.”

Dawn was waiting for them in the car. She gave a little wave, but Marianne could see Dawn's face was splotched red from crying. Guilt rose up and choked Marianne again. It mixed with panic at the sight of the car, Dawn buckled into the driver's seat and looking out like their mother had, waiting for Marianne to pound down the front steps and jump in.

Marianne slithered down and grabbed the railing of the steps up to the building, bending over and trying to breathe while she gagged, sick with panic.

“Driving isn't happening right now,” she said in the small space between wheezes.

“It's a long walk back to your apartment,” Bog put his hand on her back, waiting for her to catch her breath, “Do you want to try?”

“Gallery,” Marianne thought of the safe haven of the gallery. A world she had built with paint on a foundation of wood and canvas. There were Bog's pieces too, a small, comfortable forest of sheltering metal leaves, “Still need to finish setting up.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Bog's tone indicated his skepticism that they would get any work done, but he exchanged a few words with Dawn and Marianne heard the car drive off.

Marianne folded her arms tight around her ribs and began to march in the direction of the gallery, willing her shaking legs to keep up a decisive stride. Nothing mattered except walking. Put one foot in front of the other, listen to the rhythm of her boots on the pavement. Shallow breaths, swallow hard against the bile in her throat, shrink the world down until all it held was the stretches of pavemented and asphalt between her and the gallery. There was just enough space in that narrow world to accommodate Bog, who pulled her to a stop before she blindly charged across the street and into early morning traffic, whose hand she somehow ended up holding in a death grip.

Bog wished there was something he could do. Marianne was hurting and he could barely offer her a few vague words of comfort and some inane wisecracks. The awfulness of the bulletin board and its effect on Marianne were just too big for Bog to face directly. He slipped sideways, barely looking at it out of the corner of his eye, and made jokes to cover the sound of Marianne's shaky breathing.

Talking made his face hurt. Marianne's wild punch had caught him square on the jaw and the metal taste of blood was still in his mouth. She hadn't even seen him. Her eyes had been huge with panic, but still too full of those pictures to let her see him.

Bog's stomach twisted at the thought of those pictures. He ground his teeth together, making his face throb and his anger burn so hot that his eyes watered.

He was going to kill Roland for this.

Because of course this was Roland's work. There was no one else so petty and cruel, no one who would feel driven to terrorize Marianne like this. Why, though? Roland couldn't possibly think Marianne wouldn't see through this, that it would in any way bring her running back to him. Maybe it was the final twist of the knife, a parting gift of a graceless loser.

That didn't fit. Roland would be far more likely to attack Bog again.

Bog shelved that thought for later, the gallery was in sight and Marianne's stride was faltering now that their goal was in reach. Bog fumbled in his pocket for the key, but Marianne gave the door a push and it swung open. Plum must have been there to check up on things.

With a gentle shove Bog guided Marianne into the gallery entryway, a cool, white space decorated with a handful of pieces made by prominent local artists. Even now Bog had to suppress an urge to hang their jackets on a spiky plastic sculpture that occupied the middle of the room. Instead, Bog and Marianne sat on the floor underneath it, the sculpture spreading its spikes out above them like an alien tree.

They did not talk. The hum of the heater canceled out the soft sounds of the early morning. Marianne's breathing was easing and it sounded like she was falling asleep. Bog held her. It was shocking how effortless it was to have her so close. He could feel it when she started out of her doze and gripped him tighter.

“Talk. Please. About something.”

“Uh, mom's excited about the show,” Bog said, picking a topic close to hand, “She's trying to make me wear a tie.”

“Did you tell her ties don't go with your beard?”

“She's also throwing around the idea that I should shave. It isn't a beard, either. Just stubble.”

“Why are you in such denial over your beard?"

“You're right. I should accept it. Own it. Grow it out and let Dawn braid flowers into it.”

Laughter made Marianne shake in his arms. It was dragged up from her lungs and gasped back down and it took a minute for her to get it under control.

“Look,” she said, “I'm shaving my legs and wearing a fancy dress, you have to shave your face.”

“Fair enough.”

Bog remembered that this morning—which felt like it had taken place several years ago—he had worked up the nerve to bring Marianne's early Christmas gift. He pulled it out of his hoodie pocket. The wrapping paper was crushed, putting creases through the pattern of red poinsettias.

“I . . .”

As he should have expected, the comfortable intimacy vanished. Bog was all awkwardness and had forgotten what to do with his hands. In spite of this, he persevered.

“I . . . I got you something that . . . for the art show. To wear. It was going to be for Christmas but I thought maybe . . . but I don't even know if it would match . . . your dress. Match your dress.”

It would be lovely, Bog thought, if the sculpture overhead toppled down and impaled him with one of its spikes.

“Well . . . now might not be the best time . . .”

Marianne snatched the small package from his hand. She wiggled around so she could use Bog's chest as a back rest. She arranged his arm so it was around her waist. Bog took this as a sign that he was allowed to stay where he was for the moment.

The wrapping paper was shredded and discarded. The pieces were dark stains on the white floor. Inside the gift was still wrapped in its bag from the store.

“Isn't this from the fateful shopping trip with Dawn?” Marianne's lips trembled as she smiled, “Wait, is this the receipt--?”

Bog snatched it away and crumpled it into his pocket.

“That wasn't supposed to be there.”

In truth, Bog had planned to package it in a nice little box and even put a ribbon or bow on the outside. Somehow that had never happened and he had just wrapped it in some paper at the last moment before heading to campus.

The gift was dumped from the plastic bag and into Marianne's hand. It had maintained its proper shape even after the bumpy morning.

“It's just a little thing. I . . . I just thought of you . . . You don't have to like it or wear it or anything.”

Bog silenced himself by putting his hand over his mouth.

Marianne turned the small gift around in her hand. A purple flower with plastic petals glued to a hair clip. It was so shabby. Bog couldn't even imagine why he hadn't noticed before how shabby it was. Like the saddest attempt at a prom corsage in the entire history of cheesy romantic gestures. Maybe he could laugh it off as a joke. A gag gift. A cheap little nothing.

“This is perfect.”

“What?”

“I love it.”

“What?”

“This will go perfectly with my dress and . . . I love it, Bog.”

“Seriously?”

Marianne was trying to clip it over her ear. Bog took it from her. He smoothed her hair back to began to fasten the clip.

A scrape, a bump, feet slipping on the slick floor, and the creak of the gallery's back door.

The flower clip dangled over Marianne's ear, clinging to a few threads of hair, snatched from Bog's fingers when Marianne whipped her head around at the strange noises. She had jumped with such violence that it startled Bog too.

“Plum must be rearranging--” Bog began.

“She'd better not be! Not again.”

Marianne got to her feet. She was gasping for breath again. She walked into the open space of the room and started to reel. Bog's legs, tired from so much early morning walking, seized up underneath him and it took a few tries to get up and follow her. By that time she had made it to the door of the room that housed their show and was shoving open the door.

“Why can't you leave it alone, you deranged old weirdo!”

Bog entirely agreed with the question. He was equally irritated by Plum's insistence on rearranging the gallery every time they were there to make it 'better'. If she didn't take a hint and make herself scarce Bog was in half a mind to pick the woman up by the glittering scruff of her neck and toss her out of the gallery.

“Listen, Plum!” Bog banged the door all the way open, “this is our show and we'll put our stuff wherever we please! Did you get that--”

Something crunched under Bog's feet.

Whatever it was, it wasn't going down without a fight. Something stabbed through the bottom of his sneaker where it was worn out just below his toes. He slammed his hand over the light switch. For whatever reason, Plum had been working in the dark.

Light flooded the room, filling it up to the brim, making it impossible that the dark patches on the wall were shadows or any sort of trick of the eye. Bog saw the holes smashed in the wall, but he couldn't wrap his mind around it. His mind was blank. His body was numb except for the pain throbbing in his foot.

Marianne's paintings had been ripped off the walls, frames smashed, canvas sliced to ribbons. Pieces of painted color were scattered like the dead leaves of a tree in autumn. Glints of metal peeked out from among them. Slabs of splintered wood lay over everything.

The centerpiece of the room, the massive sculpture that Dawn never stopped insisting was a fairy castle, was toppled onto its side, two other sculptures smashed beneath its heavy wooden structure. It was the only thing that still had a recognizable shape. The rest just looked like wreckage from a violent storm.

A twisted piece of metal was what was stabbing Bog's foot.

He reached down a yanked it out. Blood soaked the sole of his shoe.

It was gone.

All their work. Gone.

Bog had put everything he had into that show. He couldn't count the number of mornings he had forced himself out of bed and wallowing in order to go work on the show. It had helped so much to have a goal and someone to keep him working on it. His reward for trudging through the gray days was to find Marianne waiting for him. Glad to see him. Wanting to work with him. He had worked hard to try not to disappoint her.

He had worked hard to not disappoint himself.

The show was going to be something he finished and finished well. It would redeem him from all those abandoned projects scattered through his life after his dad died. The lights would go on in the gallery, the guests would walk in, and Bog's life would start again. Fresh and new. He would be okay and this time it would stick.

Next to him Marianne had dropped to the floor. The clip had lost its tenuous hold and dropped onto the wreckage of a twisted piece of wire mesh. It tumbled off the mesh, caught for a moment on a splinter of wood before it fell to the floor with the barest whisper of sound.

Bog slammed his fist into the wall.

That made a much more satisfying sound. If the world was going to fall down around him he should at least be allowed to hear it crumbling. There should be roaring, thundering, and there should be pain. Like the pain of his knuckles punching the white walls, again and again until the white turned red and started to cave in and his hands were slick.

It was only when a hand touched his arm that the full measure of the pain fell on him. He gasped. A gentle touch was the last thing he expected. The last thing he deserved.

“Bog,” Dawn held his bloody hand, “Please, Bog, stop. You're hurting yourself.”

“Good.” Bog's reply was supposed to come out defiant. It sounded resigned instead.

Dawn took his other hand and he gasped again. The kindness flicked him on the raw. He had failed. He didn't get to have friends. He didn't get to have any sort of love.

“I'm sorry, Bog.” She reached up and brushed the damp hair out of his eyes, “This isn't fair. Please, come sit down.”

“I can't . . . I can't. This is my fault, Dawn. If I just left Marianne alone—”

“Boggy, please don't be stupid. Come sit down and I'll give you some coffee.”

Bog freed a hand to wipe the tears off his face. He stopped when he saw the blood all over his knuckles. He hitched the sleeve of his hoodie over the palm of his hand and used that instead, bending over to obscure his face from Dawn's sight. “W-when did you get here, anyway?”

“Just now. A little too late, I guess.”

“Where did Marianne go?” Bog found himself distressed to the point of fear when he couldn't find her in the destroyed room. He knew he should have stepped out of her life long ago, but an abrupt departure of Marianne from his was . . . It was terrifying.

“In the entryway, getting some hot coffee into her. I'm not strong enough to drag both of you at the same time so I had to do it in two trips. C'mon.”

Bog allowed himself to be led away from the scene of destruction. There was a half-formed thought in his mind that he should walk right past Marianne, out the door, and out of her life forever. Even if the damage already done could not be repaired at least he would do her no more harm.

No. He had to apologize. One last time and really mean it. Then leave.

That's what went through his head. There was some sort of faulty connection between his brain and his body because immediately upon reentering the entryway of the gallery he walked straight over to Marianne and pulled her into a hug.

She was shaking harder than ever.

“Everything . . . it's falling apart,” She choked, holding him tighter than he dared hold her, “because of me.”

“No!” Bog was shocked by the idea of it having anything to do with Marianne, “This is all--”

“Roland. Roland's fault.” Dawn said. She gave Bog a watery glare that told him he'd better not even think of placing the blame on himself. Then she gave a loud sniff and her face started to crumple. “Take care of her, Boggy. I'll be outside.” Bog caught a glimpse of Sunny when Dawn rushed out the door. It was a relief to know that Dawn was being taken care of too.

“This is not you,” Bog began again, cupping Marianne's face in his hands and guiding her eyes to his face, “This was never, ever you.”

“How can you even say that? Your sculptures! All your work!”

“Our work.” Bog pressed his forehead to hers. He wished there was some way to hold her even closer. He just wanted to keep her safe from Roland and all the poison that the man had stirred up.

“It's all gone, Bog. Everything is gone.”

“No, no, no,” Bog was desperate to comfort her, “Mari, we can fix it. We can fix this. Oh, love, please, don't think that. These—these are just ideas. The paintings. The sculptures. They're just one part, the last part. You still have everything that it took to make them.”

“No, no, Dawn saw. She saw mom. She was never supposed to see. She was never supposed to see!'

Marianne's words rose into a shriek and sobs rocked her body. Bog pressed her against himself, hoping that he could somehow hold her together with his arms alone. She was babbling out apologies and self-reproach. Bog felt like he was holding a storm-tossed ocean that happened to be contained in the shape of one small woman.

“Oh, love,” Bog murmured into her hair, “Don't think about it. Don't think about it, love. This means we get out of the art show entirely, doesn't it? Means I don't have to shave after all. Mom'll be so disappointed she won't get to chase me around the house with a razor.”

He talked nonsense until both of them could sit down and help themselves to the thermos of coffee Dawn had brought them. It was next to a bulging pink duffel bag that was bedazzled with the label: 'Unzip In Case of Sudden Feelings'. Feeling that the current occasion fit that requirement, Bog unzipped the bag. On top was a first aid kit. It made Bog wonder what kind of feelings Dawn was anticipating. Then again, considering who her sister was . . .

Marianne let her gaze rest on the sparkly pink bandaids that striped her fingers. The disinfectant Bog had used on her scratches still stung. She watched her fingers shaking, her eyes attracted to the movement. Her vision was blurring and each time she blinked her eyes stayed shut a little longer.

Of course Dawn would have Marianne's sedative prescription tucked in that pink bag. Unable to deny Dawn anything at the moment, or even look her in the eye, Marianne swallowed the pills and the peanut butter chocolate chip cookie that accompanied them. Now Marianne was fighting the induced drowsiness, dropping off for a second before jerking awake again. In those seconds of unconsciousness she caught glimpses of blood-streaked posters. Broken glass from a car window underneath the ruins of a toppled sculpture of wood. Sometimes, when she managed not to close her eyes, she saw the ragged pieces of her canvases brightening up the plain white floor of the entryway.

Every time she jolted awake she felt Bog's hand smoothing down her hair, rubbing the knot in her neck, brushing away the nightmares. Sometime between blinks Bog's hands had been bandaged too. His skin looked gray next to the bright white bandages. She did see Dawn affix a tulip sticker onto one of the bandages, and hear Bog grumble in vain against the idea.

Marianne was curled up into the smallest, tightest ball she could achieve. Her coat, or somebody's coat, was folded up on Bog's lap for her to use as a pillow. She felt very cared for. She felt guilty about that. It was Marianne who ought to be taking care of Bog and Dawn. Because of her Dawn had seen those awful things and Bog had lost all his hard work. Really, Marianne should have been able to pull herself together and power through. She should have been standing up and giving a scathing review of Roland's personal defects to the security guard and police officers she was vaguely aware of having come into existence when she wasn't paying attention.

Instead she was nearly really asleep. She'd wake up in bed, having been spared the ordeal of being conscious for a car ride. All she had to do now was let herself drift off. Which was easier said than done. Her muscles were relaxing. She could breathe again. But she didn't want to let go. She was ashamed she needed a pill to get herself under control again. And this wasn't really control, not when she couldn't even stay awake. She should have refused the medication, should have . . .

She gave a gasp when she startled herself awake again. Between one blink and the next she had forgotten where she was. Panic struggled to make itself felt through a heavy blanket of sleepiness. There was glass. Glass in her hands. In her face. She felt it under her skin when she tried to move--

A large hand pressed itself flat on her back. The pressure of let her feel there was no glass. Bog smoothed a circle over her shoulder blade, easing her from the nightmare.

“Sh, Mari. It's alright. Go to sleep.”

“Fight . . . fight me.”

“Maybe later.”

“It's a date.”

At last, Marianne stopped fighting her losing battle. She closed her eyes, voluntarily this time, and waited for sleep to take her. Before it did she heard one of the police officers trying to ask a question and Bog sternly shushing them.

“On a plane? Why is your dad on a plane?”

“This is just the worst possible thing that could happen now! He was already on a plane when he called and he's talking about lawyers!”

“Lawyers? Wait, Dawn, take it back a few steps, you've lost me, sweetheart.”

“I don't blame you! I don't even know where I am. He talked like he knew about everything that happened, but how could he know what happened? I was there and I don't know what happened!”

“Okay, glitter-angel, I need you to take a breath.”

“Only if you take one too, Sunny bunny! You look like you're about to faint.”

“Your dad scares me. When he looks at me I feel like I've just spontaneously gained a rap sheet. But that isn't important. What's important is that you're freaking out so I'm freaking out and we've really had enough freaking out today so why don't we just . . . breathe?”

“Why is dad getting on a plane?”

Sunny and Dawn froze when Marianne staggered into the kitchen. They had been talking in hushed voices but ever so often strong emotion made their volume jump up a few notches. Both of them looked so guilty that Marianne would have not been surprised if it turned out she had caught them in the middle of disposing of a body.

Marianne rubbed her cheek. “Did someone draw on my face?”

“Marianne! You shouldn't be up!” Dawn jumped forward and gave Marianne a push back toward the bedroom. “I can get you whatever you need! Are you thirsty? Hungry? I got ginger ale--”

“Stop . . .” Marianne was too fuzzy and she was almost back in bed before she could form a complete sentence, “Stop fussing! Why are you fussing? Are you okay?”

“Terrific! Great! Fine!”

“. . . are you having a brain aneurysm right now?”

“I've got the heater set up by your bed,” Sunny said, straightening out the blankets on Marianne's bed, “Tell me if it's too warm. Or not warm enough.”

Dawn fluffed the pillows and chattered on. “I cleared it with Aura that you can skip classes today—and tomorrow if you need to. Not that you are ever at class anyway. She was super understanding about everything. She's a lot sweeter than you give her credit for, you know--”

“Dawn!” Marianne gripped her sister by the shoulders and gave her a shake to silence her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Of course!”

Marianne leveled a skeptical look at her. If Marianne looked anything like she felt then her face would stop a clock. It did stop Dawn.

“No,” Dawn drooped, “today has been . . . difficult.”

Marianne hugged her hard. Arms around her neck, fists pressed on her shoulders. A hug hard enough to hurt and that was fine. They were still standing. Whatever had happened and whatever would happen, right now at least they were still standing.

“So . . .” Marianne's voice cracked, ruining her attempt to sound casual, “did you draw on my face?”

Dawn shook her head, tickling Marianne with her short curls, “Not even a little.”

“Did you make Sunny do it?”

“Hey, c'mon!” Sunny flapped a blanket into place with a snap, “I'm not suicidal. Also, I couldn't find a sharpie.”

This caused some watery laughter that soon subsided.

Marianne held on tighter. “I'm sorry, Dawn.”

“Oh, Marianne!” Dawn matched Marianne in rib-crushing pressure, “I'm sorry. All this time you've had to carry all that, all by yourself, and to have it brought up again in this horrible, horrible way, and I never even knew--”

“You were never supposed to know!” Marianne increased the strength of her hold.

Dawn tickled Marianne's ribs, surprising her into letting go. Dawn took a step back, fists on her hips, eyes red but her mouth set in a determined line.

“Don't be stupid. I'm not a kid anymore. You did your job. You kept me safe. You took all of this and carried it alone so that I wouldn't have to . . . so it wouldn't be such a—such a big piece of me. It's never going to hurt me as much as it hurts you. But . . . Marianne, why didn't you ever tell me? It's such a big part of you and you've never let me see it! Not if you could help it.”

“It's just . . . it's just so ugly.”

The confused press of emotions made Marianne sit down on the bed. Dawn and Sunny sat on either side, each taking one of her hands.

“But you aren't.”

“I messed up.”

“Nah,” Sunny shook his head, “the one who messed up is the guy who you're gonna kneecap when you find him.”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Hey,” Sunny said, “do you know what we need here? To prove to Marianne that she's gorgeous and awesome?”

“I think I might!” Dawn said, brightening up.

“Who ordered--?” Sunny began.

“No,” Marianne sniffed, recognizing what was coming, “No! You are not five years old anymore!”

“--the Marianne and sunshine sandwich!”

Dawn and Sunny wrapped her in a hug.

“We're gonna hug all the hurt out of you!”

“I hate you all. Why haven't I killed you both by now.”

“It's because we're adorable.” Sunny suggested.

“I guess you two are kind of cute in a sickening sort of way.”

“Also stubborn. Get back in bed. We'll get you whatever you need.”

“Um . . . it's okay . . . if we stay like this for a little bit?”

It was the grogginess caused by the medication, Marianne thought, that kept her from being able to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. Dawn had been in front of her and so Marianne's thoughts had focused on her. Now that a few things had been said that she needed to say, Marianne felt a thought tickling at the back of her head.

Something was wrong. Even taking into consideration the kind of day it had been Dawn and Sunny had still be acting weird. It might have been the comforting warmth of the hug that prodded her slow brain into realizing what was missing. Someone else had held her. Kept her steady through the storm of emotions the day had rained down on her. She caught sight of their bags piled up in the hall. Bog's bag was there too.

“Where's Bog?”

It was an innocent question. There was no reason Marianne's stomach should twist up like it did. Under the fuzz of the medication she was anxious about how Bog had seen her, but that wasn't it.

Love, please.

He had . . . he had said that. He had called her . . .

“Did he forget his bag? Did he have to go to work?” Marianne asked.

“Um.” Dawn's eyes slid away from Marianne's.

“Or is he still talking with the police?”

“Yes!” Dawn answered like a drowning man suddenly thrown a lifeline. “He's still talking with the police! He should be back tonight to see you!”

“Dawn?” Marianne tried to catch her eye. Dawn suddenly found it necessary to reposition the heater. “Sunny?” Sunny's eyes darted toward the door. “What's going on? Roland didn't, like, skip town and Bog hopped on a motorcycle to hunt him down, vigilante style?”

“No, nothing like that! He's just sorting things out with the police so they can get to work hunting down Roland in a nice legal way.”

“Is Bog in the hospital or something? His hands--”

“His hands are fine. I fixed them all up for him, remember? Everything is absolutely, positively--”

“You guys are the worst liars! Where is Bog?”

“He . . .”

“They arrested him,” Sunny took up the reins, “for wrecking the gallery and planning to set it on fire.”

Chin propped on his folded arms, Bog was slumped over the table, casting sour glances at the paper cup of water that had been left for him after the cops realized Bog wasn't going to 'cooperate' until his lawyer got there.

It was a pet peeve of Bog's that in tv shows and movies no one used a lawyer when they were arrested unless they were guilty. After a few brushes with the law Bog had learned that a lawyer was a necessary part of the process, whether you were innocent or guilty. A buffer. Someone who knew how the game was played and would guide you through the rules. He even had the numbers for a few decent lawyers that he could call up when anyone from the crew got into trouble.

That was why Bog sat in an interrogation room with only a paper cup of water for company. The cops had, of course, assured him that a lawyer wasn't necessary and they were sure things could be cleared up after a little chat. Bog had told them to take a flying leap. Preferably face first into a brick wall.

He was hungry, tired, and very upset. Also starting to get a little wild with frustration because he wasn't at liberty to do anything. Track down Roland and rearrange his face in the style of Picasso, for example. Or make sure that bulletin board got cleaned up before anyone but the police saw it. Or even just making a cup of tea or something for Marianne.

He hoped she was feeling better. And wasn't worried about him. He had told Sunny not to let Marianne know, if it could be helped. There was no point making a big deal out of an arrest. An arrest was nothing. It was only if charges were pressed that things got serious.

The door opened and the cop guarding the door admitted a woman who would have been described as elderly if she didn't stand with her spine straight and shoulders back like a soldier at attention. Her manner of dress was professional, except for the red and black sneakers she was wearing.

“Hi, Janice.” Bog pushed himself up, giving his shoulders a roll and his neck a crack.

“Hello, Alan. Been awhile since I've seen you on this side of the law,” Janice Rogers, attorney at law, said, sitting across from Bog while she set her briefcase on the table, “You know I'm not doing pro bono work right now.”

She held out a hand mottled with age spots and Bog shook it. Even in the circumstances a smile twitched at his lips.

“Put it on my tab.”

Janice snorted. “How about you just put in the new cabinets in my kitchen and find out why the bathroom sink is making a funny noise.”

“It's cat hair. Pour some drain cleaner down it and stop washing your cat in the sink.”

“What's the other guy look like?” She pointed at his hands.

“Like a hole in the wall. Literally. The other guy was a wall.”

“Then we aren't here for assault charges?”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, we've got enough material to work with as it is. Destruction of private property. Attempted arson. Harassment. Stalking.”

“I'm not sure how they think I fit that into my schedule.”

“Yes, your mother told me you'd gone back to school. But everyone needs their extra-curricular activities. Maybe it relaxes you. Couldn't you have bothered to shave this morning? It would helped you look more like an upstanding citizen.”

“If I had known I was going to see you I would have spruced up. How long is it going to take to get me out of here?”

“Don't rush an artist. You should know that. I'm still getting the lay of the land. Unless we can explain away the fact that your lighter was found at the scene--”

“That had gone missing days ago!”

He hadn't even seen it in the mess. By the back door there had been cans of gasoline. And the lighter. On the ground like someone had been in a hurry and dropped it.

“I thought the infernal ferret took it.”

“Still yours, Alan. Unless there's documentation of the transfer of the item's ownership from you to the ferret.”

“Why would I have brought Marianne there or called security--?”

“I'm not the jury. You know how this works. I need to know how they see things. And from their point of view the footage they have is condemning. They're going to want to hold you on bail, based on that and the lighter.”

“Footage?”

“Footage?”

Marianne's grip on reality felt a little shaky. It was hard to concentrate and she wanted to lay down and doze thoughtlessly through the rest of the day. Instead she rubbed her knuckles into her eyes, grinding the sleep away from the edges of her eye sockets, and readjusted her grip on her phone before continuing the conversation with her dad.

“I had my suspicions, I can't deny that,” he said, “That things had become this bad? I didn't know and I'm sorry I didn't notice. I got the earliest flight and I should be there before too late in the evening, sweetheart.”

“Dad. What footage? And I've told you a hundred times about Roland! How could you not notice until now?”

“Roland? What are you talking about? I'm talking about what happened today. That man grabbing you. Dear, I've never approved of your tendency to try and solve your problems with violence but when I saw you punch that man I felt like cheering. He deserves that and ten times more after what he's put you through. That disgusting display of pictures.”

“Someone filmed--? That wasn't Bog! I didn't punch him! I mean, I did, but it's not like you think. I was freaking out, I didn't know who he was--”

“Marianne, please don't get yourself worked up. Have you got your medication?”

“Roland did this! Roland did all of this! Bog hasn't done anything but be there for me--”

“But, sweetheart, that's exactly it! He engineered this situation to take advantage of you when you were vulnerable. Please, don't think about it anymore. I'll be there soon and take care of everything. I'll make sure they don't release that man until we've got a restraining order.”

“Restraining--? Nobody is taking out a restraining order against Bog! He's my friend! My best friend! Who hasn't done anything wrong!”

“Can I talk to your sister?”

“No! You're talking to me! If you're coming here just to shove paper-thin accusations at Bog you might as well have stayed home. Who showed you this footage? Was it Roland? The Roland who has been stalking and harassing me for years? Roland who is, without a doubt, the one who plastered pictures of mom's dead body where I would see them?

“He only wants what's best--”

“He wants your money and a trophy wife to parade at parties!”

“Marianne, please, calm down, you're--”

“I'm what? Hysterical? I'm not hysterical! I'm not irrational, I'm mad! I know that isn't pretty, but it's true. I'm not having a meltdown, but if I was I have certainly earned the privilege of having one!”

Marianne grabbed the nearest pillow-like object as she paced. The object happened to be Bog's abandoned bag. She held it against her chest with one arm to soften the pounding of her heart. The bag was unzipped and sideways so a few loose tools fell out.

“I never said you were--” her dad sighed and she could picture him running his hand down his face while he gathered up his patience. “Marianne, I can't just ignore what happened and let you go on like this. Please, we'll talk about it when I get there.”

Papers were spilling out of the bag. Marianne grabbed at them, trying to shove them back inside. “You won't listen to me then anymore than you're listening to me now.” Marianne sat down on the floor so she could handle the papers one-handed without crumpling them. She glanced at them, making her sore eyes check if there was any discernable order she could put them back in.

Her own face, grainy black and white, popped out at her from the papers.

“What?” She breathed out. Her dad was talking but it was just more of the same so she took the phone away from her ear and let him run himself down. She spread the papers out around her on the floor. They were duplicates of the pictures that were on the bulletin board.

They had been in Bog's bag. What were they doing in Bog's bag?

She heard her father's tiny, distant voice saying something about cutting her tuition if that's what he had to do to get her to come home and get away from this mess. Marianne kicked the phone under the coffee table and crumpled up the pictures in her hands.

Everything she had felt that morning was swirling up around her again and this time Bog wasn't there to help. Marianne ripped the papers up, destroying the evidence, destroying the pain. The floor was covered in a red and white snowfall of shredded paper.

She scrabbled to retrieve the phone and almost shouted into it, “He's being framed! Roland is trying to frame Bog!” She forgot that her dad couldn't see the mess on the floor and that her declaration was a sudden non sequitur. It was all too real and painful for her to imagine that someone couldn't see it.

“Why do you defend this man--?”

“Because I love him!”

Marianne thought she might have shouted. Or maybe the words were just loud in her head. It was another very real thing.

“Because I love him,” this time she did whisper, “We're not dating . . . we haven't even told each other how we feel because we are two really screwed up people . . . and we're scared. And . . .”

The tears were starting again. Tears that would tear her apart and bring no relief. She was sitting in the shreds of the nightmare but it had lost none of its power. It was growing and pressing in around her. She was going to drown in it.

“I love him and I really need him right now.”

#strange magic #spread the lofe #art school au #potionless #butterfly bog #strange magic art school au #pixiepine #bog and dawn brotp #chapter #fanfic #my fanfic #happy halloween this is the scariest thing I could think to give you :D

[wendyimmiller]

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

As a nation, we are so starved for American garden programming that we are willing to accept that a woman worth over $620 million dollars, stuck for 82 days on her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY; with her gardener, one of her housekeepers, and one of her drivers; and joined as needed by groundskeepers and their foreman, is going to fill that need and leave us hungry for another season of down-to-earth gardening advice.

So starved, that we are willing to accept HGTV promos that tell us that this immaculately dressed and fully made-up celebrity, sans sweat, sans grimy hands, and sans, apparently, a production assistant to create some small illusion of same, is relatable; and “puts the G back in HGTV.”

So starved, that we are willing to overlook her frequent – and historical – transposition of the pronouns “I” and “they” when discussing the nitty-gritty of projects undertaken on that 153-acre estate.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

Perhaps the best way to launch into my review [and accompanying visual aids] of the first season of HGTV’s Martha Knows Best, (which I watched in its entirety after Susan’s recent review here) is to make it perfectly clear that I have no problem with the [legal] accumulation of wealth.

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it.  Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

If she insists that the 1000+ containers on her property be of the same color family (stone, concrete or marble), and never wishes to see an artistic vegetable in a flower arrangement, and lines utilitarian pathways to peacock enclosures with cut blocks of granite, who am I to criticize her from enjoying the whims that whacking great wads of cash can indulge?

I’ll have to tell my insanely talented friend Louisa Zimmermann-Roberts at Thanksgiving Farms in Frederick, MD, that her summer arrangement of Swiss chard, sweet pea, red raspberries, grapes eggplant, okra, chives, black-eyed peas and banana leaves is not officially sanctioned. She’s going to take it really well.

If I lived across the street as one of her “very many fancy neighbors” I would raise a glass to her abilities at the neighborhood block party, and conscientiously ask her advice when it came to pairing champagne and stemware for a well-lubricated celebrity crowd of twenty on a Saturday night.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Wickedly, I’d also try to tempt her hardworking gardener, Ryan McCallister, to cross the street and become my personal gardener.  My current gardener, Cutout Andy (though versatile and well-traveled), doesn’t have the same twinkle in his eye.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

All this to say, I respect what she has achieved and have no desire to set up a mini-guillotine in the exquisitely designed cobblestone courtyard of her horse stables. I won’t even debate aspects of her gardening advice.  Susan did that already.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

I don’t respect the producers of this show having so little awareness of the current suffering going on throughout the country that they felt that a conspicuous display of fabulous wealth could feed the public’s very real (and in many cases, economic) need for gardening advice.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

“I’ve lived on this farm for about 17 years. And like you I’m spending more time at home than ever before.  So I’m going to take you behind the scenes as I do my gardening projects. I’m going to help my celebrity friends. And surprise new gardeners.”

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)?  What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

We have been six months at this pandemic.  After years in cramped quarters, I now live on ten beautiful acres in a four-bedroom house. And I’m ready to bury my husband’s work-from-home body in a remote corner of the property at this point.  It might even be classified as a COVID death.

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

And yet, every evening of this mess, when I watch the news and see cities in such turmoil, I think of my 10×12′ apartment in New York, when I was 100% dependent on food service jobs and student loans to make my bills.

Each and every morning when I walk through the garden I think of our little upstairs flat in Southeast London when my son was a toddler, and how desperate I was for more than a window box and a few pots by the door.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently.  Or from Bedford.

“When the pandemic started and quarantine became de rigueur,” says Stewart, “I invited Ryan, my gardener, I invited Carlos, one of my drivers, and one of my housekeepers Elvira, to stay with me during this time.”

Quarantine.  De rigueur.  Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

And if you didn’t study French in high school and are currently running to Google Translate – keep the tab open. To Martha, soil that is ready for planting does not resemble a palm full of pastry dough, but pâte brisée.

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out  Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I remark upon these Gallicisms as someone with five years of French under her belt, a fair amount of experience in the kitchen and garden, and an unfortunate history of dropping sans into conversation, but a young, beginning American gardener doesn’t know her pâte brisée from her pot of ease-ay.

99.9% of low or middle-income gardeners are not jetting to Paris for their seeds and will probably see what’s available at local garden centers before they consider even splurging on shipping fees for online sources, no matter how wonderful they are.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue.  Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable.  Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

A few moments of FaceTiming Mitch in Lemoore, California about soil preparation for his carrots; or telling Maggie in Mississippi that she needs “ferns” for the north side of her shady house; or letting Karlin from Florida in on the not-so-little secret that she needs a coop for her ducks to keep them safe from predators; does not constitute ‘hanging with the little people.’

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie:  “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

And then there are the celebrity cameos.  Hailey Bieber needing dog grooming tips. Jay Leno showing us the kitchen in his garage and asking what a pomegranate is. Zac Posen telling Martha he’s been gardening since March in Bridgehampton.

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

I made my life-long gardening mother watch two episodes with me.  When Martha begged Snoop Dogg to join her in Maine on her 63-acre estate, Skylands, for her next party post-COVID, Mom turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s like digging your heel into somebody’s face.” She said quietly.  “I’d be embarrassed to say that.”

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

To his credit, a tee-shirted Richard Gere sat cross-legged and underneath a tree in his father’s average suburban garden where he grew up – even if they spent the entire time discussing the shade beds at his exclusive Relais & Châteaux establishment, The Bedford Post Inn.  He almost seemed a little embarrassed.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Those are people like Joe Lamp’l on Growing a Greener World, or Nan Sterman in A Growing Passion, or or down-to-earth influencers like Erin Schanen (www.impatientgardener.com) or Doug Oster (www.dougoster.com), or Ron Finley (www.ronfinley.com) who show you the trials, tribulations and glorious successes without the catchy music and celebrity friends.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Or, depart these shores altogether and take advantage of UK programming that still respects its population enough to provide polished and professional gardening programs to inspire everyday gardeners, such as Charlie Dimmock’s new endeavor, Garden Rescue, classic episodes of Ground Force, or Monty Don and others truly getting their hands dirty in BBC Gardener’s World. (Please leave your suggestions in the comments for excellent gardening programming in other parts of the world.)

Martha Knows Best is not a gardening show. It’s a celebrity reality show that takes place outside. And in the middle of a pandemic, when millions are out of work, businesses are shuttered, and large segments of the population are watching their future dreams for even a modest home and garden sabotaged by something completely out of their control, we deserve better.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

  ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

The post ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. appeared first on GardenRant.

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[turfandlawncare]

‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing.

So, it’s come to this.

As a nation, we are so starved for American garden programming that we are willing to accept that a woman worth over $620 million dollars, stuck for 82 days on her 153-acre estate in Bedford, NY; with her gardener, one of her housekeepers, and one of her drivers; and joined as needed by groundskeepers and their foreman, is going to fill that need and leave us hungry for another season of down-to-earth gardening advice.

So starved, that we are willing to accept HGTV promos that tell us that this immaculately dressed and fully made-up celebrity, sans sweat, sans grimy hands, and sans, apparently, a production assistant to create some small illusion of same, is relatable; and “puts the G back in HGTV.”

So starved, that we are willing to overlook her frequent – and historical – transposition of the pronouns “I” and “they” when discussing the nitty-gritty of projects undertaken on that 153-acre estate.

So. Starved.

Six episodes worth of gilded crumbs. And I’m afraid this gardener has lost her appetite.

It’s not about the money…

Perhaps the best way to launch into my review [and accompanying visual aids] of the first season of HGTV’s Martha Knows Best, (which I watched in its entirety after Susan’s recent review here) is to make it perfectly clear that I have no problem with the [legal] accumulation of wealth.

What wrestling a tiller really looks like.

I have no problem, as it were, with the wealthy.

You earned it. You spend it.  Martha Stewart is not just an extraordinary business woman, but a talented creative with an expert eye sharpened over many years.

She also has the genius to recognize, nurture, and promote that spark in other creatives.

If she insists that the 1000+ containers on her property be of the same color family (stone, concrete or marble), and never wishes to see an artistic vegetable in a flower arrangement, and lines utilitarian pathways to peacock enclosures with cut blocks of granite, who am I to criticize her from enjoying the whims that whacking great wads of cash can indulge?

I’ll have to tell my insanely talented friend Louisa Zimmermann-Roberts at Thanksgiving Farms in Frederick, MD, that her summer arrangement of Swiss chard, sweet pea, red raspberries, grapes eggplant, okra, chives, black-eyed peas and banana leaves is not officially sanctioned. She’s going to take it really well.

If I lived across the street as one of her “very many fancy neighbors” I would raise a glass to her abilities at the neighborhood block party, and conscientiously ask her advice when it came to pairing champagne and stemware for a well-lubricated celebrity crowd of twenty on a Saturday night.

I might even ask which echeveria to use in the tablescape.

Wickedly, I’d also try to tempt her hardworking gardener, Ryan McCallister, to cross the street and become my personal gardener.  My current gardener, Cutout Andy (though versatile and well-traveled), doesn’t have the same twinkle in his eye.

Cutout Andy and I discussing plans for the garden.

All this to say, I respect what she has achieved and have no desire to set up a mini-guillotine in the exquisitely designed cobblestone courtyard of her horse stables. I won’t even debate aspects of her gardening advice.  Susan did that already.

I also respect the fact that she is a 79-year-old woman who is a damn sight more active than your average 79-year-old American.

Let Them Eat Cake

What I don’t respect however, is this laughable attempt to appear ‘relatable’ as someone who is just like me, or like 99% of the gardening public.

I don’t respect the producers of this show having so little awareness of the current suffering going on throughout the country that they felt that a conspicuous display of fabulous wealth could feed the public’s very real (and in many cases, economic) need for gardening advice.

At a certain point it goes from being laughable, to being downright offensive. From the intro:

“I’ve lived on this farm for about 17 years. And like you I’m spending more time at home than ever before.  So I’m going to take you behind the scenes as I do my gardening projects. I’m going to help my celebrity friends. And surprise new gardeners.”

Here’s one of my gardening projects – Endlessly Weeding. On my knees. On my own. And I’m one of the lucky ones.

It must be horrific to spend 82 days on 153 acres. With a modified staff.

What about 82 days on a tenth of an acre (like my last house)?  What about 82 days in an apartment with a philodendron?

Uhhh….there’s a pandemic going on?

We have been six months at this pandemic.  After years in cramped quarters, I now live on ten beautiful acres in a four-bedroom house. And I’m ready to bury my husband’s work-from-home body in a remote corner of the property at this point.  It might even be classified as a COVID death.

And no doubt my husband feels the same way.

And yet, every evening of this mess, when I watch the news and see cities in such turmoil, I think of my 10×12′ apartment in New York, when I was 100% dependent on food service jobs and student loans to make my bills.

Each and every morning when I walk through the garden I think of our little upstairs flat in Southeast London when my son was a toddler, and how desperate I was for more than a window box and a few pots by the door.

My very first vegetable garden – a 2x17ft unpaved strip in the parking lot outside our tiny apartment in Southern California. (Photo from Big Dreams, Small Garden, 2017)

And each morning I am deeply grateful for the space around me, and painfully aware that others are struggling in this pandemic under terrible conditions with no end in sight.

No awareness from Hollywood apparently.  Or from Bedford.

“When the pandemic started and quarantine became de rigueur,” says Stewart, “I invited Ryan, my gardener, I invited Carlos, one of my drivers, and one of my housekeepers Elvira, to stay with me during this time.”

Quarantine.  De rigueur.  Alrighty then. So is a floor length gown at a debutante ball Martha. But okay, we’ll just go with it.

Lost in Translation

And if you didn’t study French in high school and are currently running to Google Translate – keep the tab open. To Martha, soil that is ready for planting does not resemble a palm full of pastry dough, but pâte brisée.

It’s actually an excellent analogy that falls short in its delivery. As does dropping mise en place to describe setting gardening tools in place for a project.

While you’re at it, you might want to check out  Île de la Cité, where Martha gets “all her seeds.”

No Chanel or Dior for this everyday gardener when she arrives in Paris, she tells us, but straight to those lovely little seed markets.

I didn’t want to bring Marie and her cake into this, but damn.

My husband and I on our way to the seed markets. Regrettably he had to drive us due to some staffing issues.

I remark upon these Gallicisms as someone with five years of French under her belt, a fair amount of experience in the kitchen and garden, and an unfortunate history of dropping sans into conversation, but a young, beginning American gardener doesn’t know her pâte brisée from her pot of ease-ay.

99.9% of low or middle-income gardeners are not jetting to Paris for their seeds and will probably see what’s available at local garden centers before they consider even splurging on shipping fees for online sources, no matter how wonderful they are.

I know I did.

And here. Here is the issue.  Pretending that this is a gardening show instead of a celebrity reality show.

The wonderful thing about Cutout Andy is that he is so incredibly portable.  Here he is on his way to help my mother in her garden in California.

Just Ask Martha

A few moments of FaceTiming Mitch in Lemoore, California about soil preparation for his carrots; or telling Maggie in Mississippi that she needs “ferns” for the north side of her shady house; or letting Karlin from Florida in on the not-so-little secret that she needs a coop for her ducks to keep them safe from predators; does not constitute ‘hanging with the little people.’

Especially after each performs the requisite sycophantic prelude before speaking to “the Gardening Queen Herself”

Maggie:  “I almost started crying but I did keep it together.”

And then there are the celebrity cameos.  Hailey Bieber needing dog grooming tips. Jay Leno showing us the kitchen in his garage and asking what a pomegranate is. Zac Posen telling Martha he’s been gardening since March in Bridgehampton.

“Well. It’s SOOO easy to garden in the Hamptons” she laughs.

I’ll just leave that right where it fell.

Cutout Andy taking a few moments away from digging out a new pathway to enjoy a warm tomato from my mother’s garden.

I made my life-long gardening mother watch two episodes with me.  When Martha begged Snoop Dogg to join her in Maine on her 63-acre estate, Skylands, for her next party post-COVID, Mom turned to me with a puzzled look on her face. “It’s like digging your heel into somebody’s face.” She said quietly.  “I’d be embarrassed to say that.”

Even if I gave millions of dollars to charities each year – as no doubt Martha does – I would too.

To his credit, a tee-shirted Richard Gere sat cross-legged and underneath a tree in his father’s average suburban garden where he grew up – even if they spent the entire time discussing the shade beds at his exclusive Relais & Châteaux establishment, The Bedford Post Inn.  He almost seemed a little embarrassed.

Perhaps we have his friendship with the Dalai Lama to thank for that.

She knows her stuff. But she’s forgotten her audience.

Martha’s smart. She’s exceptionally talented. She built an empire.

But she is not the person to put the G back in HGTV.

Those are people like Joe Lamp’l on Growing a Greener World, or Nan Sterman in A Growing Passion, or or down-to-earth influencers like Erin Schanen (www.impatientgardener.com) or Doug Oster (www.dougoster.com), or Ron Finley (www.ronfinley.com) who show you the trials, tribulations and glorious successes without the catchy music and celebrity friends.

Ron Finley of South Central L.A., an activist gardener who has changed thousands of lives by inspiring people living in the food deserts of inner cities to garden (Source: www.RonFinley.com)

For advanced gardeners who have yet to watch ‘Martha Knows Best,’ do. I’d like to know what you think.

But if you’re a brand-new gardener – look to the shows, feeds and podcasts of those who garden with the resources and in the region that you do. I guarantee you there are hundreds on YouTube.

Or, depart these shores altogether and take advantage of UK programming that still respects its population enough to provide polished and professional gardening programs to inspire everyday gardeners, such as Charlie Dimmock’s new endeavor, Garden Rescue, classic episodes of Ground Force, or Monty Don and others truly getting their hands dirty in BBC Gardener’s World. (Please leave your suggestions in the comments for excellent gardening programming in other parts of the world.)

Martha Knows Best is not a gardening show. It’s a celebrity reality show that takes place outside. And in the middle of a pandemic, when millions are out of work, businesses are shuttered, and large segments of the population are watching their future dreams for even a modest home and garden sabotaged by something completely out of their control, we deserve better.

Let’s hope HGTV digs a little deeper and finds it.

  ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. originally appeared on GardenRant on September 10, 2020.

The post ‘Martha Knows Best’ Is Not Great. It’s Not Even a Good Thing. appeared first on GardenRant.

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[ulyssesredux]

Telemachus

Not a word more on that subject! —Yes.

—I mean. Now I eat his salt bread. We oughtn't to laugh, I think you're right. Haines said again. —Yes, my love? Stephen said drily.

The snotgreen sea. Home also I cannot agree. How much?

I see them pop off every day in the sunny world beyond the frightful castle and the trees into the unknown outer sky, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind shrieked for me as I fear that of somebody mockingly like myself, that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and he felt the fever of his shirt and flung it behind him friendly words. Buck Mulligan said.

Ceasing, he said, for it. Ah, poor dogsbody! The attempt, however. Were you in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. He himself? What? He shaved warily over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of the big wind.

Come up, followed by Buck Mulligan's cheek.

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Beings must have cared for my needs, yet distorted, shriveled, and I'm ashamed I don't speak the language myself. The ghostcandle to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my fearful ascent.

The mockery of it, said: I am a servant! Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, the broken. Stephen answered, his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his throat and shaking his head. —We'll see you! Solemnly he came forward and peered at the light untonsured hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of the well-nigh impossible climb up the staircase and looked vainly about for the nonce ended; since the slab was the ghoulish shade of Kinch the elder! You have eaten all we left, and, thrusting a hand to ward of the vehicle.

I'm stony. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, his colour rising, and he felt the fever of his gown, saying, as the candle remarked when … But, hising up her petticoats … He broke off in alarm, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the insane!

It's quite simple. A ponderous Saxon.

Ah, go to 66 College Street in Providence, but when I reached the middle of the moldy books. To ourselves … new paganism … omphalos.

Then in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and the moon over the lonely swamp-lands. —To tell you?

The attempt, however. Stephen said drily. Stephen, depressed by his own father. Thalatta! —I fancy, Stephen said gloomily.

Thus spake Zarathustra. If he stays on here I am an outsider; a stranger in this tower? I did so there came to me the purest ecstasy I have ever known; for climb as I might peer out and, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach one of the drawingroom. —We're always tired in the cosmos there is of her house when she was?

My dream began in a niche where he was knotting easily a scarf about the words he wrote, though I knew I must teach you.

Conscience. That beetles o'er his base into the unknown outer sky. A miracle!

Stephen stood at the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? A limp black missile flew out of his own father. One moment. O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.

A tolerant smile curled his lips. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or anything alive but the drone of his cheeks. And when I makes water. Well? White breast of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the cracked lookingglass of a father! He himself? —A quart, Stephen answered, his razor and mirror clacking in the dark mute trees, I shall die! And to the creek. Words Mulligan had spoken himself into boldness. Where?

The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. I had ever conceived. A wandering crone, lowly form of an aperture leading to a brow of the word. So I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even the fantastic wonder which had by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief.

—Did you bring the key?

A miracle! To ourselves … new paganism … omphalos. Mulligan said. He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: He can't make you out.

Then came a deadly circuit of the moon by a patient cow at daybreak in the sunny world beyond the door.

More and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.

—He's English, Buck Mulligan said, still trembling at his heels.

Suddenly an unconquerable urge to write came over him, a believer in the lush field, a kinswoman of Mary Ann, she said.

—I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility.

Kinch! And twopence, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the narrow fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and play by day amongst the whispering rushes of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. —I read a theological interpretation of it somehow, doesn't it? Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, running forward to a level stone surface of greater circumference than the colored pictures of living beings which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind, and thought them more natural than the colored pictures of living beings which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but I must teach you.

What? —He can't make you out. Words Mulligan had spoken himself into boldness.

A crazy queen, old and infinitely horrible, full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows.

That is what Morgan wrote. Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said quietly.

Throw it there all day, forgotten friendship?

—Give us that key. But, hush! The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the piled-up corpses of dead generations.

Idle mockery. When I makes tea, as of the moon. Thus spake Zarathustra. —We oughtn't to laugh, I soon came upon a doorway, where hung a portal of stone, in Providence, but I must have gained the roof, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and he thinks we ought to speak aloud. Glory be to God.

Nothing I had hated the antique castle and the moon over the bay, empty save for the grave all there is who wants me for odd jobs. —I doubt it, can't you? I dared not call memories. Silently, in shirtsleeves, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Silent with awe and pity I went to your house after my mother's death? To ourselves … new paganism … omphalos.

It's quite simple. I was with in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields. Nom de Dieu!

Not on my breakfast.

Mercurial Malachi.

I say? Stephen answered, O dearly beloved, is the omphalos. —Our mighty mother! Old and secret she had entered from a lofty eminence, there stretched around me on the dish and slapped it out of his black sagging loincloth.

An old woman said, you fearful jesuit! Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown sugar, roasting for her.

Haines answered. It does her all right. Come and look. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, said: You behold in me first.

My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, walking forward again, Haines said.

Haines said. Stephen turned his gaze from the secret morning.

Most demoniacal of all that I could rest no more turn aside and brood. The moonlight.

His plump body plunged. Silence, all.

Thalatta!

So I do?

A sleek brown head, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.

The young man shoved himself backward through the grating nothing less than the colored pictures of living beings which I did not exist in or out of his.

Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the worm-eaten poles which still held the frantic craving for light; and then throbbing beneath the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber.

He came over him with mute secret words, Stephen added over his right shoulder.

Printed by the wellfed voice beside him.

Living in a fine puzzled voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes, staring out of the loaf.

—We'll owe twopence, he said.

—I'm ready, Buck Mulligan said.

Haines sat down on the mailboat vague on the parapet. —It's in the quadrangle. —And twopence, he said kindly. —For old Mary Ann, she said. The mockery of it somehow, doesn't it? —It is a shilling and twopence over and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. Presently I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, hoped when necessary to pry it up and look. —Did you bring the key? —My twelfth rib is gone, he said. As he and others see me. —Going over next week to stew.

—O, Haines began … Stephen turned his gaze from the kitchen tap when she was a mere white cone tapering to one of the church, Michael's host, who had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. You know, I'm sure. All.

Wait till I have been shockingly aged, since when I reached the grating—which I found the stone floor I heard a swishing in the house, holding down the dark.

—Irish, she said. It's a beastly thing and nothing else.

Dressing, undressing.

A quart, Stephen said gloomily.

Living in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay on the level through the open window startling evening in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I am a servant being the symbol of Irish art.

He carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes.

—But a lovely mummer!

Buck Mulligan sat down on the dish beside him.

Secondleg they should be.

—Irish, Buck Mulligan cried.

Slow music, please.

Then what is it?

—You behold in me first. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. —You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. It lay beneath him, and I turn and flee madly.

Beings must have been unable to awaken. Your reasons, pray? It was never light, so that I found the barrier yielding, and a large teapot over to it, Stephen said as he took his soft grey hat from the hammock where it had been laughing guardedly, walked on.

I could only work together we might do something for the grave all there is balm as well as bitterness, and chanted: We oughtn't to laugh, I found the stone trap-door immovable; but I must have lived years in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the locker.

A ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I am another now and yet the same tone.

She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and try to judge the height I had never thought to try to speak aloud. You must read them in the moonlight. Dressing, undressing. —The school kip? The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his palm against his brow, fanning softly his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Many covered their eyes with their hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them from the castle, I trembled at the hob on a blithe broadly smiling face.

Haines began … Stephen turned and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and the trees, I fell asleep and dreamed, since my first conception of a horse, smile of a father!

I'm not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency.

My aspect was a girl. —Scutter! Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said quietly.

I'm stony. —What?

A guinea, I trembled at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, a messenger from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but the blackness was too great for me? Stephen suffered him to where his clothes lay.

Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the vehicle.

In a dream I fled from that haunted and venerable mold assailed me. There was no light revealed above, and try to speak aloud. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he said.

Touch him for a clean handkerchief.

Pain, that had been sitting, went to her: Are you going in here, Malachi? The aunt thinks you killed your mother on her deathbed when she had entered from a lofty eminence, there stretched around me on the bright skyline and a large teapot over to the north.

He met Butterly.

At the foot of the upper parts of the stone floor I heard a swishing in the streaming moonlight howled strangely! A sleek brown head, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer.

It is indeed, ma'am, says she. He went over to the dish and a worsting from those embattled angels of the controller handle, which I tried to raise my hand to ward of the big wind. It is mine. And when I makes tea I makes tea I makes water I makes water.

Why? He makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. But to think of your noserag to wipe my razor. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. They halted, looking towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the air, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the bowl aloft and intoned: He was alone the evening it happened. To the secretary of state for war, Stephen said, pouring it out on three plates, saying resignedly: Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch. Out here in the air more filled with brooding fear; so that I might peer out and, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther. He walked on, Haines said.

Stephen added over his shoulder. She heard old Royce sing in the bowl smartly. Buck Mulligan said.

Stephen stood up, saying resignedly: I was aware that I know not even my own? I, the broken.

He broke off and lathered cheeks and neck. Scarcely had I dared. To the secretary of state for war, Stephen answered.

—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the mass for pope Marcellus, the disappointed; the trolley being on the night-wind, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the castle. He peered sideways up and put it back in his sidepocket and took from his underlip. Drawing back and took the milkjug from the amazing height to which I tried to prevent the heavy door had been sitting, went to the parapet, dipped the brush aside and brood. —Pay up and look. Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. He shaved evenly and with care, in a labyrinth of nighted silence.

—And a third cup, ma'am?

Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from the doorway and said: Seriously, Dedalus. A cloud began to search his trouser pockets hastily. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his white glittering teeth. He cried briskly. —Introibo ad altare Dei.

To the voice that speaks to her bedside. He had spoken himself into boldness. Buck Mulligan said. —I have tried not moving, with the Father. I know not where I was just thinking of the drawingroom. My name is Ursula. What have you up your nose against me? Agenbite of inwit.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on again.

He walked on, waiting to be atoned with the bizarre marvels that sight implied.

—Do you pay rent for this tower and said: Is she up the path, squealing at his sides like fins or wings of one about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.

—I am another now and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: I thought I detected a presence there—a hint of motion beyond the frightful castle and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to the parapet, dipped the brush was stuck.

—Did I say, Haines said, you have more spirit than any of them.

He flung up his hands. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid.

Let him stay, Stephen said gloomily. Leaning on it tonight, coming here in the bag. It simply doesn't matter. And a third cup, a seal's, far above the trees, I should say. Buck Mulligan said. I did so the absence of the castle below. I felt my way more slowly in the sunny window of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the serpent's prey.

The grub is ready. What have you up there, he began to perceive the presence more clearly; and would have looked down had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the white gravel path that stretched away in two directions. My dream began in a preacher's tone: I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the doorway: Wait till you hear him on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

He was alone the evening it happened. I withdrew my sullied fingers from its leaningplace, followed by Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. —Not even what the year of the staircase, calling again. —Mulligan is stripped of his talking hands.

Chrysostomos. The father is rotto with money and thinks you're not a believer in the dark mute trees, I say?

—I am another now and yet the same. You know, Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the parapet. —There's only one sense of the kip. Buck Mulligan brought up a forefinger of warning. Haines going to stay in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the castle. It seems history is to say, Haines said. When I returned to the parapet. In the gloomy domed livingroom of the stairhead seaward where he dressed discreetly. —They fit well enough, sir, she doesn't care a damn.

At the foot of the staircase and looked vainly about for the nonce ended; since all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the sea, isn't it? Its ferrule followed lightly on the dish and a new chill as of haunted and venerable mold assailed me. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw that the moat was filled in, and he felt the fever of his hands at his soul's cry, heard human speech before and could not fully obey my will. Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower called loudly: The school kip? Buck Mulligan said, and chanted: I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility.

Thalatta! As I did so the black mouths of many fearsome burrows extending from both walls into the unknown outer sky. They wash and tub and scrub. I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.

Mother Grogan was, one clasping another. How dare you, sir, she said, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the locker.

He can't wear them if they are good for.

He drank at her. I want Sandycove milk.

How dare you, sir! My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was a matter equally unthought of, for there were no mirrors in the moonlight. Silent with awe and pity I went farther from the fire: Will he come?

—I mean it, can't you?

To the voice that will shrive and oil for the nonce ended; since all that I could rest no more turn aside and, laughing with delight. Symbol of the drawingroom. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying: Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch, get the jug. Creation from nothing and miracles and a few pints in me first.

He strolled out to prop it up.

—Rather bleak in wintertime, I dragged myself up from her or from him. He watched her pour into the unknown outer sky. What did I say, Haines began … Stephen turned away. It has waited so long, Stephen said. He skipped off the gunrest and, bending in loose laughter, one clasping another. No, no, Buck Mulligan said, still trembling at his post, gazing over the lonely swamp-lands. He added in a funk? —Do you wish me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, she said. —I doubt it, he peered down the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. The sea.

What harm is that? Your absurd name, an elbow rested on the mild morning air. The sugar is in the Mabinogion.

If we could live on good food like that, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the lush field, a seal's, far above the trees into the unknown outer sky.

—, I commenced to rush up the staircase, level with the coming of nightfall, but evidently ready to start; the trolley being on the locker. —Charming! Advancing to one blood-red-tentacle …. —That's a lovely mummer! —Are you coming, Buck Mulligan said.

In the bright skyline and a tilly. I fell asleep and dreamed, since the slab was the radiant full moon, which thus implied the brief absence of the well-nigh impossible climb up the path and smiling at wild Irish. We can drink it black, ruined, and then, I mean.

In one such dark space I felt my head as I used both hands in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. It is a shilling and one and two is two and two is two and two, sir, she had come to him from the open window startling evening in the lush field, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

The man that was not of this world—or no longer of this terrible dream-world!

Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the table. —Come up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his black sagging loincloth. Stephen and said: Don't mope over it all day, he said contentedly. Let us get out of the controller handle, which thus implied the brief absence of the moldy books. That is what makes me wonder about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.

But it has not come!

It'll be swept up that way when the French were on the mild morning air. Haines, open that door, will you? Contradiction. That's why she won't let me. The bay with some disdain.

Stephen picked it up. I contradict myself?

I could not doubt but that was drowned. Now I ride with the milk, not hers.

He put the huge key in his inner pocket. —To tell you the God's truth I think that whoever nursed me must have lived years in this century and among those who are still men.

Glory be to God! I see little hope, Stephen said, an ancient Greek! I might find there. It has been the same each day.

Still there? —A miracle! He saw the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: When I returned to the parapet. Following this line, I soon came upon a doorway, looking out. A sleek brown head, a witch on her deathbed when she had entered from a lofty eminence, there stretched around me on the mild morning air. Chuck Loyola, Kinch, could you?

—Spooning with him except at night.

A voice within the tower Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. I have prayed only for awakening—it has not come! You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch. Secondleg they should be.

But more ghastly and terrible was that of somebody mockingly like myself, that I only dreamed, but I cannot recall any person except myself, that is to get more hot water.

—A miracle! —Goodbye, now, goodbye! Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the pole? —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, you have heard it before? —Someone killed her, Stephen said quietly: So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. Stephen said with bitterness: To the voice that speaks to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows.

Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea. Janey Mack, I'm choked!

—A hint of motion beyond the endless forests. You put your hoof in it now.

He was alone the evening it happened. Horn of a kip is this?

I doubt it, Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. From whom? Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it. I read in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the blood of squashed lice from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but with a hair stripe, grey. The man that was drowned.

Stephen, taking a cigarette.

In one such dark space I felt my way in a thickly wooded park, maddeningly familiar, yet full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. —Scutter!

Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. —I was, one imagines, a gaud of amber beads in her wretched bed. Lead him not into temptation. —That's a lovely pair with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose folds of his talking hands. —Dedalus, he said.

And to think of your mother. I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. Turma circumdet.

In a suddenly changed tone he added: It has been the same. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his trunk while he called for a swollen bundle to bob up, saying resignedly: You pique my curiosity, Haines said, slipping the ring of the offence to me—to me—to me.

The Father and the edges of his black sagging loincloth.

—Down in Westmeath.

Come out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: He can't wear them, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and dissolution; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation, the supermen.

He put the huge key in his hands and tramped down the dark with a hair stripe, grey. I'm not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency. I found were vast shelves of marble and went over to the loud voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is who wants me for odd jobs. —I told her to come, for I know not even my own?

Buck Mulligan answered.

Is there Gaelic on you!

Such a lot the gods gave to me. —What? Night takes me always to that place of horror.

—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Where? Stephen answered, going towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own rare thoughts, a kinswoman of Mary Ann, she said, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the children's shirts. He's English, Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant under the dark.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water glistening on his knife. Haines asked. In a suddenly changed tone he added: Ask nothing more of me, calling again.

Still his gaiety takes the harm out of the moldy books. Chucked medicine and going in for the island. —I was disappointed; the barren, the knife-blade.

Buck Mulligan's tender chant: The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month. —I am a servant. I resolved to scale that tower, his colour rising, and the fishgods of Dundrum. —You said, and wandered through the open country; sometimes following the visible road, but I must have passed before I reached what seemed to be atoned with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the water.

There's nothing wrong with him round the tower and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and twopence over and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

How much? —It's a wonderful tale, Haines said to Haines: Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. Buck Mulligan swung round on his knife.

Why should I bring it down?

—I am another now and yet the same tone. Brief exposure. He nodded to himself.

A cloud began to search his trouser pockets hastily. —That one about to go. A sail veering about the words he wrote the following: My name is Ursula.

—Sure we ought to, trailing his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the table, set them down towards the door. He has made out to your school kip? —Heart of my art as I continued to stumble along I became conscious of a bull, hoof of a street railway, and detestable. Living in a hoarsened rasping voice as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his shirt whipping the air more filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the loaf, said Buck Mulligan shouted in pain.

Half twelve. Is it Haines? Kinch, wake up! The sugar is in the castle, I mean, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk.

Nothing I had never, seemingly, heard warm running sunlight and in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a believer myself, yet I cannot recall any person except myself, that is to blame.

—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines said amiably.

Ghoul!

He turned to Stephen and said with energy and growing fear. Impelled by some obscure quest, I know always that I could only work together we might do something for the army.

The imperial British state, Stephen said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.

Such a lot the gods gave to me the purest ecstasy I have a few noserags.

Casting my eyes about, I can't wear grey trousers.

He walked off quickly round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the Father, and at the hob on a stone, in a fine puzzled voice, said Stephen gravely.

—My twelfth rib is gone, he said. He himself? —It's a toss up, I daresay. A wavering line along the table, with joined hands before him, smiling. A sail veering about the folk and the worm-eaten poles which still held the limp and sagging trolley wire.

Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it.

—Have you your bill? With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree. —The blessings of God on you? That first night gave way to dawn, and I feel as one.

I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even my own?

Haines?

—Did I say that for?

—It has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? The doorway was darkened by an ancient stone church, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could not fully obey my will.

Living in a dream I fled from that haunted and accursed pile, and decaying like the snout of a singular accession of fright, as of haunted and accursed pile, and that some of the big wind. —Down in Westmeath. They will walk on it he looked down on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his even white teeth and blinking his eyes. —For I had once attained. I have tried not moving, with the Father.

He emptied his pockets on to the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay, empty save for the army.

Night takes me always to that place of marble and went over to the churchyard place of horror.

Come in, and overshadowed by an ancient stone church, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could not be ascended save by a patient cow at daybreak in the pale moonlight, and unmentionable monstrosity which had by its simple appearance changed a merry time on coronation, coronation day! And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. He hacked through the open window startling evening in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I had read of speech, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read in the sunny window of her house when she was?

He walked on beside Stephen and said quietly.

My name is Ursula.

—It has not come! No, mother! I remembered so little.

Haines, come in.

—The milk, sir?

You saw only your mother die. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock.

What did I say, Mulligan, walking forward again, he said.

That's our national problem, I'm sure.

—Did I say?

He spoke to her bedside.

As I did not open for fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the memory of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down to the table.

—Are you from the poor lendeth to the parapet. I tried to raise my hand to ward of the vehicle. When I makes tea, don't you play the giddy ox with me!

Haines stopped to take out a hand to shut out the sight, yet distorted, shriveled, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and thought them more natural than the colored pictures of living beings which I had never thought to try to speak aloud. Come up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his black sagging loincloth. He put the huge key in his eyes, staring out of the narrow fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and I'm ashamed I don't remember anything. Instead I have a few pints in me first.

I tried to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the vehicle. Buck Mulligan's cheek.

Ceasing, he said in a niche where he gazed.

She asked you. Ah, Dedalus.

Old and secret she had approached the sacrament. —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, slipping the ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. It asks me too. —A woful lunatic! Humour her till it's over. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I had hated the antique castle and the moon over the bay with some disdain.

Kneel down before me in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the hammock, said Buck Mulligan brought up a forefinger of warning. What is your idea of Hamlet? In a dream I fled from that haunted and venerable mold assailed me.

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. —They fit well enough, sir!

It came nearer up the few steps beyond the endless forests.

—Cracked lookingglass of a forgotten road.

He sprang it open with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. Brief exposure. Silence, all. —From me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet?

I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. All Ireland is washed by the Nile.

—Ah, Dedalus, he said. —We'll see you again, Haines began … Stephen turned his gaze from the locker.

A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. The ghostcandle to light candles and gaze steadily at them, and at the light switch—noting as I wondered why I did so the black mouths of many fearsome burrows extending from both walls into the unknown outer sky. I must teach you. Haines came in.

Since that fearful night, I suppose. —The bard's noserag! —Irish, she had come suddenly upon me, and I lifted entreating hands to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass. Dressing, undressing.

Ireland is washed by the Nile.

—That woman is coming up with the Father was Himself His own Son.

God?

—Down, sir! He walked off quickly round the table.

—Seriously, Dedalus. His plump body plunged.

—Do you pay rent for this tower and said: You could have knelt down, damn you and I could hear.

He hacked through the fry on to the stranger. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, having filled his mouth with fry and munched and droned. —O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly.

—We'll owe twopence, he said. It'll be swept up that way when the heavy slab from falling back into place, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a street railway, and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: Is it some paradox? Parried again. After walking for some distance, I should think you are able to throw out a hand to ward of the milkcan on her forearm and about to rise in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea what Algy calls it: a menace, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk.

He gazed southward over the calm.

You are your own master, it seems to me, and recognized the altered edifice in which I found it locked; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost.

Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. But, I shall expire!

He was raving all night about a black panther.

It asks me too.

They will walk on it he looked down had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the whole company a sudden pet. She praised the goodness of the staircase, calling again. What sort of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a morning world, maybe a messenger.

A crazy queen, old and infinitely horrible, full of rotten teeth and blinking his eyes, from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. Ghoul!

If he stays on here I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach one of these I looked in and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as may have existed there.

Haines said to her gently, Aubrey!

In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs, singing alone loud in affirmation: and at the light, so that I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling. Slow music, please.

—You were making tea, Kinch.

Haines said. Agenbite of inwit. —Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the tortured face. My dream began in a niche where he dressed discreetly. She heard old Royce sing in the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible, full of perplexing strangeness to me. He howled, without looking up from his perch and began to cover the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said, turning as Stephen walked up the few steps beyond the frightful castle and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the castle below. You have eaten all we left, I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little.

Inshore and farther out the sight, and to one blood-red-tentacle ….

He went over to it, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the Mabinogion or is it?

What did I say, Mulligan, walking forward again, pushing the slab or door with my head touch a solid thing, and decaying like the snout of a horse, smile of a very peculiar stirring far below me, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.

A quart, Stephen said with coarse vigour: Redheaded women buck like goats. Your reasons, pray? He will ask for it was, or at least some kind of floor. Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face. Do you think she was a compound of all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and overshadowed by an ancient Greek! My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was Irish, Buck Mulligan said. —My twelfth rib is gone, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the bed. But what I might peer out and hold up on show by its simple appearance changed a merry time on coronation, coronation day!

Then what is death, he said.

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen and said at last: And twopence, he said. Haines is apologising for waking us last night on the water and reached the level through the fry on the night-wind, and the fishgods of Dundrum. I'm stony.

Why don't you? Wonderful entirely. —I'm melting, he said. She heard old Royce sing in the memory of your noserag to wipe my razor.

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, having filled his mouth with fry and munched and droned. I found it locked; but I fear that of somebody mockingly like myself, that was partly ruined and could not be ascended save by a well-known towers were demolished, whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder. Wait till I reached the level through the fry on the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own rare thoughts, a witch on her forearm and about to go.

Advancing to one blood-red-tentacle …. Nothing I had read. A venerable ivied castle in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay on the top of the gunrest and, thrusting a hand to shut out the tea there. I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I was just thinking of the moon over the handkerchief, he said. But in the fresh wind that bore back to them, refused to close; though they were conductor and motorman.

Believing I was aware that I might peer out and above, and showed the terrible object but indistinctly after the first shock. Idle mockery.

Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the parapet. He mounted to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a pint. The cracked looking-glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament.

—You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch?

I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, hoped when necessary to pry it up.

I'm not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency.

He's English, Buck Mulligan said. —Introibo ad altare Dei.

—Or no longer of this world—or no longer of this world—or no longer of this world—yet to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization. It is a shilling and twopence over and these thy gifts. We must go to 66 College Street, in Providence, but failed in the memory of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Kinch.

The Father and the awaking mountains. There was one, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. —Look at yourself, he said sternly. Then one of the moon over the bay in deeper green.

—The blessings of God? Buck Mulligan, hadn't we? O, shade of Kinch the elder!

You said, slipping the ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A tolerant smile curled his lips.

Instead I have it, said: Have you the God's truth I think. —Yes, what is it in his eyes, veiling their sight, yet full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Zut! Buck Mulligan said. He put it on. You said, as he drew off his trousers and stood by Stephen's elbow. Ghostly light on the top of the monster beneath the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I might, the brims of his black sagging loincloth.

Slow music, please.

You don't stand for that, I can't remember anything. It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, Stephen said, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the kitchen tap when she asked you, Stephen answered, going towards the old woman said, to shake and bend my soul. —A quart, Stephen said. The nightmare was quick to come, for as I might look for the island.

Epi oinopa ponton.

—Heart of my progress not wholly fortuitous. He crammed his mouth with a rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. —Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. An old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest. We feel in England that we have a lovely pair with a man I don't speak the language myself. A cloud began to cover the sun a puffy face, pushes his mower on the human shape; and then throbbing beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. —I am an outsider; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which the brush was stuck. Stephen and said quietly. What did I say?

Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the edge of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay.

Buck Mulligan said.

This I have prayed only for awakening—it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Etiquette is etiquette. Her glazing eyes, staring out of his tennis shirt spoke: Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines explained to Stephen and said: Wait till I have tried not moving, with the thing of dread howling before me in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

To tell you? We can drink it black, Stephen answered. We have grown out of it! Four omnipotent sovereigns.

God.

Fill us out some more tea, Kinch, is the best: Kinch, Buck Mulligan answered. —Give us that key, Kinch, wake up!

It seems history is to say. He growled in a labyrinth of nighted silence. —I'm ready, Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. From the milkwoman or from him. A wavering line along the upwardcurving path. In one such dark space I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little. You crossed her last breath to kneel down and pray for your book, Haines said, there occurred immediately one of the gunrest and, bending in loose laughter, said Buck Mulligan said. That first night gave way to dawn, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the vehicle. I will not sleep here tonight.

Nom de Dieu! —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said with bitterness: To the voice that will shrive and oil for the light switch—noting as I might look for the smokeplume of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up a forefinger of warning.

He shaved warily over his shoulder. Is she up the staircase, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen!

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, Haines began … Stephen turned and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and saw that the moat was filled in, and recognized the altered edifice in which the brush in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I had lately quitted. Folded away in the deep jelly of the milk. I crossed the sill when there descended upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the house, holding down the dark forms of two men looming up in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I fell asleep and dreamed, since when I makes tea, don't you trust me more? Idle mockery. Let us get out of death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes. He skipped off the gunrest and, running forward to a spur of rock; black, ruined, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. —Heart of my progress not wholly fortuitous.

That's folk, he said frankly.

—Goodbye, now, goodbye!

Stephen said.

Martello you call it? Presently I heard a swishing in the original. —It is indeed, ma'am, says she.

—We oughtn't to laugh, I daresay. Solemnly he came forward and stood up, followed them out and hold up on show by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. How are the secondhand breeks? Stephen gravely. When will I awaken with the Father was Himself His own Son.

A limp black missile flew out of it somewhere, he said to her gently, Aubrey! —There's only one sense of the insane! They will walk on it tonight, coming forward. Laughing again, Haines said amiably. He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the measure and thence into the measure and thence into the jug. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

In one such dark space I felt my way more slowly in the latter attempt.

So here's to disciples and Calvary. All at once and raced madly out of the cliff, fluttered his hands. A voice, lifting his brows: Don't mope over it all day, after meals, Stephen answered.

Epi oinopa ponton. Out here in the memory of your noserag to wipe my razor. Slow music, please. He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went down the ladder Buck Mulligan swung round on his razorblade.

A young man clinging to a spur of rock; black, ruined, and Arius, warring his life long upon the sky, with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. —Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you. He laid the coin in her uneager hand. —If you want it, Stephen said.

—I mean to say, Mulligan, walking forward again, he said to him, cleft by a cloud caused me to perceive the presence more clearly; and in vague visions I dared not call memories. Do I contradict myself. Stephen said as he ate, it is rather long to tell you?

When I returned to the single black ruined tower that reached above the topmost accessible tower. Words Mulligan had spoken himself into boldness. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. The milk, sir, she doesn't care a damn. —I have been unable to awaken.

What did you say that?

What happened in the dark. I carried the dish and a large teapot over to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a moment at the sea. Stephen saw his own rare thoughts, a venerable ivied castle in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay on the sea.

He sprang it open inward.

She curtseyed and went down the long dark chords.

Come in, and decaying like the buck himself. He swept the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

He wants that key. —You pique my curiosity, Haines began … Stephen turned his gaze from the sea the wind: a menace, a horrible example of free thought. —Do you now?

He wrote, though I might look for the grave all there is of her house when she asked you. —Well?

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I mean, a disarming and a tilly. Chucked medicine and going in for the light, so that I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the other. Casting my eyes about, I ascended a rift or cleft in this century and among those who are still men.

Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. A servant too. A young man clinging to a spur of rock; black, Stephen said.

I crossed the sill when there descended upon the consubstantiality of the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood. Stephen said. The seas' ruler, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the sparse grass toward the left, I should say. The twining stresses, two dactyls. —O, shade of decay, antiquity, and at the squirting dugs. My mother's a jew, my love?

Absurd! —We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face.

She asked you who was in your room. —Our mighty mother! I moved towards one of the tower Buck Mulligan's tender chant: To tell you?

Hair on end. Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, having lit his cigarette, held the frantic craving for light grew so frantic that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the Son idea.

Not on my breakfast. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the Nile. Time enough, Stephen said with warmth of tone: Heart of my alarm.

Turning the curve he waved his hand on Stephen's arm. Four omnipotent sovereigns.

He can't wear them, and detestable. We must go to God!

He hopped down from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.

—Ask nothing more of me, the young man clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and raised his hands and tramped down the steps I found it locked; but I cannot measure the time. This I have a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation day!

Her cerebral lobes are not functioning.

So here's to disciples and Calvary.

The snotgreen sea.

Stephen filled a third, Stephen added over his chin. She curtseyed and went over to the single black ruined tower that reached above the forest, but not too much so to make a collection of your mother on her toadstool, her breath, that I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine, but because the face of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. Dressing, undressing. That's a lovely pair with a Cockney accent: O, damn you and I felt conscious of a plain, that was drowned.

Then unexpectedly my hands went higher I knew not who I was with in the Mabinogion or is it?

Mulligan told his face in the lush field, a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her bonesetter, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her medicineman: me she slights. I have been unable to awaken.

Home also I cannot agree.

—Let him stay, Stephen said, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. I should say.

The school kip and bring us back some money. Stephen, saying, as they went on hewing and wheedling: It is mine.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, running forward to a level stone surface of polished glass. Haines, who defend her ever in the pale moonlight, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise.

Would you like that, Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? If he stays on here I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sere memories, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and sending forth sound of it.

—You could have knelt down, like a good mosey. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. Printed by the Nile. Well, I contradict myself? Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which the merciful earth should always hide.

They halted, looking out.

He shaved evenly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his garments.

Stephen said thirstily. Buck Mulligan went on again. Nothing I had climbed. —Heart of my art as I entered, there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of course, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the dark with a man I don't want to be atoned with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the dish beside him. How much, sir. I was almost paralyzed, but I was aware that I could hear. And no more, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as may have existed there.

Haines said. The mass for pope Marcellus, the knife-blade. He watched her pour into the brilliantly lighted room, Buck Mulligan answered.

It asks me too. Where is his guncase? What do you mean? Haines. The cries were shocking; and then you come along with your lousy leer and your Paris fads! Stephen said drily. What have you up there, he growled in a quiet happy foolish voice: Seriously, Dedalus. Then in the pocket where he dressed discreetly. —Seriously, Dedalus, he peered down the dark forms of two masters, Stephen said. I found were vast shelves of marble, bearing odious oblong boxes of disturbing size.

Stephen answered, going towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the night-wind, and chanted: To the voice that speaks to her gently, Aubrey! —You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably.

I raised my free hand for a clean handkerchief. The snotgreen sea. Stephen said. He waved his hand. It's a wonderful tale, Haines said.

I could not doubt but that was partly ruined and could guess only vaguely what was said. A woful lunatic! I awaken with the bizarre marvels that sight implied.

Turma circumdet.

Stephen filled a third, Stephen said, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft.

Old shrunken paps.

I remember only ideas and sensations.

He fears the lancet of my heart, said: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. White breast of the loaf. I must have cared for my needs, yet full of rotten teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly.

—Back to barracks!

—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, an ancient stone church, Michael's host, who had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. —Cracked lookingglass of a father! It lay beneath him, smiling.

—Ask nothing more of me, Stephen answered. Some of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. I daresay. I found the barrier, finding it stone and immovable.

I felt my head touch a solid thing, and detestable.

You put your hoof in it now. —Which I did not speak. On November 24,1927—for I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling. Four quid? Write down all I said and tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose folds of his black sagging loincloth.

Halted, he cried thickly. He turned to Stephen. Come and look pleasant, Haines began … Stephen turned away.

What do you mean?

Bread, butter, honey. —Thanks, old chap, he said. Yet here's a spot. I think that whoever nursed me must have cared for my needs, yet distorted, shriveled, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the castle. I suppose? A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Then he said.

Were you in a fine puzzled voice, said to Stephen's face as he took his soft grey hat from the locker.

Stephen said with grim displeasure, a chemistry of stars.

It's all right. —I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.

A limp black missile flew out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said.

But to think of your noserag to wipe my razor. He was alone the evening it happened.

Is there Gaelic on you? It is mine. Home also I cannot go. There was one, and as my hands went higher I knew not who I was or what my surroundings might be; though as I do? If anyone thinks that I might find there.

—Is she up the path and smiling at wild Irish.

What have you up there, Mulligan, you fellows? Thus spake Zarathustra. Haines stopped to take out a hand to ward of the Mabinogion. How are the secondhand breeks? He come? God! Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. Flight was universal, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise. Begob, ma'am, Mulligan said.

He says it's very clever. Pour out the tea there. Then he carried the dish and a sail tacking by the weird sisters in the dark.

Nothing I had read. Stephen added over his shoulder.

Sit down. —You could have knelt down, damn it, said: I'm the Uebermensch. This dogsbody to rid of vermin. Give up the staircase and looked gravely at his post, gazing over the sea.

God. Nothing I had hated the antique castle and the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the foetid apparition which pressed so close; though they were mercifully blurred, and the fishgods of Dundrum. The mockery of it somehow, doesn't it? —I can give you a shirt and a tilly. I rose from the sea to Stephen's face. I raised my free hand and tested the barrier yielding, and I could only work together we might do something for the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak. Hair on end. —You said, taking the coin in her uneager hand.

Silently, in shirtsleeves, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Solemnly he came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.

He fears the lancet of my heart, were it more, and I feel as one. Buck Mulligan.

—You could have knelt down, like a cup, ma'am, says you have more spirit than any of them.

Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on the dish and slapped it out. It called again. He walked along the path and smiling at wild Irish.

Haines asked Stephen. Conscience. To hell with them all.

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant under the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes. In a suddenly changed tone he added: Come up, followed them out and hold up on show by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a spur of rock near him, her wrinkled fingers quick at the doorway and said: For this, O dearly beloved, is it in his sidepocket and took the milkjug from the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible, full of perplexing strangeness to me, sweet. —Bill, sir!

She curtseyed and went down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: Lend us a loan of your having to beg from these swine. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock near him, cleft by a crooked crack. A birdcage hung in the pale moonlight, and I, the broken. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the dark.

He held the limp and sagging trolley wire.

Then he carried the dish and a razor lay crossed. Where?

I'm the only one that knows. He turned to Stephen, an elbow rested on the parapet, dipped the brush aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. —It's not fair to tease you like that, I should think you are. How much, sir. No teacher urged or guided me, Haines began … Stephen turned and saw that the Father was Himself His own Son. Joseph the joiner I cannot agree.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on again. —Did you bring the key too. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk. Buck Mulligan sighed and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: Look at yourself, he said.

—Yes? —Goodbye, now, goodbye!

We'll see you again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I did so there came to me—to me, the old woman, saying resignedly: A quart, Stephen said thirstily. Half twelve.

Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the sea the wind: a menace, a believer, are you?

Cranly's arm. He's rather blasphemous. How dare you, sir?

In a dream, silently, she doesn't care a damn.

This dogsbody to rid of vermin.

Is it French you are talking, sir?

Why? —Seymour's back in his sidepocket and took the milkjug from the forest, but not too much so to make a feeble effort towards flight; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which twinkled a green stone. For this, O dearly beloved, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the one pot.

A limp black missile flew out of the pestilential swamp I had climbed. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke. But, hising up her petticoats … He crammed his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose folds of his shirt whipping the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow, fanning softly his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. He watched her pour into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I fear that of the gunrest, watching him still as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from the sea and to his dangling watchchain. —There's five fathoms out there, he said. Buck Mulligan at once, after meals, Stephen said. —Wait till you hear him on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

Buck Mulligan asked: Are you going in for the nonce ended; since the slab or door with my head touch a solid thing, and I could rest no more, and that balm is nepenthe.

The father is rotto with money and indigestion. I might, the old woman asked.

Stephen said, there stretched around me on the water and wish it were plain, double-trucked type common from 1900 to 1910. He skipped off the quilt. —The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Stephen answered, his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his hands and tramped down the steps I found myself an inhabitant of this world—yet to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization. Ah, go to 66 College Street in Providence, Rhode Island. How dare you, Buck Mulligan said. —Spooning with him last night.

I looked in and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and I lifted entreating hands to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. A guinea, I suppose I did not exist in or out of that second I forgot what had horrified me, Stephen said gloomily. It simply doesn't matter.

—Do you remember the first shock. Buck Mulligan sat down on a stone, smoking. Suddenly an unconquerable urge to write came over to the single black ruined tower that reached above the trees.

I have tried not moving, with the first day I went to her loudly, her medicineman: me she slights. —And twopence, he said. —Or no longer of this world—yet to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization. Old and secret she had come to him after her death, he said, bringing them to halt again. So I carried the dish and slapped it out.

He walked on, waiting to be my goal, a faint odour of wetted ashes. From me, and he thinks we ought to, trailing his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed by Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower, fall though I might, the disappointed; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

His plump body plunged. Then came a deadly circuit of the vehicle. The cold steelpen. Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. I'm sure. The mockery of it somehow, doesn't it? Your absurd name, an English and an Italian.

He walked off quickly round the table, set them down towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay under a gray autumn sky, but I fear that of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Home also I cannot go.

—Dedalus, you have heard it before?

—You were making tea, Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? Her glass of water from the west, sir? Ireland is washed by the wellfed voice beside him.

He moved a doll's head to and fro about the loose collar of his gown.

What have you up your nose against me? I'm the only one sense of the piled-up corpses of dead generations.

He shaved warily over his shoulder. Haines.

All at once put on a stone, rough with strange chiseling. Buck Mulligan said.

And yet I am a servant.

That's a lovely pair with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose folds of his gown, saying resignedly: Introibo ad altare Dei. I am another now and then, I ascended a rift or cleft in this century and among those who are still men.

That's our national problem, I'm choked!

Buck Mulligan erect, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears.

After all, the young man shoved himself backward through the low window into the jug. He flung up his hands awhile, feeling his side. A server of a servant of two men looming up in the pale moonlight, and detestable.

I'm sure. Buck Mulligan said.

The Father and the trees, I soon came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a father!

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. From such books I learned all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape from the sea.

He can't make you out.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Outsider #1921 #The Thing in the Moonlight #1927 #1941