One Who Writes In Scribbles Conveys a Meaning that Cannot Be Translated

i started off learning from the wind. and, like the wind, i slip-streamed by and gazed into windows from afar. all i've ever done is flowed and felt, and to me that's enough to be magic. everything i've learned is from listening quietly and finding where silence isn't. that voice amongst the white noise, that howl in the still darkness of night, is my teacher. beautifully my heart aches, when the emptiness is infinitely more haunting than the ghosts that drift in it as memories lost to time.

In my darkness I remember

as promised, part one of my two part dinahxhelena fic! tw for panic attacks and slight blood mention. also on ao3. ( @sinand-misery )

~

A lesson: nothing is ever easy, even when it should be.

Helena heard the voice in her head as she thought about the fight. Ten to three. Outnumbered, but not outmatched. Night sky around them, full moon above them. Open space — nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Fighting was as much about math as it was about muscle and skill, but men like these were all brute strength and unhinged rage, no finesse, no technique. The odds favored the wrong group.

The first problem was small. Her crossbow jammed just as she was about to take out goon number two. Grunting, she tossed it aside, let her combat training take over. 

A lesson: rely on nothing but your own two hands. As a child, she’d questioned why she needed to know how to fight if she could kill her enemies with her bow before they got close enough to hurt her; now she was grateful for the beating she’d received for asking, for the training that followed. She was prepared. She could handle them without it. They, however, didn’t seem to know that. 

The sound of her crossbow hitting the floor must have given the impression that she was a sitting duck, and suddenly instead of three men coming at her, she had five. With her bow, five was still manageable, but without it...her arrogance wasn’t so strong that she couldn’t admit that was pushing it, even for her. It was why part of her was relieved when Dinah came over. 

A lesson: never lose your concentration during a fight. She couldn’t remember how often she’d been reminded, the amount of times she’d hit the ground and heard him yell focus, child. The enemy would never play fair. Any moment could be the last, so she must never let her guard down, never get trapped in the belief that she was invincible. She knew, yet she found the memory slipping away when she fought with Dinah. Alone they were each a force to be reckoned with, but side by side, their strengths playing off each other? They were electric. They seemed to dance around the men in front of them, Dinah bringing a rhythm to her fighting that Helena easily followed. They took down one, two, three, four men without hesitation, and Helena found it difficult to notice anything but the woman beside her and the men on the ground beneath them.

A lesson: always make sure you know where everyone is in a fight. 

It was staring at the men they’d defeated that made her remember. As Dinah fought the fifth, Helena scanned the parking lot. All the strength and skill in the world wouldn’t help her without strategy. She’d learned the hard way what happened when you lost count, when you let one of your enemies slip your mind. So she hesitated, let Dinah finish the last guy as she saw four men on the floor, two down where Dinah had been earlier, one down and one about to go down by Renee. She counted again, then one more time, before swearing to herself and turning around. 

She spotted him right as the knife flew out of his hands. She didn’t need to do the math to know where it was heading, didn’t wait for her heart to drop to the pit of her stomach before turning toward Dinah, reaching her right before she could finish off the guy in front of her. Helena felt the knife place itself in her back right beneath her shoulder, sliding into a spot just beside her spine. It sent shivers through her whole body, and she couldn’t stop a cry from escaping as she tried to force her legs to stay standing. She grabbed a knife of her own and threw it backwards, the thud of a body hitting the ground telling her she found her target.

Her hands were on Dinah’s shoulders, and she knew that without her there, she likely would have collapsed already. Her eyes were closed, and she was trying to tell them to open, to make sure that Dinah had beaten the last guy and that Renee was still alright, but her body wouldn’t let her, and so she stood there with her eyes squeezed shut, now the sitting duck they’d thought she was. She felt a trail of blood make its way down to the small of her back, the sensation so unsettling she felt herself shiver again, her whole body shaking in a way that made her feel all too fragile. Her breaths were too labored, and with every one she silently begged: open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes. 

Her body didn’t listen, not until she felt the hands on her face. She watched Dinah come into focus, felt the warmth of her palms as she cupped her cheeks. She stared at her, and she usually knew what everyone around her was feeling, but right now her face looked like it was written in a different language. Dinah never felt anything quietly, but this one was uniquely strong, and Helena was so caught up in it that she almost didn’t notice the army walking toward them. 

What had been empty space was now filled with cars, groups of men unloading out of them endlessly. Dinah glanced at them, then turned back to her, a new but equally foreign expression on her face. She placed her hands on Helena’s, and it was only when she brought them up to her ears that she understood. 

Before she could protest, she turned around and screamed. Dinah’s screams weren’t something you heard, they were something you felt, and she could feel it now, the earth vibrating around them. It paralyzed her, kept her standing when she could barely feel her feet beneath her. Maybe it was the fatigue, or the blood loss, but Helena thought everything was bigger. She was louder, higher, stronger than the few times she’d used it before, and she wasn’t stopping, even as the men dropped and stayed down, even when no one was left standing but them. She screamed and screamed and screamed, her voice a cacophony, a symphony, a brutal combination of strength and beauty and horror and pain. 

The end seemed to echo like the last note of an opera, the vibrato visible as it made its way across the parking lot. Helena watched as Dinah began to drop, and before her body could lunge forward she saw Renee already there, ready to catch her. 

“You alright there, Huntress?” She asked, but as she looked up she must have seen the knife, and maybe it was worse than Helena thought because her face went white. “Oh, fuck.” Helena wanted to tell her she was fine, but all she could see was Dinah on the ground. Dinah unconscious. Dinah not moving. 

“She usually wakes up,” she whispered, and she wanted to look at Renee, a voice from a lifetime ago whispering that it was rude to not look someone in the eye when you were talking to them, but her eyes were glued and her body was still. “She should be waking up now.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Renee mumbled, and Helena finally forced herself to rip her eyes away from Dinah because the words she just heard didn’t make any sense. When she did, she saw that Renee wasn’t looking at her anymore. She’d brought her phone up to her ear and was staring at the street behind them, waiting in anticipation before whoever was on the other line had even picked up. “Quinn,” she said, “we got a situation.”

— 

“Lay her down on the couch,” Harley commanded as they walked into the warehouse Helena now called home. She watched as Renee and Harley made their way across the room. Harley had shown up in five minutes in Dinah’s car, an irony that Helena was desperate to remember for when the woman in their arms woke up. 

“She should be awake by now,” Helena said again. She’d lost track over how many times she’d mentioned it during the ride here, but it was as if her brain had short-circuited and it was the only thing she could think, the only thing she could say. 

“I’ve seen this before,” Renee huffed as they put Dinah down. “I think she blew her powers out.”

Helena didn’t know what to make of the words, so she kept her mouth shut. A hundred questions drowned in the pain from both the knife in her back and the sight of Dinah lying lifeless on the couch. She felt the urge to reach back, to yank it out and solve one of her problems, but Harley seemed to read her mind, because she was in front of her in an instant. 

“I know I’m a genius, but I gotta say that a broken Canary is a liiiiiitle out of my wheelhouse.”

“She’s not broken,” Helena whispered, but Harley acted like she didn’t hear her. 

“You, on the other hand, I can fix.” She started trying to walk Helena toward the table they’d designated for medical purposes, but the idea of being farther away from Dinah was more distressing than the knife. 

“What happened before?” She called out to Renee, Harley literally dragging her toward the table. “How long did it take for her to wake up?”

“I’m not sure,” Renee said, but she sounded far away, farther than she should. “And it wasn’t Dinah who I saw blow her powers out.”

Before she could process Renee’s comment, she felt a pinch in her arm. Instinctively she reached for it, but Harley was faster, caught her wrist before she could grab the needle she saw in Harley’s other hand.

“What did you do?” Her tongue felt heavy as she spoke, and when Harley led her onto the table she found that she couldn’t resist it. 

“Sorry, Princess.” Harkey’s words sounded blurry, and as her eyes shut she vaguely heard her add, “You’ll thank me later.”

— 

Even with the sedation, the dreams didn’t relent. It started with a memory, one that was only a week old. The house had been quiet all day except for Dinah, who walked around singing a melody under her breath as they waited for night to fall. Helena didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something so beautiful about the way she always let herself accompany the silence. Helena disappeared in it, but Dinah wove herself into the noiselessness until the two managed to coexist, despite the apparent contradiction. She froze when Dinah noticed her watching, but all she did was smile. 

She’d asked what the song was, a desperate attempt to avoid having to explain why she couldn’t take her eyes off her, and Dinah had smiled more, had grabbed her speaker and her phone and then Helena’s hand. She dragged her to the center of the house, told her she had to lie down and close her eyes to truly appreciate it. Helena complied instantly, shocked herself with her own willingness to put herself in a vulnerable position simply because Dinah asked her to. Before she could interrogate that realization, Dinah pressed play, and Helena was pretty sure she stopped breathing for the next four minutes. It felt rude, somehow, to do anything that would possibly interrupt the man singing through the speakers. The song was so gentle, so soothing, that with her eyes closed she could almost imagine herself floating, lying in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by nothing but water, not afraid but at peace.

She felt Dinah lay down next to her, felt their arms brush up against one another, and she hoped Dinah had her eyes shut too because she could feel the heat on her cheeks. When the song ended she looked over and saw Dinah still lying on the floor with her eyes closed, a smile lingering on her lips. 

When she did open her eyes, Helena expected her to act the way she had in that moment — gush about the song, send her a link to it, tell her to try listening to it when she couldn’t sleep. Instead, this Dinah opened her mouth and screamed. Her face shifted from relaxed to horrified, and Helena felt as if her body was being torn apart. As the sound waves hit her, one after the other after the other, she felt rather than heard the words: Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Helena woke up angry. 

She discovered that she was on the med table, that she was lying on her stomach and that someone had put a pillow underneath her head. Her back throbbed as she sat up but she ignored it, her eyes already searching for the couch. 

She saw her the minute Renee walked into the room. 

“Has she woken up yet?” She asked in lieu of any sort of greeting. 

“Hey, easy there,” Renee ignored her question as she walked over. She went to help, but Helena waved her off as she put her feet on the ground and waited for the dizziness to pass. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Renee sighed, which was answer enough, although she still said, “No, she hasn’t.”

“What time is it? How long was I out?”

“It’s been about twelve hours. You just missed breakfast.”

“It’s morning?” She turned toward the window, just now noticing the sunlight shining through. 

“Yeah, whatever Quinn gave you really knocked you out. If you woke up before she got back, she said to tell you to, and I quote, ‘calm the fuck down and eat a bagel before you pass out.’” 

“Where is she?” Helena asked as Renee handed her said bagel. 

“Apparently our breakfast selection wasn’t up to Her Majesty's standards.”

“She can’t leave,” Helena’s voice was frantic and she could feel her rage rising. “What happens if Dinah wakes up? She’s supposed to know what to do, she—“

“Woah, woah, it’s okay,” Renee said, and Helena desperately wanted to shake off the hand that now rested on her shoulder but the pain in her back stopped her. “Harley already looked at her and said her vitals are fine. She’s just...knocked out. Recharging. All we can do is wait.”

Helena just shook her head, forced her lips together and wouldn’t let them separate. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to be any further away from Dinah than she already was, but she knew this feeling all too well, and no one deserved to be on the other side of her when she got like this. Instead she stormed off, ignoring Renee’s protests as she made her way downstairs. 

—

She lost count almost immediately. The sound of her fist hitting the bag in front of her became white noise, her movements so repetitive she stopped feeling the pressure against her wrists. She could still feel the skin on her knuckles breaking, made sure she didn’t go numb to that pain as each punch hit its target, her gloves discarded on the floor behind her. Her eyes were open but all she saw was her mistakes, each moment a lesson she should have learned by now. Catching a knife in the back: a lesson. Dinah screaming even though she knew she hated screaming: a lesson. Dinah going down and staying down: a lesson. Everything that had gone wrong could have been avoided if she wasn’t so—

“If you tear your stitches, I’m not giving you any anesthesia when I redo them.” Helena stopped for just a second when she heard Harley’s voice, before picking up again. She could feel the throbbing in her back as she punched but she welcomed the pain, let it remind her of her failures, of the ways she let everyone down and—“

“Hey. Princess.” The name made her stop again, look back at Harley. “Seriously, that’s gonna hurt like a bitch if you keep trying to kill the punching bag.”

“Good. I deserve it,” she huffed, noticing for the first time how out of breath she was. “And don’t call me that.”

“Well, there’s certainly a lot to unpack here,” Harley said as she jumped onto a stack of mats against the wall, her feet dangling above the floor. “Which should we address first?”

“Leave me alone, Harley.” She started punching again, each swing more ferocious than the one before it.

“Ooh, so I get to pick?” She was back on her feet, wandering their training area as if it was literally impossible for her to sit still. “As much as I would love to dig into the family trauma directly, I think I’m gonna have to start with ‘ruining all of Harley’s hard work because I can’t process my emotions without violence’.”

“Harley, I mean it.”

“I mean it, too. Do you think being in pain is going to somehow change the fact that Dinah’s unconscious?” Helena could feel the rage bubbling deep in her gut, and she tried to breathe through it but it was a flame inside her, and every breath only gave it more life. 

“It’s my fault,” she managed to say, and her words were quiet but she knew Harley heard her. “I deserve it.”

“What’s your fault? Do you blame yourself because Dinah went full Canary? Because that’s kinda her signature move. Ties in with the whole bird metaphor pretty nicely.” 

“She doesn’t like it!” she said, louder than she meant to, and her hands were flying, railing into the bag in front of her with no sense of pace or purpose, and she knew it wasn’t safe but she couldn’t stop. “She did it for me and she doesn’t like doing it.”

“Do you want her to have done it for you?” Harley’s question hit her like the knife in her back, and every word after only twisted it more. “Does the fact that she’d put herself in harm's way for you make you feel all warm inside?”

“Harley,” She warned, the tension in her body tightening like a rubber band waiting to snap. She knew she was taunting her, but she also knew it was working. 

“Or maybe, watching Dinah collapse and not wake up brought back some memories you’d rather forget about the last time people you love fell down and didn’t get back up. Maybe it is about the family trauma after all.”

“STOP IT!” She hit the bag in front of her, and this time the pain was blinding. She fell to her knees, barely registering her impact with the floor as she reached back for the wound she was confident was now bleeding. 

She saw the shoes first, looked up to see Harley standing above her. She slowly sat down, waited until they were at eye level with each other, before quietly asking her, “Feel any better?”

Helena didn’t have enough resolve left to lie. “No.”

“That’s because you’re acting like you’re angry. But you’re not angry. Not really.”

“What,” She panted, “would you call this, then?”

Harley put a hand on her shoulder, and again Helena wanted to shove her off but again she lacked the strength. “It’s fear, Princess. You’re afraid.”

Part of her didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “Afraid of what?”

“Only you can answer that. But my guess? Losing the people you care about. Having people to care about in the first place. The idea that if you lose them, it’ll be your fault, and there’ll be no one to track down on a thrilling vengeance-filled adventure.”

Helena just sat there. She willed her brain into silence, practiced the meditation techniques she’d been taught because she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about anything Harley said. Anger was easier. Anger was familiar. Anything else… 

“But what do I know?” Harley spoke again, and Helena had to force herself to look up at the woman in front of her. She smiled, but in a kind way, an expression she didn’t see on her face very often, at least not when Cass wasn’t around. “I only went to Med school. And speaking of Med school,” she ran to the mats she’d sat on earlier and came back with what looked like a fancy first aid kit, “turn around so I can redo my beautiful work.”

Helena complied, but she kept her eyes on Harley as she reached for a syringe. “I thought you weren’t going to give me anesthesia this time,” she said quietly. 

“Well, I wasn’t, but now that I know you want to torture yourself, I’m not gonna let you.”

“You gonna knock me out again?” Helena asked as she turned her head forward, felt Harley wipe away the blood making a trail down her back. 

“And risk getting stuck listening to Renee yelling at a TV for the next four hours because a group of grown men can’t run a ball over a line? Yeah, I don’t think so. You’ve got to suffer through that one with me.”

Helena almost smiled at the thought. “You should have seen her face when I told her that real football is played with your feet, not your hands.” Harley cackled, and the sound gave Helena the confidence to ask her, “Why did you sedate me the first time? I’ve been stabbed before and removing the knife isn’t that bad.”

“First of all, how frequently are you getting stabbed?” Helena tried to shrug, which turned into a flinch when she remembered where exactly this stab wound was located. “Second of all, it wasn’t because of the wound. Not entirely, at least. But it was easier to fix if you were calm, and without Dinah here that was the best option I could think of.”

“What do you mean, without Dinah?”

“She’s the only person who can make you actually relax. Even you have to have noticed that by now.”

Helena kept her mouth shut. As Harley worked, she welcomed the silence, let it into her mind so she wouldn’t have to think about things she’d rather ignore. Silence was a comfort, and she embraced it. 

“You want me to fix up those hands, too, Rocky?” 

Helena shook her head, waited until she knew Harley was finished before telling her, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Helena turned back, and they stared at each other for a minute, before Harley sighed. “Trust me, I’ve dealt with much worse than you.”

“But what if I had hurt you? I wasn’t thinking, I was just reacting.”

Harley just laughed. “I hate to break it to you, Princess, but you don’t scare me.”

She didn’t want to think about what did scare her. “Why do you keep calling me that?” She asked instead, and she knew she was a coward by avoiding all the hard bits but she didn’t care, not today. This was already more than she’d planned on speaking anyway, and she didn’t think she had the energy to go any deeper than a nickname right now.

Harley shrugged. “That’s what everyone used to call you. You know, back when you were just a Bertinelli and not a crossbow killing machine. Even after, whenever people wrote about you or the family, the name stuck. You became a bit of a legend around here, and legends aren’t allowed to be normal. So in life and death, you became Gotham’s Princess. Eternally immortalized in childhood innocence, guilty only of having the wrong last name.”

“I know,” she said, memories of scourging through old newspapers in Italy flashing through her mind, “but you don’t have to remind me all the time.”

“The history behind it might suck now, but that isn’t going away, so you might as well make the most of the title you’ve got.” She winked at her as she stood up, and added, “Besides, how else can I remind you that I was a Queen, and I outrank you?”

Helena flipped her off, but she didn’t mean it, and by the way Harley laughed she guessed that she knew. 

“No more punching shit!” Harley called out as she walked back upstairs. Helena just sat there, laid down on the mats, letting the familiarity of the training gear diffuse her anger in a different way.

— 

By the time the sun set, Dinah still hadn’t woken up, and Helena could tell that even the others were getting anxious now. They kept watching her, as if their eyes had the power to do anything more than stare. Dinner was uncomfortably quiet, even for her, and no one would say it but they all knew why. 

“Well,” Harley said as she stood up, “as much fun as this has been, I’ve left Cass to her own devices for far too long.” 

“You know you could bring her here—“

“No.” Helena didn’t raise her voice, but the others looked at her as if she had. The word was the first thing she’d said since her confrontation with Harley in the basement that morning, and it wasn’t unusual for her to go that long without talking, but it stuck out today, was exposed as an oddity without anything else to fill the space around her.

Renee looked confused, but before she could push her on it Harley said, “Yeah, I know. Not today.” 

“Before you go,” Renee called out as Harley went to leave, “help me carry her to the bed. Not you, Bertinelli,” she said as Helena started to get out of her seat. “You sit your wounded ass down before we have to stitch you up a third time.”

“‘We’? You nerds might fight as a team, but only one of us has a PhD.” She shook her head as she and Renee walked over to the couch, and Helena heard her mumble under her breath, “When you challenge the legality of certain actions it’s a ‘Harley’ problem, but suddenly you save the day and become a ‘we’.”

Helena almost smiled, until she saw them lift Dinah off the couch. Her whole body was limp. Instantly she was hit with the feeling of recognition, so strong time itself stopped existing. Dinah looked dead, looked like everyone who had come before her, every person she had loved who had met the same fate, and only Helena knew what it felt like to watch, to pretend to be among the rest, to be carried that way but still feel the weight of the world, the burden of existence. 

Helena didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She blinked as she gasped for air, was met with the concerned looks of Renee and Harley. She watched their mouths move, knew they were talking to her, but she couldn’t hear anything, and for the first time in years the silence scared her. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to remind her body it was alive. 

When she opened her eyes again, she felt the world shift into focus, just slightly. She still saw the two women in front of her, but now she felt them. Harley had a hand on her wrist, checking her pulse, but it was Renee, with the back of her hand resting against her forehead, checking for a warmth Helena knew wasn’t there, that made her flinch. It was too close to what she remembered, too much, all of it, everything was too much she couldn’t think she couldn’t breathe she couldn't—

The hands on her shoulders hit her so hard she felt her back twitch. She didn’t remember closing her eyes but now she opened them again, saw Harley’s face in front of her. She still couldn’t hear, but with only one face to focus on, she forced herself to use her training. Reading her lips, she saw Harley tell her something about breathing, which she realized she wasn’t doing. Somehow that made her angry. Something so inherent, so essential to existence that it was almost never done intentionally, yet she had to be reminded to inhale, to exhale, to allow herself to survive. She was weak, and her weakness would endanger everyone she cared about, would lead to their demise. It already had. 

The thought sparked something in her, and instead of holding her breath now she was taking too many, and she knew she was doing it but she didn’t know how to stop. She’d felt fear before, unimaginable fear, unfathomable fear, and yet this was something entirely new. It was suffocation at her own hands, drowning in oxygen, sinking into an oblivion she created. It was a unique kind of agony, caused by a wound she didn’t know how to heal. 

She felt the hand across her face, the sting making her freeze long enough for her body to catch up with her mind. She looked up, saw Harley’s face and finally heard her say, “You with me now, Princess?” She nodded slightly, and her chest still felt heavy and her breaths were shorter than they should be but at least now she was aware. When Harley told her how to breathe she listened, until the world came back to life, until she could feel everything again, from the burn on her face to the wound on her back to the dried tears on her cheeks. She wiped at those the moment she recognized them, prayed the others didn’t notice. She wouldn’t have them believing her to be weaker than she already was.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, just breathing. Harley had a patience she’d never seen before, and she wondered if this was what Doctor Quinzel had been like before the asylum and the acid and everything that followed. Renee sat next to her, held her hand, and her embarrassment was overridden by the comfort it gave her, so she didn’t pull away, not until time came back and she felt like herself again.

When Harley seemed satisfied in Helena’s ability to breathe on her own, she walked to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and told her, “You’re going to drink this whole thing before you go to bed.” Helena nodded as Harley handed it to her. “You want me to stay tonight?”

Helena shook her head. “I’m fine,” she added, the humiliation now left with nothing in its path. She took her hand out of Renee’s and instinctively reached for the hair tie on her wrist. “I don’t even — I mean, I’ve never—“

“It’s fine,” Harley said, and she was still mostly in Doctor mode, but Helena could hear bits of the Harley she knew coming back. “You had a panic attack. It’s a totally normal response to an increase in stress or a particularly traumatic experience, both of which you’ve had in the past 24 hours.”

“Yeah, I had a girlfriend who used to get those all the time. Took medication for it and everything. Although no one ever slapped her across the face,” Renee said, giving Harley a look that was both frustration and confusion.

“Admittedly, my method of stopping said panic attack may not have been entirely ethical.”

“Oh, you doing something unethical? I’m shocked.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“So what, you’re just going to slap her every time it happens?”

“It’s not gonna happen again,” Helena snapped. “And I don’t need drugs, there’s nothing wrong with me.” 

“Taking medication doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” Harley told her, and if she’d had any more energy Helena knew her blood would be boiling but for now she settled for a simmer. 

“I’m not weak. I don’t need them.”

“No one’s saying you’re weak, but you have a history of trauma and no healthy long-term coping mechanisms, so it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that should you seek some sort of method of therapy, medication might be prescribed.”

“You think I need therapy now?”

“Therapy isn’t bad, either, Princess. It’d be like going to PT. It’s just for your brain instead.”

“But—“

Harley sighed. “If Dinah went through what you did, would you tell her there was something wrong with her?”

The simmer disappeared just as quickly as it arrived. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. 

“Then there you go. And don’t worry,” Harley said with a grin that was borderline sinister. “Therapy or no therapy, you’re as sane as I am.”

“That’s reassuring,” she mumbled, and Harley looked at them, before slumping her shoulders in defeat?

“Really? None of you caught that Harry Potter reference?”

“Do I look like someone who’s watched Harry Potter?” Renee said, and Helena kept her mouth shut, tried to hide the fact that she had no idea what they were talking about. 

“Ugh, where’s Cass when you need her? She’s the one who showed me the movies in the first place. See, unlike this lot, the kid actually has interests outside of vigilantism.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re one to lecture us about having hobbies, Quinn, considering yours are just as violent as ours.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, and she pretended to look annoyed but Helena could tell that’s all it was: pretend. Harley turned toward her, and her face softened. “I’m serious about staying, though.”

Helena shook her head. “Cass needs you. I’ll be fine.”

Harley stared at her for a minute, before shrugging and heading toward the door. “Let me know when Sleeping Beauty wakes up, I wanna wear a wig and convince her that she’s slept for five years.”

“Good night, Harley,” Renee called out as the door closed behind her, and suddenly the quiet was too much again. Helena looked down at her hands, at the hair tie she twisted around her fingers over and over and over again. She couldn’t remember when the habit started, or why she did it, but she couldn’t stop doing it, either. 

“You wanna stay up for a while?” Renee asked, and there wasn’t pity in her voice but Helena swore she could hear it anyway. 

“I think one of us should stay in Dinah’s room tonight. In case she wakes up.”

“That’s not a bad idea. This your way of saying you want the first shift?” 

Helena nodded. For a minute neither of them spoke, before she finally asked the question that had been on her mind all day. “It was her mom, wasn’t it? The person you saw who blew their powers.”

Renee sighed, and Helena felt a little guilty for asking now but she also wasn’t sure she could go to sleep without knowing. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep once she did know, either. 

“It was back when her mom was running with that little crew of hers. You probably don’t even remember you were so young, but they used to go out and do what we did, just more publicly. And one day —I’m not even working, just happened to be walking by — a fight breaks out, and they all squad up, including Canary. Most people ran away, but I lingered, waited to see if I could help, which—“ She laughed, and Helena was too captivated to try and guess whether she was supposed to laugh with her or not — “they’re out here fighting some Meta and I think my gun and handful of years as a beat cop are gonna help save the day. So I’m delusional, but I’m there, and this guy just would not go down. I mean, they threw everything they had at him and he barely flinched.” 

Renee paused, and Helena didn’t have the patience to wait for her. “Is that why she did the scream?”

“No.” Something about the way she said it made Helena put her guard up, although she wasn’t sure what she was protecting herself from. “Before that, one of the guys on their team went down. Kinda like you did last night. Alive, but not in great shape. And we never really knew, but the rumor was that he and Canary were...you know, ‘a thing’, or whatever your generation calls it now. They liked each other, as more than teammates, and when he went down…” she looked back at the bedroom, where Dinah slept undisturbed. “She screamed longer than I’d ever seen or heard her do. And she took the Meta down, but as soon as she finished she dropped. One of her teammates ran off with her before the rest of the crowd could see. But I saw. And The Canary didn’t make any sort of public or private appearance for a week and a half after that, even when the team did.”

“Oh.” Just listening to it felt wrong, felt like a betrayal to Dinah somehow, even though it was Renee’s story. 

“So I don’t think Dinah will sleep for a week, but once she does wake up, I think we should be prepared for her to be out of commission for a while.”

“Do you think she’ll wake up soon?” She hated how small she felt as she asked but she was too tired to do anything about it. 

“Yeah. I think she will.” Helena didn’t think Renee was lying to her, but she also didn’t think she fully believed what she was saying. She didn’t call her out on it, just nodded and promised to wake her for a second shift. 

She waited until Renee went off to her room before gathering up the courage to walk into Dinah’s. When she did, she sat on the floor, back against the wall near her head. For an hour she barely moved, just stared at Dinah or the wall in front of her. She waited, until she couldn’t hear Renee moving anymore, until she found courage that only the early hours of the morning could give, before pulling out her phone and finding the song she’d shown her, the one she’d dreamt about. She pulled out her headphones, closed her eyes, and clicked play. 

The Long Winter

Happy Holidays! This is the full piece I wrote for the @aftgholidayzine which I still URGE you to check out and buy for Lost-N-Found Youth. So many wonderful contributions were made, and everyone involved made me feel so welcome. So please please support the zine, and I hope you enjoy the tale of Andrew Minyards’ first winter post-NeilPalmetto

(also available on AO3) 

He’s standing in Boston Logan International Airport at some terminal or another. There’s snow outside the windows and Christmas everywhere else. Andrew has his noise cancelling headphones on again, and the silence is as effective as usual.

It’s December, obviously, and he feels it in his bones where the cold leaks through the glass surfaces of window and skin. His eyes feel it too, held open and vulnerable by the winter. Standing inside the airport doesn’t help much. His body always did have trouble letting go.

Someone a few feet away starts to scream, a child. Shrill enough to break through the noiselessness and Andrew wonders not for the first time if he wasted his money, then if he wasted his time making his money, then why he’s wasting his quiet thinking about it at all.

The child is still screaming but it’s a dull sound in the background of Andrews' own dullness, staring out the window with his hands in his black coat pockets.

He’s preparing himself for feeling. For fear. He doesn’t have time to scream. Never has.

In the corner of his eye he sees a woman, with a bag full of Christmas presents at her feet as she sits speaking into her phone. She looks like the past. She reminds him. So he keeps her hidden in the corner of his eye. Before him is the airplane he will soon be boarding, and there’s a man in a flight attendants’ uniform and a Santa hat. He reminds Andrew too.

So instead he stares at the snow, at the white white white and the footprints and the bare dark ground where it’s been shoved away. He stares at the window itself, where the winter has crept along the glass like spectral fingertips, pleading.

He remembers why he’s here.

He’s not quite prepared yet, but the fear is nearing anyway, and the woman and her presents are gone. The dim reflections in the glass are melting together as they move. Andrew lets the noise back in, follows the mass.

He keeps his eyes firmly closed, his fists tightly clenched, and his memories auburn and orange. By the time Andrews' feet touch dry South Carolina ground, he’s ready to face the fear.

-

Neils' eyes when he opens the store wrapped camera box are cliff edges over an open ocean.

---

It’s just turned January, there are Foxes yelling, and it’s all rather excessive. There’s silver and gold confetti in the air and booze spilled onto the pavement outside Fox Tower. On Neil’s face are a giant pair of metallic pink glasses, a quiet grin, and lipstick stains the colour of Allison and Dans’ laughs. Andrew is relatively sure he has glitter in his hair.

It’s something like a reunion, new Foxes not included because frankly who cares. Robin would have been the only exception if it weren’t for the flu she’s currently bedridden with. Kevin is neck deep in a bottle of something, Nicky is attempting to lift Aaron and spin him, and Matt is running around the group in circles hollering. Renee stands quietly next to Andrew, watching him watching Neil being crushed by the dual embrace of Allison and Dan.

It’s almost like going back in time.

Andrew lasts another half an hour with his bottle of whiskey. Someone brought speakers with them, and the noise makes it easy to hide. He’s thinking about his flight today, about Aarons' right before his, about Germany and Exy stadiums and distance. He’s thinking about how much he doesn’t want to think. For once, Andrew would rather feel.

All it takes is one finger linked through another and through those stupid glasses Neil looks at him and smiles. They leave those glasses behind.

Andrews' new year starts at 1:00am on the rooftop, when Andrews' hands smear with lipstick and Neils' sigh bleeds into Andrews choked breath, and Andrew feels feels feels.

---

‘I miss you.’

It’s still January, and Andrew is knee deep in bitter snow outside his building.

‘I’ve never had to miss someone before.’

He watches his exhale hit the air, watches it spread like a cloud of smoke.

‘At least not like this.’

Andrew reaches his hand in front of his face to watch his gloveless fingers turn red.

‘I think I hate it.’

His eyes close with the heaviness of his lashes, and he lets the snowflakes fall from them as they please.

‘It’s just…not the same.’

Maybe he should have worn a coat.

‘I think I’m lonely Andrew.’

He definitely should have worn a coat. Boston winter is so unforgiving.

---

The snow is falling into Andrews' hair and it’s early February. His team issued practice bag swings at his side, reminding him with every nudge against his body that this day has been long enough already. He catches his reflection in the glass of a bookstore and sighs.

He doesn’t particularly feel like doing this.

There’s a balloon drifting past him, lost by a slender young hand as its owner wraps her arms around her new fiancée. He finds himself caught by that balloon, watching it fade into the open night sky, forgotten.

The air is biting at his skin and there are no stars out tonight.

He really doesn’t feel like doing this.

He listens to the crunch of his boots in a fresh snow bank as he passes, stares ahead of him at the patches of dusty white on the sidewalk. Everything in the winter is so bare.

A gust of wind parts around him, leaving tiny icicles in Andrews' lungs. He can see the sign up ahead.

When he opens the door the ice on the ground blows in with him, and when he sits down opposite a steaming hot chocolate he looks up into his own reflection.

-

It’s not like Andrew doesn’t already know, it was obvious from the phone call, Aaron’s voice saying ‘I need to tell you something. I think it should be in person’. He still feels though.

‘She said yes.’

And he looks happy and scared and defensive all at once, but Andrew can only say:

‘I’ll be there.’

The silence that follows is as fragile as the look on Aarons' face.

It’s been a while since the last time they did this, just the two of them. Since the last time they looked each other in their hazel eyes. There’s still snow in Andrews lashes. The ice in Aarons' has already melted.

‘Do you miss him?’

Andrew’s not sure why Aaron even bothers asking when he doesn’t seem to want to. He has that sharp turn to his lips. He must be looking for something. Andrew doesn’t deign to answer, and the next words that come seem to be more resented than the last. More fearful. More longing.

‘Do you miss me?’

What an interesting, stupid, pointless question. Andrews' reply comes with a slow blink of his eyes and a twitch in his right hand under the table.

‘Do you miss me?’

‘No.’

There’s something to be said about being twins. Because for two brothers raised apart, they have remarkably similar tells when they lie.

---

Mid-February finds two young men, one blonde one burned, buried in the snow. They’re not making snow angels because they don’t believe in them.

It’s a Saturday morning, and Andrew spent the day before watching Neils' face change. Sometimes his smile would match the bright glare of the snow. Sometimes his eyes would match the frost. Sometimes the turn of his lips would match the dark winter sky.

Today, nothing about Neil matches the world. His presences disrupts the stillness of the cold like a blazing sun.

‘Shouldn’t you have practice this weekend Captain?’ Andrews' voice is muffled by the snow, but they’re so close underneath it all that it doesn’t matter.

‘Not exactly.’ Neils' voice says the words while the set of his sharp jaw says a little bit more.

‘Why?’ escapes Andrew like a breeze.

Neil doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Andrew with something terrible in his eyes that looks an awful lot like a feeling echoing somewhere in Andrew.

The winter is awfully long in Boston. At least compared to South Carolina.

There are thick black gloves on Neils' hands, a gift from Nicky himself this time. Andrew was the one to throw them at Neils' head this morning though before they left. Now, he studies the thread of a fingertip.

He must have fought to be here, fought those young Foxes and Wymack. Even then, it’s not for much longer.

‘Neil.’

It’s almost a whisper, it’s almost angry, and they push that slightest bit closer through the snow till their noses brush together.

When Andrew closes his eyes he feels their lashes tangle.

---

March arrives and the winter is refusing to die. There’s glass in the air of Boston Common.

Andrew is sat on a bench covered in frost, feeling it seep into his coat, watching the brave skate on Frog Pond. The wind is missing, the sky is blindingly blue and bare, and there’s a voice in his ear.

‘So yeah that was my week. Oh except that I forgot to tell you that um, Erik says hi. And um, how was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘Andrew come on, how was practice?’

‘It was practice.’

‘Andrew seriously. Last time we talked remember, you promised? You promised me you would actually talk more.’

Some bird is valiantly trying to sing through the cold, nestled in the branches of a leafless tree overhead.

‘I promised nothing of the sort.’

‘Okay well I took your silence as agreement.’

When will birds learn when to stop singing.

‘That’s not how promises work Nicky.’

‘I know Andrew. I know.’

Maybe there is a little winter wind left, Andrew thinks he saw some branches move. A dead leaf stirring on the ground.

‘Hey Andrew, have you talked to Kevin recently? Neil said he wasn’t sure when you guys last talked.’

No, it’s just a dead leaf.

‘We’ve spoken.’

‘Okay well, maybe speak again? Soon? I just think it’d be nice. For both of you. Also has Neil gotten taller? Or maybe he’s just gotten cuter. It’s hard to tell over Skype. You saw him recently right?'

‘In February.’

‘Oh. I miss that kid.’

-

By the time Andrew leaves Boston Common the sun is already setting on the frozen surface of Frog Pond.

Now, he’s sat with his bag rattling along on the number 7 to City Point, almost there. The wind is still absent but the chill batters the bus anyway, and by the time it jolts to a stop Andrews' bones are sore.

As soon his feet hit the icy ground he begins to walk, slowly, through the ache. He watches South Boston pass by in shades of grey and black and white, the grey of his demeanour, the black of his coat, the white of his skin passing through it all silently. It takes six minutes and he’s there.

For a building full of semi-wealthy inhabitants, its’ elevator still feels like a slow death, so Andrew takes the stairs all the way to the top. The snow breaks off his boots a little more with every step, and the last remains get left to melt on the mat inside his door.

His coat he hangs up next to the side table where he throws his keys, and as he crosses briefly to the open living space for the remote, the TV begins to play.

‘Tonight’s game is one we’ve all been waiting for…’

His boots come off next, replaced by charcoal slippers because Neil knows better then to give him orange. The kitchen light floods the counter-tops as Andrew reaches up to the cupboard. The cocoa, cinnamon, and vanilla all meet quietly on the granite.

‘Do you think the crowd is ready…’

From the fridge Andrew grabs the milk, and he measures it out in a mug with Nickys' face on it.

‘…He’s the greatest striker the sports ever seen!...’

It heats on the stove, and Andrew leaves it to close the curtains and turn up the thermostat.

‘…I’m just excited, I don’t know what to tell you. I get chills every time...’

Andrews stands there and stirs. The room starts to warm, the ingredients start to mix.

‘…Okay here we go, the teams are about to step onto the court…’

Andrew grabs a handfuls of marshmallows and drops them in until the mug near overflows. The steam rises up past the white, and Andrew allows the heat to burn his hand as he settles on the couch. His body always wants to hoard the cold.

‘Are you ready to see Kevin Day in action?’

---

The winter in Boston is long. The cold of it reaches where cold never should, and it sets white fire to the hollows of Andrews' chest.

Everything is ice and snow, wind and hail, chill and white white white. Andrew could disappear in the snow if he wanted to.

It lasts until early April. That’s when the ice starts to thaw, when the snow starts to shy away. A few leaves start to appear on the trees of Boston Common and no one is skating anymore.

When winter ends, Andrew has learned to survive it.

---

He’s standing in Boston Logan International Airport. There’s snow outside the windows and Christmas everywhere else.

It’s December, obviously.

There’s still snow on Andrews' boots that hasn’t melted off yet. It’s dusting his black woollen hat too, drifting down from it into his eyes just a little bit. He’s still cold, hands still shoved in his black coat pockets, but it’s ebbing away ever so slightly.

He waits.

He stares at the busyness surrounding him.

The snow that clung to him before melts away.

And Neil is here.

He’s just staring at Andrew, because of course he is. And he’s so present, so blue and grey and auburn, one bag slung over his shoulder and one hand reaching out from his side. Andrew moves because of course he does.

Their fingertips meet, then their fingers, then their palms, then their eyes. Andrew tugs and Neil follows and they’re both caught.

---

‘They’re still not Foxes.’

‘They don’t need to be.’

‘I know.’

There are three blankets and a Neil keeping Andrew warm. The blankets rest around his shoulders, and Neil rests his hand on Andrews' ankle. Neils' camera has taken four pictures already, and it rests on the arm of the couch.

‘Have you ever considered a Christmas tree in here?’

‘I have one. Several actually.’

‘Those marshmallows Nicky sent you don’t count.’

‘I don’t care.’

Neil is smiling, quietly. He doesn’t seem to notice. Andrew knows that Neil has missed him.

He rests his head against Neils', watches those bright eyes blink slowly closed. He feels Neils' sigh against his skin, places a kiss over the subtle parting of his lips. When Neil opens his eyes again, he looks proud and happy and stunned like he always does these days.

‘Neil.'

It’s almost a whisper.

Neil just looks at him, body held still. Those bright winter eyes.

‘I missed you.’

This is Andrews' second Boston winter, and he knows how to survive it better this time.

loyal lines, loyal stunts (wayhaught college au): chapter 8

An update finally, its shorter than i originally wrote it but, im happier with it this way. Any and all feedback for this chapter is appreciated. Im back back in the US now.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373183/chapters/39744492

Nicole felt super relaxed. Her body felt weightless and her dreams soft. Usually when she had a bit too much to drink her mind was either blank of filled with nightmares of failure. This night was different though, it started out noiseless but turned into a dream filled with warmth and happiness. She nuzzled forward into the warmth of something in front of her body. Something in the back of her head telling her to wake up, but she pushed the thought away and fell back asleep. Reaching out Nicole pulled herself to bury further into what she sleepily assumed was a very warm blanket.  Waverly was wide awake when Nicole pushed her into her chest. Her eyes were wide and downcast staring at the red mound of hair curled into her chest. At first it was from shock and then she realized Nicole was still asleep. She’d woken up a bit earlier to Nicole pushing her body closer and closer into her arms. Waverly could wrap her arms around Nicole’s shoulders and she fit so well that Waverly let her stay there. She knew she shouldn’t, but it felt nice it felt right. Her fingers were threading into and playing with random strands of red hair while she gazed down at her friend. She was really beautiful as always, but like this it made Waverly drift into puppy eyes and started to make her heart flutter. Nicole sighed audibly and clung to her body closely. Waverly bright red nail marks indented on the pale back of Nicole’s neck and a small bruise on the side. Those bruises most definitely were caused by the kiss she had pulled Nicole into the night before. The kiss that she could remember clearly even though some parts from the night before were somewhat foggy. She remembered the kiss. It was almost everything Waverly had imagined many times before. From the way Nicole gripped at her body with hunger, to how soft Nicole’s lips were when they brushed against her. It was almost perfect but then she remembered Nicole rejected the kiss almost immediately. From that point on deep into the cool night there was unspoken tension. It was like there was a wall of steel between the two of them until they both fell asleep.

That was until Waverly woke up from her restless slumber to Nicole mumbling in her sleep. She was faced away from Waverly’s gaze, lost in what Waverly assumed was a dream. This was no normal restless dream when Nicole let out a quiet yelp and her fist clenched against the pillow her head rested on. Waverly was propped on her arm staring with uncertainty. She fought sometimes in her sleep too, Ward Earp’s hateful taunts echoing in her many nightmares. She didn’t know what to do so she rested her fingers to Nicole’s bare shoulder. When she drew lazy patterns of hearts Nicole stilled back into an even patterned breath. Waverly kept drawing out forms getting lost in the moment of how intimate this was. The one girl on campus who turned her brain into soup. Nicole turned around in her sleep causing Waverly to stop her fingers movement and pull back quickly. Due to the position switch her fingers were dangerously close to Nicole’s lips. She ghosted her finger tips over the soft pink flesh before pulling them back and gazing at Nicole until sleep pulled her back in. Waverly fell asleep and woke up with the Nicole Haught in her arms. Waverly knew she was so screwed. Based on the overcast sunlight hanging over the sheet Waverly knew she would have to move soon. She still had classes to make, clothes to change, a shower to take, and sorority sisters to kiss ass to. Her mind felt at ease with Nicole as if nothing could ruin this moment and it was then that she wished she never had to leave Nicole sleeping soundly wrapped up in her arms.  Waverly kissed the top of Nicole’s head ever so lightly, the faint smell of vanilla flooding her senses.

Nicole was wide awake now her arm draped over Waverly’s body but she didn’t want to move. Partially she did not want Waverly to start running from her. The smaller woman seemed so comfortable holding her and Nicole did not want to disturb her. Waverly was gently resting her chin on Nicole’s head one hand brushing up and down her shoulder. Nicole held her breath hoping the girl wouldn’t notice the change in rest. Cold finger tips moved against the tender spot on her neck and she felt her heart ache. The kiss replayed in her mind and she thought about how it could be so simple to do it again. Champ, Nicole thought. Last night, after the kiss she didn’t have much time to explain to Waverly that the kiss was great, she just wanted to be sure Waverly was sure. Sure, about kissing her. Sure, about what that meant about their friendship they were fast growing. Waverly was quickly winning a spot in her heart. Romantic feelings or not Nicole knew she could easily call Waverly a best friend. Her time for explanation was cut when Rosita asked her to kick out some stragglers in the back yard.

“Yo, rent a cop why are you, Zetas always ending a good thing,” Champ drunk off his ass Hardy yelled at Nicole when she walked out the back door. Her face went bright red for many reasons as the burly triple athlete breathed heavy in her direction. The irony being because his drunken antics had just ended one of the best kisses she had ever experienced in her life. His breath stunk of liquor and stale cotton mouth. She smoothed her brow and chose to ignore him.

“Alrighty everyone you have to go or else security shuts this down and I lose my job,” Nicole herded the crowd towards the exit gate. People started to file out of the yard slowly while she motioned to the open gate door with both arms.

“Rent a cop answer me,” Champ hollered while wobbling closer into Nicole’s personal space.

 Nicole kept her cool and rolled her eyes, no way she was going to let this tool get to her. Especially not a tool who would most definitely complain to a superior if she did.

“Hey Heyyy Christy,” Champ screamed towards Chrissy. The honey blonde was sitting on the back porch next to Nicole’s converse hunched over. She rose her head slowly and grimaced what Champ. She scoffed under her breath which made Nicole chuckle quietly.

“You are soooo hot but where is Waverly.” Champ questioned both Chrissy and Nicole.

Chrissy shrugged and looked up at Nicole knowingly. Nicole chewed the inside of her jaw refusing to look down and kept her eyes focused. Focused on the line of people leaving the yard. She just wanted to avoid Champ’s eyes at all cost. Her ears tuning into the whispering and giggling amongst students passing her.

“Fuckkkk I lost her, I was trying to hear those pretty little moans tonight,” Champ chuckled out loudly.

 Nicole bit the inside of her cheek hard attempting to keep her anguish from her face. The slight taste of iron coating her tongue when she winced. She was still looking at the line but her hands started to ball at her sides. What a pig she thought. Champ stepped into the line past Nicole and leaned against another football player in his group. This one extremely tall with a goofy smile stuck on his face. Champ started to mimic a shrill moan from the back of his throat, ahhh champ harder, the group of guys laughed.

 Nicole gripped her knuckles tight with her heart beating faster. Champ continued moaning and thrusted with his hips as he and his group stumbled closer towards the gate. Nicole was one more stupid moan from knocking Champ flat on his ass. What kind of boy thinks it entertaining to mock the girl who is letting him shtup her. Especially a girl as kind, smart, and understanding as Waverly. Waverly who was probably sitting in her room confused or not too far from hearing this jerk detailing the sounds of her pleasure to a crowd of people. Chrissy wrapped her arms around Nicole’s leg when she saw the redhead step forward.

 “Shut the fuck up Champ,” Chrissy shouted from the step. Champ whirled around from his group chuckling.

 “Lighten up Chris and when you see Waves tell her he neeeeddds her.” Pointing to his crotch Nicole couldn’t hide the fake retching she made. Champ was backing out of the gate when he spat words in her direction at least I can do more than any old rent a cop can. Chrissy finally let go of her leg with the last guest leaving. Nicole let out a sigh she wanted to enjoy the feeling of Waverly lulling her back to sleep. No matter what she wanted she couldn’t and she knew exactly why. Waverly shuddered at Nicole’s breath touching her skin and Nicole felt it. She could really get lost in kissing the neck and the collarbone her face was so close to touching. Instead she pushed away and unwrapped her arms from around Waverly. Rolling over she slid out of the bed and stood there staring at Waverly. Waverly looked slightly lost in the eyes from the loss of contact. But, her lips quickly turned to a soft but fake smile quickly and her eyes softened.

 “Hey Waves so I should get you to campus before work.” Nicole checked the time on the alarm clock while fiddling with loose thread on her shirt. Avoiding those hurt eyes and the sickly convincing smile. Anyone could be convinced if they just did not know Waverly quite well enough and Nicole felt like she was at least starting to. Waverly played with the edge of the pillowcase looking up at Nicole. Her thoughts wanted to say really after you kiss me like that you throw me out. Then again though she was the one who kissed Nicole not the other way around.

 “Good morning Nicole,” was all Waverly could say instead of chastising Nicole’s tired ears. Waverly made her way to the bathroom after awkward morning pleasantries shuffling with a pair of Nicole’s spare basketball shorts in her hand. Waverly felt like crying because here she was being given the cold shoulder because of a stupid kiss. Nicole was in her baggy dark green uniform when Waverly stepped out of the bathroom. She’d chosen to wear her messy red waves down to hide the bite and nail marks on her neck. When she slipped into the bathroom she attempted to hide them with make up but it was easier this way. Standing in the mirror she did stare at them for a bit running her fingers across the tender skin. She couldn’t help but feel warm under her skin thinking how Waverly marked her in a way. It was slightly enthralling. Helping to hide the mark was her hair that was growing longer these days. Nicole didn't have a reason to cut it since leaving behind basketball. So, it started to fall on her shoulders now and she pulled her cap down. The two women did not say much of anything to each other except for silent nods. Waverly sat beside Nicole in the passenger side seat typing furiously to someone. The clicking of the onscreen keyboard and the low playing radio filled up some of the silence. Waverly’s ears were burning with annoyance and upset.

Chrissy So how was your night ;)

Waverly Shitty Chrissy Damn I have heard NOTHING but great things about hops skills

Waverly Didn’t even do that actually I kissed her and she rejected it

Chrissy She...never mind, what happened

Waverly Well I was stupid, and I kissed her, and it was great. Like fireworks and tingling skin great. But then someone knocked, and she jumped off me like I was a disease.

Chrissy Maybe she was spooked

Waves We haven’t even really spoken since we woke up. Let alone about that kiss.

Chrissy I’m sorry, waves but yaknow talk to her even if you aren’t the best at that

Waves What if she hates me Nicole decided to break the tension, this was getting to be too much for her to bare, “so uh Champ was looking for you last night.” Waverly mumbled, “yea I know.” He had texted her multiple times when she checked her phone that morning. Including a picture, she did not wish to ever receive unsolicited. But, she ignored every single of his messages too wrapped up in her conversation with Chrissy. Nicole mumbled, “Oh um well I just thought I’d tell you.” The car was again filled with silence and Waverly turned up the volume slightly on the radio. “She's so hot, hey, what's not to love

Heaven's little devil's got me all messed up

She's a little heart breaker, and I'm her fool” “So we aren’t going talk about it then,” Nicole decided to ask. “Talk about what,” Waverly coldly let out.

The radio continued to churn out.

“She's so hot

It's hard to be cool

Hard to be cool” Nicole stopped her car in the lot of the dorm and shifted gears to park. “Were you that drunk, damn”, Nicole cursed to herself out loud. “I shouldn’t have kissed back waves I am so sorry.” Waverly dismissed her.“ Whatever Nicole, it wasn’t your fault I kissed you,” she replied dryly. Nicole looked over in disbelief but noticed the time, “you have a class at 10 right.” Waverly nodded keeping her arms folded and her gaze out the front window. “Please go do what you have to and ill drop you on campus so you aren’t late, okay?” Nicole asked hoping the girl would say yes. She flashed her a dimple to coax her further. Even though they kissed maybe they could ignore that and fall back into whatever state they were in before the kiss. Waverly said okay and rolled her eyes at the dimple straining on Nicole’s cheek. She left Nicole to plop her forehead on the steering wheel in thought. Waverly dashed away and up the stairs to her room to quickly pick out an outfit, freshen up, and pack her backpack. 40 minutes, plenty of time she thought. Waverly ended up rushing for an outfit at the last moment. Throwing on a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans, her hair thrown in a messy bun she was slipping her coat on. Her phone started screaming with Nicole’s name popping up. She slid open the answer call on speaker, I am coming she yelled as she threw on her backpack and pulled a pair of gloves from a drawer. It was a lot colder today than previous fall days so far. Winter was coming. “Waverly,” Nicole groaned, “you have 5 minutes before I run up there and hoist you over my shoulder, I’ve got 15 minutes to get you to...what building?” Nicole questioned. Waverly grimaced once overring herself in a mirror quickly, the answer was not going to please Nicole at all. But being hoisted over the red heads shoulder sounded wonderful no matter how upset she was at her. Before stepping out of the room Waverly swallowed her thoughts and locked her door, “Uh Bart.”

Nicole groaned, Barton Hall was a good 20 minutes away from this dorm building specifically. She started the car again and turned it around to face the exit. Waverly hung up after crackling over the car speakers, “I’m almost there through running pants.” Nicole saw the brunette barrel towards the passenger side and reached over to open the door. Normally she would have gotten out and unlocked it for her, but this was not the time for a chivalrous tardy moment. Waverly clutched her seat belt while Nicole slid to a stop and into an empty spot on the street outside Barton Hall. Waverly hopped out of the car checking the time on the dash. 9:57.

 “I... thankyou...we will talk later for sure about everything kay,” Waverly shook her head profusely starting to leave the car.

“It’s okay Waves I’d do anything to you,” Nicole stammers out her eyes going wide at the slip up. Waverly stopped her frantic removal from the door almost completely. She peered through the half open door shrugging on her pack. Nicole’s gaze fell from Waverly’s eyes to a small questioning grin forming on her lips.

 “You mean…. for me Nicole,” Waverly said. “Yea that too but go waves shake a leg,” Nicole chuckled nervously and looked away. Waverly closed the door waving goodbye and ran into the building. Nicole let out a sigh seeing Waverly disappear behind the metal door, before putting the car back in drive.”

Yea friends I can do that she thought.

***

Nicole pulled into the security office ready to tackle Woodbridge's next great campus story. Her jacket hung loosely to her body as she adjusted her hat at the door and made her way into the building. She waved to Lonnie before walking to the officer’s area and clocking into the digital shift management system. “Lucado wants to see you Haught,” another officer stated exiting the biggest office down a hall. Nicole sighed and checked her appearance in the reflection of the blank asleep computer screen. The least she could do was look presentable in front of her boss. When she knocked on Lucado’s door her no nonsense toned boss stated, enter Haught. The conversation was brief, Nicole sat in her seat confident and stern faced. Lucado grilled her about a few student officers and questioned her about academy. At the end of the conversation Lucado slid Nicole a yellow piece of paper stamped recommendation. It was somewhat shocking to Nicole but Lucado insisted. Send copies of this in when you send in your secondary paper applications. It should help you, even though you need not much help. You will make a fine officer one day Nicole. Lucado was stern but that validation was very rewarding to Nicole. She shook her chiefs hand before exiting the office and walking back to find out her duties for the day with a pep in her step. *** Waverly was in her last class and she felt drained. The hangover she never got hit her hard halfway through the day. So hard that in the middle of her lunch period she sat curled in a booth her jacket hood covering her face in the cafeteria. She was blocking out as much light as she could just to keep the headache at bay. It must have been the jungle juice from the party she internally reflected. Waverly found a way to text Nicole through the building pressure to find out her day was going better than hers at least. Hangover or not, that Monday ended up terrible. From a pissed off sigma president to an equally pissed off cheer coach things began to pile on Waverly. Usually the pressure of college was manageable but today was not one of those days.  The sigma president was upset because Waverly had chosen a pink shade of paint for a mural that was practically the same color as their soror colors it just had a different name. The cheer coach was unhappy with Waverly for constrictively criticizing another cheerleaders twist as she dismounted during practice. Even though as captain that was one of her responsibilities. It made no sense to Waverly, but she took the judgement just the same. Her favorite history professor loved her paper at least. It was in her history afternoon class that Waverly hung her head and felt tears prick at the sides of her eyes. She really shouldn’t be crying she thought this wasn’t the worst moment she had in school so far. When the class was dismissed Waverly stood outside of the building while checking the and pondered before calling. “I am so tired,” she mumbled across the phone.

movie

ao3 cross

pairing: bakugou/reader

“What?”

“I said,” you spoke offhandedly, eyes trailing the blonde ambling into the room with his mail. “We should go watch a movie on your day off.”

“Oh wouldn’t I just love that?” His voice was utterly drenched in sarcasm as he dropped the package, pressing a hand into the column of his neck with an irritated hiss. He sat without a semblance of grace, kicking the chair back.

“What? Why not?” You whined, begged, leaned over the table to invade his personal space. He batted away your flailing arms with a single hand, eyes never moving from the box he was opening. 

“I don’t have time,” he grumbled.

“Please?” Your muffled voice came from underneath his palm. Peering through the gaps in his spread fingers your tone softened, lips pressing gently to the rough skin. “You’re always training.” The young hero barely had any time to do anything, and it was driving you nuts. “Spend some time with me?”

Bakugou glared down at you. You found yourself being lost in the tunnel of those blood red eyes--a familiar storm within them quietly brewing, calm for now but ready to rage when necessary. 

He grunted a sigh, reluctantly submitting to your request. “Fine.”

You positively beamed, wiggling your eyebrows. “Yes! It’s a date then.”

“Not a date.”

“Shh,” You flicked his forehead. “Get into the spirit you brat.”

This’ll be nice, you thought to yourself as you jumped over the couch, dodging the chair that was thrown at you by the enraged hero. A nice, peaceful escape from the stress and excitement. After all, what could go wrong?

As it turned out, the right question to ask may have been ‘what could go right.’

Because everything was going wrong.

“We are not watching some dumb chick flick,” he eyed the poster of the movie with disdain.

The cashier looked nervously between the two of you from the booth, raising his hand slightly. “U-uh, you guys are holding up the l-line-”

“Shut up!” You both turned on him simultaneously, and he let out a terrified squeakclose to that of a dying animal. 

 You hissed a sigh through your teeth, turning back to Bakugou. “This is supposed to be a time to relax.”

“Sure.”

“Peace. Tranquility.”

“And?”

“What about loud explosions is relaxing to you?!”

His scowl deepened. “Do you even see who you’re talking to?”

“I-If i may cut in,” the cashier spoke again, quickly, rushing over the words lest the two of you decided to turn dark stares upon him again. “How about a c-compromise? There’s the n-newest comedy out?”

You paused. That might actually not be that bad. You turned hopeful eyes to your companion as he groaned for the third time that day.

“Fine,” that seemed to be his favourite word for handling the exhaustion that came with you, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The cashier smiled, handing you the movie tickets with your receipt. “There you go! I hope you enjoy your date!”

Bakugou snatched the tickets with a bit more force than necessary. “Not a date.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the cashier’s flabbergasted expression and rushing to follow after his long strides. “Don’t worry--he’s just shy. Have a good day!”

The movie itself, quite plainly, sucked.

It was corny--and not intentionally so, but the kind that was trying way too hard with every bad pun. The row in front you seated a woman whose extravagant hair-do was attempting to shoot into the ceiling, and consequently you had to find creative ways to maneuver your head so that you could even see the screen. A couple elementary school kids across from you were snickering at everything. And you meant everything. 

You had to physically hold down Bakugou’s hand from blasting them through the wall.

Bakugou himself only got more annoyed as time passed--though you think that attributed more to the people around than the movie itself. He seemed pretty impassive on the film, apart from the occasional smirk whenever the main character would get hurt for comedic effect. Figures that would be what he found funny.

Your own mood increasingly soured with each second. Soon you lost interest completely, the screen becoming a collage of flickering pictures and background noise.

By the time the movie had ended, you had a stiff back from the seats, a headache from the rowdiness, and a strong temporary dislike for children.

“That was dumb,” Bakugou said, cut clear and straight to the point as the two of you walked down the sidewalk. You agreed.

“It was. I always seem to mess everything up yeah?” You mused absentmindedly that you hadn’t seen the stars in a while - what with the light pollution in your neighbourhood. It was nice to admire the twinkling lights for even a moment.

When you glanced back down, Bakugou was looking at you as if you had just said you were planning to go fly to the moon.

“What are you on about now?” He narrowed his crimson eyes at you in incomprehension, small wrinkles cresting by his eyebrows, his mouth twisted down in a familiar yet entirely alien gesture.

“You said you didn’t want to come, but I pushed anyway,” you laughed. “Right?” The laughter wouldn’t stop, and soon you found that words were falling from your lips without passing through your brain first. “Every time we try something like this, it fails. I should have learned my lesson by now, but I guess not. Looks like I’m even more stubborn than you.”

He stopped still, the scuffling of his shoes on the gravel fading to a silence that echoed down the empty street. You didn’t notice, already caught up in the white noise that buzzed and pounded inside your head.

“I don’t know why I even try anymore. Is it pity why you still tolerate me?” you rambled, choking on the laughter that had turned to gasping convulsions of giggles. Self deprecation twisted inside you, burrowed deep, writhing. “Not that I’d be very surprised-”

You tripped.

It wasn’t of your own volition, more a side effect of the hand that had suddenly grabbed onto the back of your shirt and pulled. The collar tightened around the front of your throat momentarily as you tried not to stumble. 

Bakugou released you once you were firmly put back by his side, making you realize you had begun walking without him. When had he stopped moving?

“Baku-?”

“First,” he made abrupt eye contact with you, his storm fully raging now, yet somehow still managing to look almost bored. You couldn’t break the gaze--it successfully planted you to the ground, preventing you from leaving whether you wanted to or not. “Stop with the waterworks.”

You blinked owlishly, mute in confusion, before you slowly registered the wetness on your cheeks. You touched a hand cautiously to the skin in disbelief. You hadn’t even noticed you’d been crying. Your mind further blanked when a coarse thumb wiped underneath your left eye, taking some of the moisture with it. 

“You’re being more of an idiot than usual. How are you responsible for the cashier recommending us that waste of time? Or for the morons in the theater?”

You couldn’t find a rebuttal. “I-”

“Quiet,” he growled, yet the caressing motion of his thumb on your cheek contradicted the harsh statement. “You’re messing up that damn makeup you wailed and fussed over this morning.” You flushed in embarrassment, knowing you over dressed for this simple outing. You couldn’t help it. You had just been so…happy. 

The blonde’s utter disregard of sugar coating the ridiculousness of what you were doing cut through your emotional fog, and you sighed. 

“You’re…right,” You murmured, tugging at the end of your shirt absentmindedly. “I’m sorry.” 

You made to move, already eager to get back home. You were exhausted, the shoes you had chosen to wear uncomfortable and squeezing the life out of your toes, makeup no doubt smudged. Your bed was calling to you, inviting you in its warm embrace.

“Didn’t I just say to shut up?” 

Perplexity and soon annoyance flooded you at his words, and your head snapped up, ready to lay it on him thick. Your mouth opened but any thoughts fell on a noiseless tongue as he slid his hand to the back of your neck, unnaturally warm against your clammy skin, the pads of his fingers pushing you closer abruptly. 

His mouth met yours and the world fell away. 

Against anything you ever would have predicted, it was soft at first. He was gentle even. (That’s it, that’s the sign, you must have been hallucinating, this is Bakugou you were talking about.) He pressed a short kiss to the corner of your mouth, once, twice, barely there, hovering. The third time he noticeably lingered, as if savouring the contact, fingers grazing the baby hairs at the base of your neck.

There was a lull, a split second where nothing was happening at all, merely shared breaths and uncertain hesitancies. You swallowed shakily, letting out a shocked whisper of his name from your lips onto his. 

The moment snapped and then his hand was suddenly tangled in your hair, and he was kissing you. You swear you felt sparks, bursts of heat running along your skin--and there was a good chance that it wasn’t your imagination, steam rising in your peripheral from him. He took advantage of your slightly parted lips--open from the words you never got to say--and dove deeper, pressed his free hand into the arch of your spine so that he could close the distance between you forcefully. You tried to think, comprehend what was going on, but anything other than the feel of his hands on your skin, the desperation curling in your chest, the taste of him was shoved to the back of your mind. 

It was over all too soon, and you opened your eyes (opened, when had you even closed them?) to see him studying you with an unreadable expression. He licked his lips briefly, causing your heart to stutter, before he turned wordlessly.

“Terrible date,” he spoke, but his words had no bite as he began to walk once more. You stood for another second, speechless, before a grin spread contagiously across your face.

“You admitted it was a date!” You yelled as you ran to catch up with him, nearly face-planting from your unsteady feet.

He snorted.

“I knew it!”

Opening up that sequel to the m/m erotica thing from ages ago. I had more done than I thought...

##

In the onyx crevices of night, surrounded by blue satin-stripe sheets and pillow-mountains and bed-coziness, Ben Smith, ex-secret-agent and happily married Academy instructor, attempted poking his husband in the ribs. For the second time. “Love?”

 “Completely asleep. Go away.”

 “You love me.”

 “Wholeheartedly, indubitably, and eternally. Also sleepily.” But a hand curled up and found his, fingers lacing together in the night. Unspoken question: was it a nightmare, whose face did you see, which memory of a mission performed too well for your country, can I hold you, let me help.

 “I love you,” Ben told him, answering the unsaid words with a kiss to the back of Simon’s neck, fine hairs and fair skin and familiar warmth reflected in his own heart. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

 Simon rolled over and opened curious eyes at him, a lazy glint of pale blue in the dark. “Depends on what you mean by busy. I’ve got the proofs of the American edition of Lady Olivia’s Lover to go through—and I can only hope they’ve not just done find-and-replace with certain words this time, because round and around do not always mean the same thing even in the Colonies—”

 “What century is this, again?”

 “At three in the morning you’re lucky I’m within five hundred years. And yes, I love you. They don’t need my input until next Wednesday, so I’ve got a few days. Did you have something in mind?”

 “Maybe. How’re you feeling?” He balanced on an elbow, brushed fingers over that moon-washed cheekbone, cupped Simon’s face in his hand, rubbed a thumb over enticing skin. “Better?”

 “I was better last week,” Simon said, and smiled, brilliant and sweet in drifting shadows. “These days I believe frustrated is the term. Am I allowed to have all the incandescently wonderful sex with you, yet?”

 “I said maybe. If I’m convinced you’re up to it.” His hand trailed along the line of curling gilt-edged hair, almost silver in the dimness, a beacon. Fingers over a temple, a pulse-point, beating. The night held its breath.

 He’d gotten that phone call while teaching, in the middle of a history class: Agency legends and the truth behind them, guest lecture next week from a very old acquaintance with a Russian accent, so pay attention to this bit and brush up on the nineteen-eighties alliances—

 His phone’d vibrated; he’d not recognized the number, and ignored it.

 One of the secretaries’d come in. He’d turned, at the opening of the door. Had seen the boy’s face.

 A car. A drunk driver—at three in the afternoon, what the actual hell—and a person who’d just stepped out for a trip to the post office, enjoying the walk and the sunshine, giving recalcitrant words some space before returning to the computer. A person who’d lived in America for barely a year and who consistently looked the wrong way at street corners and who could be left alone for five seconds in an empty room and find something to walk into or trip over.

 Simon did have a decent amount of flexibility and athleticism, otherwise. Went running in the mornings. Had tried, mid-intersection, to throw himself out of the way.

 Ben, shaking internally, had followed the nurse through numb white hospital corridors, and told himself that his husband was fine, bruised but fine, awake and talking, they’d said so on the phone, not lying broken and unconscious and bleeding to death while a class went on and a phone rang unanswered…

 The nurse had opened the door. Simon, sitting up, bandaged and pale, had smiled at him.

 The world had exhaled, thumping back into familiar rotation.

 In the present, he exhaled too. Remembering.

 “Love,” Simon said, and draped a leg over his waist, and managed to only slightly kick him in the hip along the way; better than average, Ben thought, and smiled, though only to himself. Holding on. “Can we play with handcuffs and vibrators, then? Or should I not ask, if you’ve got surprises in store?”

 “I’m…not sure yet. Nothing too intense, though.” Nothing that might leave more bruises. No extra wounds. “And you’ll tell me if anything hurts.”

 “I always have.” Leaning forward, a nudge of noses in the smoky night. “I always will. I am perfectly fine, you know.”

 “I know.” They’d mostly kept Simon overnight for observation—he’d been unconscious when the ambulance had arrived, and had thoroughly confused the paramedics by waking up en route to the hospital and asking whether anyone’d picked up any packages of books signed by Lady Simone Ashley, romance novelist, and if so could someone please put them in the post, because they needed to end up in London by next week, thank you.

 Ben, hearing that story with his husband’s hand secure in his, had laughed. He’d had to, in order to hold back the tears.

 The injuries had all but faded out of existence, two and a half weeks on. Even the hideous evil color that’d spread over that vulnerable temple, turning fair skin black and purple and ugly. It’d made Ben’s stomach twist every time he’d caught a glimpse: a new gut-shot, unexpected and cruel.

 “Turn off your alarm,” he said, skimming fingers over a bare shoulder, the compact muscles and lines and planes of Simon’s back. Memorizing, though he didn’t need to: already etched into his soul. “I’ll wake us up.”

 And then, hastily: “No, wait, don’t move. I’m turning off your alarm. The last time you tried to find your phone in the dark we lost a bedside lamp. Um. Orders.”

 “Oh, fine, if you’re making it an order, sir…” Simon moved the leg, rolled over, stayed put amid the encouraging sheets. “To be fair, it was a hideously unpleasant lamp. Gave me bruises. This one’s nicer.”

 This one was wall-mounted. There were reasons they owned easily replaceable coffee mugs and kitchen chairs. Ben climbed happily across his husband and the expanse of bed, plucked Simon’s mobile phone neatly from its spot, and tried not to be too smug about spy training and mobility in darkness.

 “I can hear you grinning.”

 “No you can’t. Secret agent. Stealthy. Undercover.”

 “Writer. Automatic superpowers. Though—under covers, you said…”

 “I did.” He tugged all the gilt-and-moonbeam hair and tiny-whirlwind muscles back into his arms, pulling up the sheet. The night settled snugly around them: no need for heavier blankets. Only themselves. Enough.

 He’d always loved the way they fit together. Puzzle pieces that shouldn’t work, but somehow did: incongruities finding each other, English-aristocrat pixie-height slimness and startling strength aligned with usefully ordinary brown hair and average build and a still-standing Academy marksmanship record. Simon was eight years younger than he was, and—rather astonishingly given their respective professions—about a hundred times more cynical, except for when it came to one word, and that word was love.

 Happy endings, in all the novels. Hope. Commitment. Acts of banner-waving courage, given the author’s background. Most readers didn’t know. Ben did, and was privately all too aware that an ocean lay between his guns and Simon’s father.

 He wrapped a hand around one elegantly-boned wrist. Squeezed, enough to be felt. Simon sighed, smiled, shut phantom-blue eyes. “Yes, please.”

 Anchors, then. A foot hooked over an ankle, body weight deployed as certainty. Holding on; holding down. Conviction: all mine.

 “All yours,” Simon whispered, castle-spire echoes of Ben’s thought. “Always.”

 “You are. Go to sleep.” And he heard the hint of drowsy laughter, tinged with arousal, submission, sunrise desire, in the answering “Yes, sir,” in the way that wrist and smaller body relaxed under physical and verbal command.

 They fell asleep tangled up together. They woke the same way.

 Or at least Ben did; he lived with a person who often didn’t awaken until several minutes after freshly brewed tea’d been waved under his nose. He wondered on occasion how Simon’d ever survived morning classes at that starched-collar boarding school. Unsolved mystery of life, that one was. But not one he minded living with. Forever.

 He lay unmoving for a moment, appreciating the view. Watched his husband sleep, face squashed into the pillow in a fantastically inelegant fashion, hair sticking up in mischievous night-spikes. Simon asleep looked like sunrise, he decided, all sunshine curls and creamy skin and careless contentment; like a miniature masterpiece painted in gold that’d somehow collided with a pillow and learned how to very quietly snore.

 Beautiful, Ben thought, and his heart twisted under his breastbone, a helpless fiercely longing ache; he did have plans, and had made promises. So he got up, noiseless as ever, and wandered over to a very particular dresser drawer.

  Simon woke up blinking, yawning adorably, trying to move a hand to sweep disheveled hair out of one eye. The eye, and the other one, widened. Ah. Realization.

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Five

Table of Contents

Past

11/14: Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Malcolm waited in the room hoping for everybody to be gone soon but Jessica appeared to be in for the long run. She was on the phone for some time, chatting with old friends or who he assumed were old friends. Whenever he met any of her friends there wasn’t anything too friendly about him, but then again, it wasn’t like he was good at making friends with. Maybe it ran in the family.

A few times Jessica paused in her conversation and looked at him. He laid there doing his best to fake sleep. Maybe she bought it or grew bored because after some time she was gone. Malcolm laid in his bed, he stayed on his side while looking at his last notes attempting to wrap his brain around what was happening.

His lungs felt all swollen and like rocks at the same time. Maybe if he moved a little bit too much to the left or right, it’d cause more damage. The timeline of the past few days felt destructive. Was that possible? Must be seeing how it was happening right then and there at his fingertips.

With Jessica gone and his brain finally talking himself into some movement, Malcolm sat up adding a new entry.

11/15: Woke up in bed. Father wasn’t here when I woke up. Ainsley wasn’t around, but mother was here and on the phone. I think I remember falling asleep here.

Malcolm went to hide it under his pillow. His lungs still feeling swollen. Maybe it was allergies or maybe it was asthma. His fingertips brushed up against something and he pulled the pillow back to find a pocket knife present with a little note. Past him was smart, good for past him. The note didn’t say a whole lot other than what needed to be said.

Yours. For protection.

But protection from what? Malcolm slipped it into his back pocket about to leave not knowing how to fight any of the surrounding ghosts. Each one posed a possible threat. Sometimes he was sure he could even hear them speaking in his sleep. Then again it was hard to tell because he couldn’t remember how or where he fell asleep (or passed out it sure seemed).

The halls are empty though. Empty of people, empty of voices, empty of the ghosts. He moved through them without any real direction while using the steps instead of the elevator where a girl went missing. He watched her look out and around as danger followed her but not danger caught on camera. There was no telling what horrors bit into the lives of people moving up and down them. Probably more than the elevators. Yet he heard nothing.

Malcolm left on a different floor finding himself again alone. Something tugged at his aching lungs, moving him forward over the gross floor of the place. Its orange and red shapes, such an eyesore. The only sound around was him. His feet scraping the carpet. His breathing. His heart pumping, louder than it should. His apparent new knife moving in his back pocket.

Until there was another sound, a sound in front of him of one of the many, many, many doors opening up. Hinges with some rust. Needed oil or whatever it was that fixed doors. Even though he wanted to stop, he couldn’t. He told his brain to tell his feet to stop, stop, stop, but he couldn’t. . .stop.

Room 217.

The door hung open and he held his breath, which somehow hurt his lungs more. To make matters worse, his feet continued. They weren’t about to stop either. It was as if ghosts were in the soles of his shoes. Forcing him forward. Before he could reach out and enter, a jarring noise knocked him over. One he couldn’t quite define. Sounded as if a chain were dragging across the floor. He looked up to find Ainsley there on a tricycle out of all the things in the world.

“What are you doing?” Ainsley blurted.

Malcolm’s hand was on the door, he was close to opening it but wait, it was open. He could’ve sworn it was wide open and he was there opening it.

Instead of finding an answer, he retorted, “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to ride a bicycle!”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Help me out?”

Malcolm shook his head and opened the door a little more except he let it go. He came over to his sister giving her a little push away from the room. This wasn’t a good place. It wasn’t a good place. He could hear the warnings straight through the door while the rest of them were noiseless. Ainsley didn’t notice, couldn’t notice, it wasn’t in her.

“I’ll be right back,” he called after her.

Happiness leaped around Ainsley’s mind as she rode her bike away. She shot him a smirk and simply said, “I’m free.”

Which meant Malcolm was back in Room 217, the door for sure wide open again. Inside the place was a mint green, which he couldn’t recall if it’d always been. A stark contrast to the red and orange of the hall. Malcolm moved his feet over its threshold into the room hearing a lost voice hum and old tune.

I'll be seeing you, In all the old familiar places.

The music twisted through the air bringing him forward into the mint green room. Water swished in the bathroom where the tune emanated from. Chances were, Malcolm should turn around. He should turn around right away. He should turn away right then and there, but he didn’t.

That this heart of mine embraces, All day and through, In that small cafe.

Unable to stop, stop, stop. . .Malcolm entered the bathroom even though that would be frowned upon. It wasn’t his room nor was it his bathroom. Except nobody appeared to be present. The walls were a whole shade of lighter mint green. He heard something scraping the sides of the tub but as soon as he took one step forward he heard somebody blurt out a Help me, but if they did or didn’t, somebody yanked him backward.

Martin spun Malcolm around. The Help me echoed in Malcolm’s brain while he looked up at his father unsure as to why he was shaking.

“Malcolm? What are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to go into any of the rooms,” Martin started right away, his voice pitched at almost a shout. Not the regular Martin he knew. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I. . .I don’t know? The door was open?”

“What are you talking about? Why would the door be open?”

Malcolm shrugged, racking his brain for answers, possible answers. “Your friend stays here.”

“My friend? What-What are you talking about?”

“J-J-John?” The name was lost to him. This needed to be a note. A note with the rest of his notes. “Your friend!”

The old tune rang true from the bathroom.

The park across the way, The children's carousel, The chestnut trees, The wishing well.

“Your-Your friend who helped us with the wasp stings?”

Watkins, Martin’s thought rang true but he said something else, “Gil?”

It wasn’t like Malcolm could correct him and go no the first so he shook his head.

I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day. . .

Martin steered Malcolm away but he made a poor attempt to dig his heels into the floor. He looked over unsure if the earlier Help me continued to echo or he heard somebody in there. He did see somebody in there though. Yet he wasn’t sure. If maybe it was Martin’s thoughts or his earlier vision unable to register a girl lying in chains, lost in a bathtub with no way to shout but she tried her best. She meant what she meant. Help me! Help me!

“Let’s get some food into you so you feel better,” Martin said as he continued to steer Malcolm from the room.

Malcolm leaned his head back a bit to look up at his father. It’s not working. Why isn’t it working? Malcolm wanted to ask, What? But couldn’t. Martin offered him an unsettling smile, which made him feel in more danger. Way more danger if his father somehow knew he was something else (not human), and could read minds and see ghosts and who knew what else.

“Can’t have anything bad happening to my boy,” Martin said, marching Malcolm into the elevator. He closed his eyes almost wanting to pass out to make this all end. It didn’t. The doors opened like they usually did. Martin wasn’t finished moving him through the place. He led him into the large bar area, which was still filled with a cacophony of spirits. “Found him!”

Jessica and Ainsley sat at a set table as if they were about to eat a meal at home. Jessica sipped at very different spirits of her own. Ainsley was there picking at some baby corn on her plate looking as if she would throw up if anybody made sure she ate her vegetables today.

“Found him wandering around in the rooms upstairs,” Martin said.

Jessica pouted. “Malcolm! You know you can’t do that.” She sighed but the moment didn’t prevent him from stopping drinking for too long.

Malcolm sat at the table with the ghosts all around them. Each of them chatting and enjoying their time. Somewhere a very different sort of old tune played. Should auld acquaintance be forgot? And never brought to mind? In a weak attempt, Malcolm tried to shoot them all a look to study what they were wearing. Except Jessica put her glass down all while Martin disappeared to the back to bring out some more food.

“Is everything alright?” Jessica asked.

Ainsley continued to destroy her baby corn without eating it. “He’s afraid of the ghosts.”

“I’m not. . .I’m not afraid of the ghosts,” Malcolm said a little louder than her as if it’d counteract what she just said.

Both Ainsley and Jessica now watched him. “The ghosts?” Jessica looked between the two of them. “You are both too morbid.” Martin returned with two plates. One for himself and one for Malcolm. “Martin, these two are talking about ghosts! It’s this place. . .” She paused to give it a dramatic look as she pointed all around. “. . .It’s so grotesque!”

“I did hear there were a few ghost stories around here,” started Martin. He watched Malcolm though as if it were a one on one conversation. “I in fact heard there was one even in the room you were snooping around in.” It didn’t work. Why isn’t it working? I need a better plan of attack. “Before coming up here, I was informed a woman took her own life in that room.”

“Martin!” Jessica cut in. “Not in front of Ainsley.”

“What does that mean?” Ainsley piped up.

“Is she ok now?” Malcolm for some reason asked.

“No,” Martin whispered.

Help me. Somebody was up in the room and alive. For some reason, she was caught up in chains and lying inside a bathtub. As if he could see her, Malcolm looked up. Some back thought told him, he could find her, if he tried hard enough. He could find her with his own mind. Malcolm continued to sit there looking up letting all the noise around him fade out and again there she was Help me!

“Malcolm?” Jessica touched the back of his hand bringing him back. It was easy to read her lips as she asked, “Are you feeling alright?” Her words are all lost thanks to Martin’s loud, loud, loud thoughts of, He knows.

No, the answer was no, but the answer for everybody listening with their ears at the table. It was instead, “Yes.”

It all began with the silence as it stretched out its wispy fingers to touch every inch of her being with a cold and soothing caress as if to say It is alright, now. I'm here and I will make it all better. As she moved through the halls of her childhood home with nothing but the echoes of her steps to fill the air, Caroline became extremely aware of the lack of noise. The house was no longer filled with her friends and other well-wishers that wished to offer their condolences, there was no music or television left playing, and the police scanner that she had grown accustomed to hearing since adolescence sat lifeless in its spot on the counter. As if the universe had decided to mute itself in her presence, even the fabric of the intricately folded flag refused to rustle when she carefully placed it within the triangle shaped frame she had been provided. Just leave it to me. The silence whispered to her without words as she picked up one of her mother’s sweaters that had been discarded on the sofa and brought it up to her nose, coaxing all of her restless thoughts to bed while luring her stronger, more resilient inhibitions out of the darkness where they normally resided. She closed her eyes as she inhaled the naturally sweet maple and lavender scent that had always clung to Liz Forbes like an expensive perfume, filing away the memory before welcoming the silence further and her breath caught in her throat. Don't fret, it breathed as it curled around her nerve endings and became entangled with her veins, It is going to be okay. “I said I was fine, Elena,” she said in a smooth, controlled voice that sounded so odd in comparison to the noiselessness that filled her. “I don't believe you.” After taking a deep breath, Caroline turned to face the brunette that filled her doorway. “All day something’s been bugging me,” Elena continued, not waiting for a welcome. “You wanted to pack this all in so quickly like you had somewhere that you needed to be. I mean, you were so concerned with getting through today without a hint of how you'd feel tomorrow and then I realized… you don't want to feel tomorrow. That's the plan, right? You're not going to feel tomorrow. Because you're going to turn it all off.” “I thought that I could get through the rough patch and then just pick myself up after like I usually do.” The blonde shook her head, heavy eyelashes blinking rapidly in an attempt to keep the moisture in her eyes at bay. “But then Damon made me realize that it's just going to get worse.” “You’re listening to Damon?” Elena asked, her timbre moving with her obvious confusion. “Well, I can't do worse, Elena, okay? I didn't even think there was a worse. It's better this way.” “Better? Care, you're talking about flipping the humanity switch. There is nothing ‘better’ about that.” “That is your experience,” she snapped, “okay, I have more control over my vampire self than you ever did. My experience will be different.” “It's not going to be different, Care, it's going to be deadly. You saw what happened to me when I did it.” “Yeah, that's my point, Elena! You did it. You couldn't handle the pain when your brother died so you turned it off. Damon died so you erased all of your memories. Stefan moved to Savannah and became an auto mechanic. What? Do you think you guys are the only ones who get to escape grief?” “You just mentioned two of the biggest mistakes that I ever made.” “Were they mistakes?” Caroline asked, “because when you came out on the other end, the worst part of your pain was gone. And that's what I need. I just need the pain to be gone.” I can do that, spoke the silence once more. “My mom is dead, Elena. And I… it hurts so bad I can't breathe. I can't do worse. I can't. Okay? I shouldn't have to.” “You shouldn't. It's not fair. You shouldn't have to.” Elena spoke as she pulled her into a hug, one of her hands moving to cradle the back of Caroline's head as if she were a small child that was in need of a warm embrace. “Please listen to me.” As Elena continued to talk, the chill within her bones began to give way to a numbing sensation as her hot tears and flushed skin were slowly being kissed by internal snow flurries that chilled her to the bone and covered her anxieties under ice and snow. Aren't I a nice change? It had silently sighed as it dimmed the lights inside of her until it seemed as if she were in a state of midnight, Don't I make you feel better? It was only after the last of her inner light had been hidden away and the scene was truly set that the monster made its appearance within her. It didn't act as she had always imagined.There were no dripping fangs or black eyes, no trail of bodies and destruction left in its wake. It was only a girl - a monster of a girl, but a girl nonetheless - whose shoulders didn't share the same weight, whose eyes weren't clouded by tears, and whose heart wasn't as utterly broken as her own. Why don't you let me fix it all for you? The monster had said in her own, coaxing voice. You need time to heal. Let me make this right. “I'm not gonna let you do this,” Elena was saying, unaware of the pieces that were clicking into place beneath Caroline’s skin until the blonde's hand gripped at her neck and gave it a sharp yank to the side. Turn it off and I will make everything go away. “That’s not your choice to make,” Caroline and her monster said in unison, speaking through the same pair of lips, as she stared down at the limp body of her friend that now decorated her living room floor. ~ ~ ~ Caroline had bared witness to quite a lot of oddities in her short life. In fact, she had been up-front and center to more than a few things that no one should ever see: as a body shriveled up at the end of a wooden stake; as a man that she had known her entire life transformed into a giant wolf before her very eyes; the blood of her friends dripping from the fanged mouth of a monster.   Even still, she felt an intriguing and dangerous sort of allure as she moved through the city of New Orleans under the veil of night with the evidence of her latest meal coating her lower lip. Everything around her buzzed as if the city itself was bursting with energy, eager to welcome her into it's latest tryst. She could practically feel it seeping from the streets, up through the solid heels of her boots, and settling into her bones. Before, Caroline had never given much thought to the illustrious city unless Mardi Gras, Popeye’s, or Hurricane Katrina were being mentioned but now, being completely immersed in the colors, sounds, and smells, she didn’t know how she’d stayed away for so long. It called to her - beckoned her deeper into the Quarter with the enticing curl of a lovers finger - and the darkness inside of her was all too eager to accept the challenge that was laid out before her on a silver platter.   Her golden blonde locks floated about her head as a large gust of wind tunneled through the narrow street, causing her to reach up and hold tight to the thin scarf around her neck. It wasn’t anything close to the bitter, bone chilling winter cold that she’d grown up with in Virginia, but it was enough to send a chill throughout her small frame that only the warmth of another - whether it be with blood or body - could cure.   As she walked further, the multi colored buildings and bars lined with neon lights were slowly meshed with rustic rot-iron gates and older style formations until they were replaced all together, statues of weeping angels and columned architecture of the older structures taking their place. The chalky, white dust floated up from the ground with every step that she took, coating her shoes in the process. Never in her life had Caroline ever found herself in a part of town so elegant and ornate. Despite its obvious age, the resting ground was in pristine condition. There was no sign of vandalism or graffiti that often disgraced the older cemeteries in towns even as small as Mystic Falls. The monuments were clean and defined, like they’d been erected only days earlier; the above catholic structures, with their crosses and carved figures, stood proudly and untouched aside from the fresh flowers that rested in a few scattered vases and the occasional forgotten beer bottle. All around her, the night air was as still as the dead that occupied it, with only Caroline to disturb the pristine scene with her harsh edges and bloody clothing.     It was all very beautiful, but in the way that a devastating storm had the ability to take one's breath away: tantalizing and mesmerizing, all the while masking something devastating and rotting. The other female's scent caught up to Caroline before the rest of her did - that natural flowery smell that always seemed to cling to the young woman like an expensive perfume that had been applied too generously in hopes of masking the underlying smell of death, only slightly masked by the lingering breath of her mint toothpaste and the always present tang of liquor that filled the bar. When they had first met, Caroline had been so intrigued by the Necromancer’s interesting smell. Now it just scraped at her senses like nails against a chalkboard - yet another reminder of the many reasons why she had left the trivial sentimentalities of her humanity behind. Following that scent to a nearby bar - one she had frequented rather regularly since arriving in the Quarter due to its magical ties - she discarded the body in the adjoining alley before dusting off her hands, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and making her way inside. "Stop me if you've heard this one," Caroline stated smoothly as she slid into the barstool to Aaron’s right a few moments later, signaling for a drink, before crossing her tanned legs and tilting her body in the familiar blondes direction, "a necromancer with a death wish, a humanity-less vampire, and a hundred-some innocent humans walk into a bar...."

Wide Awake, My Mistake - Part Four

Fluffy Jack Barakat Imagine - requested by a few Anons, hope you like it! Request: Part four of this imagine Word Count: 4,312

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Jack awoke to the sound of a continuous rapping on his bedroom door. He groaned; the sound bouncing around his head like an echo. He'd woken up foggy and hazy, like he had been drinking heavily the night before – part of him wished he had been. “What?” he croaked, his voice raspy as it grated against his dry throat.

“I'm taking you to school, so you better be ready.” It was Joe. He sounded indifferent; his voice void of any notable emotion. Jack narrowed his eyes in confusion before rubbing at them sleepily.

Jack managed to muster up enough energy to sit up, his head pounding against his skull. “Uh, no, that's fine, I'll just drive myself,” Jack responded, finally pulling himself off of his bed and reaching for the black skinny jeans strewn on the floor, which he'd worn the day before. Jack was a little perplexed by Joe's offer, but his brain was already overflowing with other concerns.

“I'll be waiting in the car,” Joe muttered from behind the door, his tone was impatient and frustrated. Jack cocked a brow at the closed door, confused but ultimately not too bothered by the strange behaviour. Perhaps Joe wanted to speak with him, considering the pair of them hadn't spoke since their argument the night before.

Jack had wandered around for a while after you'd left him on your front porch. The idea of going home and facing Joe was a little intimidating, so he just walked the dimly lit streets, enjoying the silence – though, his thoughts were overwhelmingly loud. He'd still not allowed himself to truly think about the situation. He could quite possibly be a dad...

By the time Jack had found his way back home, his house was silent and Joe's snoring was audible from the landing. Jack wondered if Joe had known all that Jack did, would Joe sleep just as soundly? Perhaps, but Jack had had no luck. He hadn't remembered falling asleep, but he remembered that his phone had read 5:30am the last time he checked it before eventually passing out from sheer exhaustion.

“Sorry about the wait,” Jack mumbled groggily as he slid into the passenger seat of his family's shared minivan. Joe was tapping the steering wheel in frustration, his eyes not even moving to acknowledge Jack before he was starting up the car. “I had to take a shower,” Jack explained quietly to the empty, noiseless car. He jolted forward as Joe began to drive off before Jack had even had chance to fasten his seat belt.

The pair sat in silence for a little while; Jack uncomfortably running his hand through his still damp hair, sneaking glances at his seemingly emotionless brother, trying to gage what he was feeling. “About last night...” Jack began, figuring if Joe wouldn't start the uncomfortable conversation, then he'd do it.

“I don't care,” Joe muttered under his breath. Jack narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I know you went to see her,” his voice was stale and harsh, like he was spitting every word out of his mouth in distaste. Jack went to speak – not entirely certain what would come out, but Joe interrupted him regardless. “I know what you're up to, okay?” he side-eyed Jack before turning his attention back to the road. “You can tell her whatever you want, but it won't matter,” he continued talking in Jack's direction, but it didn't feel like a conversation; more like Joe trying to convince himself.

Jack furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?” Joe shook his head and scoffed, ignoring his younger brother. His driving had became a lot more reckless as the journey had continued, and as Joe had seemingly became angrier. They rounded a corner and Jack's school came into vision. “You can just drop me here,” Jack mumbled, reaching for his backpack, but Joe ignored him. He sped up and drove straight for the front of the school, which was littered with teens making their way inside. “Dude, what are you doing?!” Jack exclaimed, watching as a few kids jumped back in fear at the suddenly emerged minivan.

Joe continued to ignore Jack, jumping out of the car without even so much as closing the door behind him; the engine still running. Jack was taken aback, trying to ignore all of the funny looks he was getting from his peers as he watched his brother dart through the herd of kids. Then, you came into vision, and it was clear who Joe was heading for now. “Oh fuck,” Jack mumbled under his breath, finally getting out of the car and darting after his brother.

You hadn't been paying attention to your surroundings; it felt like your mind was constantly distracted lately, and so when you felt someone placing a hand on your shoulder and turning you to face them, you were pretty taken aback. It was Joe, he seemed out of breath and had an exasperated, hurt look in his eyes which managed to penetrate your hard exterior. “Y/N...” he breathed.

You hadn't been expecting to see Joe anytime soon, in fact you'd been secretly hoping you'd never have to see him again. You weren't sure why, but a lot of people had stopped to watch the pair of you. Joe's lips were moving but you were too overwhelmed, all you could hear was a ringing, until you spotted Jack bursting through the crowd of people and darting towards you. “Joe!” he panted, looking just about ready to keel over.

Joe's eyes didn't leave yours and his stare quickly became too much and you found yourself looking down at your feet; desperately searching for something to distract you. “Why haven't you been answering my calls?” Joe asked, his voice hushed now as people began to continue on their way to class. Oddly, you were actually jealous of everyone on their way to geometry whilst you had to endure this uncomfortable conversation. “Y/N, what's going on?” Joe placed a finger beneath your chin and tilted your head, forcing you to meet his warm brown eyes. Past you probably would've fell victim to those puppy dog eyes, but current you wasn't taking any chances.

“I have to go to class...” your voice was meek and fragile, although you were almost positive that that was your constant tone these days. You began to turn away, but the grip on your shoulder became more intense and forceful, causing your body to convulse slightly against the feeling as you were forced to turn back to Joe.

“Joe...” you heard Jack speak, his voice firm and swirling with concern as he stepped closer to you both, his eyes locked on Joe's grip on your shoulder.

“Talk to me, Y/N!” Joe's voice had raised significantly; he was a lot more frustrated and you could tell he was becoming increasingly impatient with you. To a degree, you didn't blame him. You had been very distant and confusing, but unbeknownst to him, you had a pretty good reason to be.

“I'll call you later,” you mumbled, your tone defeated and hoarse as you managed to break free of Joe's grip and turn away. The look on Joe's face was one of confusion, laced with hurt and suspicion.

“Will you though?!” he retorted snidely with a scoff. You rolled your eyes, you were becoming frustrated with this conversation – you had bigger things to deal with.

“I don't know, Joe!” you yelled back; this was the first time in the last week that you'd heard your voice any louder than a defeated sigh. You turned on your heel to face him; his cocked brow and folded arms were taunting you. “Will you be picking up the phone? Or should I be expecting another random girl?!” you flashed him a fake smile, feeling somewhat smug as you watched his face drop and the smirk wash from his lips; a nervous swallow bobbing at his Adam's apple.

You rolled your eyes, realising he had absolutely nothing to say, and made your way to your English class. You were somewhat proud of how you'd handled that situation, and you wanted to feel confident, but you felt like you could break at any possible moment.

You let out a sigh as you heard a footsteps chasing after you. “Y/N!” You felt a little relieved to hear Jack's voice, but you still weren't in the mood to talk. “Wait! Are you okay?” he continued yelling after you before eventually catching up to you and cutting you off, forcing you to be faced with him. You sighed again. Perhaps it was something in the Barakat genes that made them so unbearably undeterred. He seemed, once again, out of breath, and had you been in a better mood you probably would've made a joke about how he desperately needs to work out.

“What?” you asked, frustration clear in your tone as you stared at the tall boy expectantly. After a couple seconds of silence it became evident that he didn't really have anything to say to you, and you wished you could walk away from him like you had Joe, but there was something in Jack's eyes that had stopped you in your tracks. They were bubbling with concern and nerves; the chocolatey colour melting and swirling with flecks of caramel.

After what felt like forever, Jack finally spoke. “Are you really gonna tell him?” he asked, referring to the fact you'd told Joe you would call him. It'd only happened five minutes ago but your brain had already managed to replace it with new, more demanding thoughts.

You groaned, rubbing at your temple in attempts to think straight. “I can't, I'm busy later,” you mumbled to yourself, but you knew Jack was listening intently, hanging onto every word you uttered. “Can you please tell him I'll call him tomorrow?” you asked, your voice once again weak and on the verge of cracking as you met Jack's warm orbs.

He must've sensed the vulnerability in your eyes and you watched as his whole face seemed to soften; a small smile twitching at his lips. He nodded and you expressed a wordless thanks with a weak smile. You turned and began to walk away, but were interrupted by Jack – who apparently wasn't finished with this conversation. “So... you're busy today?” he tried to seem casual, but there was a lot of underlying meaning there.

You turned to him; an uncomfortable smile on your face and a look in your eyes that told him exactly what he was looking for. He raised his brows in shock. “Today?” he questioned, as if replying to the thoughts you couldn't say out loud. You nodded, and tried to walk on, but were once again cut short. “Why didn't you say anything?” Jack asked, his voice urgent; a current of excitement flowing through it.

You sighed and attempted to keep walking. “I don't know, Jack,” you mumbled below your breath, unsure of whether or not he even heard you.

“Well, I'm coming with you!” Jack stated firmly, stepping into your path once again and stopping you.

“This is why I didn't say anything,” you rolled your eyes, reminded of the reasoning behind your secrecy. Jack cocked a brow and you sighed again. “I knew you'd insist on coming,” Jack looked as though he was about to interrupt you, but you continued, “and I don't need you to come with me, okay?” you gave him a look. You weren't sure where this hostility had came from – perhaps it was because of your previous confrontation with Joe, or maybe you were just sick of answering so many questions you didn't know the answers to.

Jack gulped, a look of hurt flitting around his eyes and quickly subsiding to a more vacant look; an attempt to cover his feelings. You couldn't lie, the sight of it tugged at your heart strings a little, but you were too emotionally exhausted to do anything about it. “I know,” he whispered, “I know you don't need me to come, but I want to come,” his voice was soft and he was visibly nervous, but he was trying to remain firm in his stance.

You let out a softer sigh, allowing your eyes to wander as you weighed up the situation. “Great,” Jack beamed taking the exhale as an invitation, “I'll meet you in the parking lot at...”

You rolled your eyes, allowing a small smile to prick at your chapped lips. “Meet me at my car at lunch,” you muttered, before finally brushing passed the lanky boy and heading for your class.

“Great!” he called after you, “I'll be there!” he continued. You didn't have to turn around to hear the smile on his face and the skip in his step.

“Miss Y/L/N?” You heard a woman's voice call your name. You finally zoned back into reality, looking up to meet the voice which belonged to a much-too-smiley middle-aged doctor in a white coat. You gulped and got to your feet, feeling Jack follow suit beside you but you were completely focused on every step you took and trying to not double over and allow your knees to buckle beneath you.

You felt Jack's hand lightly brush your lower back, almost supporting you and keeping you afloat. You flinched a little; his touch was much warmer than you'd expected, you yourself were practically shivering with cold – or perhaps fear. You looked up at him, he was clearly nervous; his forehead drenched in sweat, but he smiled comfortingly at you, and you couldn't help but return the gesture.

The drive from the school to the hospital had been unbearably silent by Jack's standards, but you welcomed the noiseless conversation. It was by no means comfortable, but it didn't demand anything from you, it wasn't expectant of answers from you. You felt like all anyone ever wanted from you these days was answers, and all you wanted from everyone else was a little wordless understanding. It was nice to finally have that, even if it was only for a quick 20 minutes.

“Okay, if you could just lie down,” the doctor instructed, a fake smile on her face. Her voice sounded distant, like you were underwater and all sounds were muffled. Maybe you were imagining it, but you could feel the judgement behind her eyes which were severely penetrating you. You could imagine her brain trying to figure out how old you were, her inner monologue tsking at you and your bad decision making. You imagined her going home to her family later in the day, and thanking the lord that it wasn't her daughter who'd made such a life altering decision without any guidance.

You shook the thoughts from your head; deciding to leave the self loathing for when you got home, and climbed onto the bed, resting your head back. Jack stood at your side, playing with his slender fingers uncomfortably. “Are you the father?” the woman asked politely as she pulled on a pair of gloves.

“Uh...” Jack's voice came out as a nervous croak, his eyes darted to you for help. “Um, uh...” he stumbled over his words, sweat pooling in his hands.

“Uh, yeah, he is,” you responded for him – although, he'd already made the situation pretty suspicious regardless. You avoided his eye contact, knowing he would be looking at you with questioning eyes. Of course, that wasn't the complete truth, but it was the easiest option.

“Okay...” the doctor mumbled uncomfortably, reaching for the conductive gel. “So, is this your first time having a scan?” she asked, trying to make conversation as she squeezed the freezing cold fluid onto your stomach. You nodded, not feeling up to this small talk.

“What's that?” Jack asked, nodding his head towards the gel now smeared across your stomach. You rolled your eyes as the woman answered his question. “So, what does it do?” he continued. The doctor grabbed the ultrasound scanner and placed it on your stomach, rolling the rounded end around in the gel; she did this as a way of answering Jack's questioning. Jack nodded knowingly.

“Okay, you can just look over at this screen,” she instructed, pointing to a black and white screen that showcased a bunch of wavy lines, a tiny, almost insignificant peanut nestled in the blackness of the screen. You would've completely overlooked it had the doctor not pointed it out. “That's your baby,” she announced. The words seemed to bounce around the room and for a brief moment you felt your stomach churn, bile raising in your throat as your eyes locked on the small, blurry dot that would soon change your life forever.

You were just about ready to keel over and vomit, when you felt both of Jack's hands envelope one of your own. He brought your hand up to his chest, holding you tight, with his eyes fixed to the small blob of nothing. His chocolate-brown orbs were melting, a soft glow behind them. A small smile twitched at his lips as he squeezed your hand tight. You gulped a little, turning your attention back to the screen; trying your hardest to see what Jack was seeing; what was causing the absolute illumination of his brown irises.

“Wow,” you heard Jack whisper into the empty room, applying more pressure to your hand, which felt tiny in his large fists. You hadn't realised that the doctor had slipped out of the room until now. You vaguely remember hearing a small 'I'll give you two a second', but you had been too distracted.

You looked back up at Jack; more mesmerised by his response than you were with the actual image of your future child. His eyes hadn't left the little grey peanut until now. He must've finally felt your eyes on him because he looked down at you; his grin growing once his eyes found yours. You returned the smile, though yours was lacklustre and weak. For the brief moment his eyes were on you; his smile beaming down on you; pure happiness radiating through his hands and flowing into you, you felt momentarily happy. Like perhaps things could work out, like maybe you hadn't ruined your life, like maybe this would be great.

The thought was interrupted by the doctor returning to the room. She smiled at the sight of the pair of you, holding hands and smiling as you imagined your future – or at least that's what she believed she was looking at. She cleaned off your stomach, letting you know it was fine to get up from the bed and cover yourself up again. She then printed out some paperwork, along with a copy of your scan.  “I've never seen a father so excited at a first scan,” the doctor laughed absent-mindedly as she signed some documents. She handed you a few sheets of paper, along with your scan. You gave a small smile whilst Jack let out a light chuckle beside you. “In fact, it's quite rare for the father to even come to the first scan these days,” she spoke gently, a sad smile on her face, “you're very lucky,” she raised her brows at you with a light laugh. You attempted to croak out an awkward laugh in response. “You both are,” the doctor corrected with a grin before leading the pair of you to the door. “Be safe now!” she called out as the pair of you left her office.

Jack had insisted on driving you to the hospital, and nothing had changed since then. He opened up the passenger door for you and you thanked him with a nod as you slid into the seat. For the passing moment you were alone in the car, you took it to look down at the scan in your lap. It was real, it was in your hands; officially, physically real. Jack slipped into the seat beside you and you quickly averted your gaze from the scan; waiting for him to start the car.

“Y/N...” his voice was hushed and gentle, as if he were afraid to talk at a higher volume in fear of how you might react. You looked up at him without saying a word, chewing at the inside of your cheek. He looked away now, not confident enough to meet your gaze. Staring out the window, he began twirling his thumbs awkwardly. “I'm glad you let me come,” he spoke, allowing himself to steal a glance at you. You offered him a small smile in return and he reciprocated with a much more natural and sincere curl of his thin lips.

When you pulled up outside of your house, you were unsure of what to do at this point, but Jack was already out of the car and at your side before you could even ask. He opened the door for you and you mumbled an almost inaudible 'thanks' to him.

“Do you, uh... want me to drive you-” you began to ask, but he quickly cut you off, leading you up towards your front porch.

“No, no, no,” he shook his head frantically, handing your car keys over. “I'll just walk,” he explained, “don't worry about me,” he chuckled with a cheeky grin. For a second, looking up at Jack's mischievous grin, it felt like you were just friends again, and things weren't so complicated.

But, unfortunately, you were pulled back to reality. “Thank you, Jack,” you finally said after a short silence which felt like it had lasted forever. He cocked a brow at you questioningly and you let out a nervous laugh, looking down at your feet which were shifting uncomfortably without you even realising. “Just thank you... yano, for insisting on coming and refusing to take no as an answer,” you joked, coaxing a chuckle from the tall boy's lips. The sound lightened the weight on your chest ever so slightly; it felt like it'd been years since you'd heard laughter.

“Of course,” Jack smiled, his eyes glinting with indistinguishable emotions. You could've sworn he looked... hopeful? A few more silent minutes passed before Jack spoke again. “I'm gonna get going,” he said, his voice low and soft. You nodded and watched as he turned on his heel, heading down your path.

“Jack, wait,” you called out – your voice quiet, but just loud enough to get his attention and turn him around. His eyebrows were raised, anticipating what you were about to say. You took a couple steps forward until you were inches from him; your face level with the lanky boy's chest. You gulped, feeling a sudden surge of courage course through your veins as you leaned up on your tiptoes, planting a light, chaste kiss on his lips.

He seemed taken aback, but his arms quickly snaked around your waist, pulling you further into him. The warmth of him against you felt comforting; safe; like maybe things weren't so bad after all. He pressed his lips back against yours, without any intentions other than to feel your lips on his.

You pulled back after a little while; your breath feeling like it was caught in your chest. You bit down on your lower lip, diverting your gaze to the ground again. “Sorry,” you mumbled, shaking your head at yourself. You weren't exactly sure why, but you felt like you had needed that; the closeness of Jack's lips on yours, almost as a reassurance, maybe.

“Y/N...” Jack breathed, his slender fingers hooking beneath your chin and forcing you to look up at him. His eyes were a burning chocolate, fuelled with something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Desire? Lust? Adoration? … Love?

His lips met yours again, this time with much more intensity. You felt him pressing against you; his lips pulling the rest of your body into his. His lips were soft, yet somewhat dry, and he tasted like he hadn't had much to eat or drink that day, but you ignored that. His lips moved against yours in perfect symmetry, but he didn't pry, which you were thankful for. He simply held you to him. One of his hands slowly finding your face; the burning heat from his large palm causing tingles to run up and down your spine.

The pair of you finally separated; yearning for breath. You gulped, your cheeks awash with a burning blush. The corner of Jack's lips tugged up into a lazy smirk as he looked down at you. The blaze in his eyes had subsided to a low heat now, but the gaze still left you feeling vulnerable under it.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Y/N,” he spoke softly, his voice breathy as he recovered from the kiss which seemed to have knocked the wind out of him. You nodded, watching as he turned to leave. You made your way to your front door, taking one last glance at the tall boy as he walked away.  You turned back at the exact moment he had also; the pair of you locking eyes for a second. A wide smile spread across his face and you couldn't help but return the contagious gesture, before the pair of you turned your separate ways.

You closed the door behind you and let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the hard wood and closing your eyes. You allowed your heart rate to slow, and your breathing to even out. You felt lighter, you felt hopeful, you felt like maybe you weren't in this alone after-all. You felt like perhaps the world was on your side, and at the very least, you knew Jack was.

baby steps (eyewitness fic; Philip and Lukas facing some fears with some angst and some fluff)

“I’m gonna do it.”

“Seriously?” Philip asks, sitting up in bed, trying to shake the sleep from his head.

The jump. The one Lukas has been trying to get back to ever since his first attempt was interrupted by a bullet.

His phone rings early, bringing Philip out of the dream he keeps having where he’s sitting with his mom in their kitchen and she’s shuffling a deck of cards, grinning at him around her cigarette. That’s the whole dream. Just a whole night’s worth of this random image from his childhood. They used to play Go Fish to distract themselves from the fact that they’d eaten old packages of ramen again for dinner. He remembers his stomach rumbling but also he remembers laughing a lot. His mom always tried to cheat.

At the very least he’s stopped having the nightmare where she’s standing in front of him and suddenly gets ripped away by something dark and unseen and he wakes up sweating and yelling out for her.

“Hello,” he mumbles into the phone, rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m gonna do it.”

It’s Lukas, his voice full of energy even though it’s - Philip pulls his phone away from his ear to look at the time - 5:30 in the morning. But Lukas always has this kind of energy in the morning, used to getting up early for races or getting up early because his dad doesn’t believe in sleeping past 6:30 when there’s always work to be done.

“Seriously?” Philip asks, sitting up in bed, trying to shake the sleep from his head.

The jump. The one Lukas has been trying to get back to ever since his first attempt was interrupted by a bullet.

“Yeah, I think today’s the day. I can just, like, feel it in my gut.” Philip pictures Lukas pacing around his bedroom, bouncing on his toes, smiling against the phone.

“This is huge,” Philip says. He feels his own happiness filling him up and it’s such a rare thing these days that he feels a little dizzy with it at first, has to hold on to the side of the bed as the warmth figures out a place to settle in his gut. And it’s only ever Lukas who can get him to this feeling now. He isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing, but it’s true.

Lukas is still talking. “I had a dream that I made that jump finally and I could feel the bike catching the air and I could feel the wheels touching down on the other side. It’s, like, foreshadowing or something.”

Philip laughs, pushing a hand through his disheveled hair. “More like a premonition, but yeah.”

“You always know what I mean to say,” Lukas says warmly in that way where they’re kissing even if they’re on the phone, even if their lips are miles apart.

“So, the jump? Today?” Philip asks, standing up and searching the floor for somewhat clean jeans. “Right now?”

“As soon as possible, man, I don’t wanna lose this feeling,” Lukas says and Philip can hear him knocking around his room as he tries to get dressed while holding the phone. “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

**

Philip sits out on the front steps waiting for Lukas. He’s thinking about the first time they went back to that spot. Lukas’ therapist had thought it would be good for him to go back, but to just go without his bike the first time. “She said baby steps,” Lukas told Philip.

Baby steps meant bringing Philip along with him, holding his hand as they walked up over that hill.

But it was Philip who couldn’t take it. Philip who started shaking as soon as he saw that pond. Philip who was throwing up in a bush after barely two minutes, Lukas’ hand on his back moving in big slow circles. He was shaking and crying and sat down right there in the dirt, and Lukas sat down next to him.

“Sorry, I just-” Lukas shook his head and reached for his hand. “I saw it happen again. I thought you were dead then. I mean, I assumed you were dead when I pulled you out of the water. You were dead.” He was crying again, messy but almost noiseless, his face pressed into Lukas’ shirt.

Lukas just held him until he calmed down. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m still here.”

Philip wiped at his face with both of his hands. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Lukas. “Yeah.”

Lukas kissed him and Philip held onto his hands.

“And, good news,” Lukas said, standing up. “I was able to come here without having a panic attack.”

He held out a hand to pull Philip back up. “And you,” Lukas said as he pulled Philip into his side. “Had a totally understandable panic attack that I successfully coached you through. Julie’s gonna be so proud.” He was smiling at Philip and Philip felt himself smiling back.

“Julie?”

“She knows about my sex life. I should be able to call her by her first name.”

Lukas was walking away, but Philip started after him. “Wait. What do you tell her about our sex life? Lukas?”

**

Philip hears Lukas before he sees him, the sharp buzzing of the bike’s motor coming up the road. He jogs down the stairs to meet him at the bottom of the hill.

The sky is purple and pink as the sun finally starts to come up. Lukas pulls off his helmet, shakes his hair out, and smiles at Philip in the bruise colored light. Philip kisses him quick, knowing that if he lingers at all they’ll be making out until Helen and Gabe are awake.

Lukas pulls a thermos out of the backpack he’s got on. “Coffee,” he says, grinning at Philip. “I stole it from my dad so he’s gonna be pissed, but I figured you’d need it.”

Philip takes the thermos and immediately takes a couple of grateful swallows. It’s weak and tastes a little like plastic but he feels the caffeine rush into his veins and groans. “God, I love you,” he says, climbing on the back of the bike.

Lukas smiles. “What?”

Philip realizes what he’s said. He hasn’t said it when Lukas could actually hear him. He isn’t afraid though, not of loving Lukas out loud, so he just says, “You heard me,” and shoves his helmet on.

Lukas laughs. “Let’s go,” he says.

He loves being on the bike with Lukas. When there’s nothing but the hum of the engine and his arms around Lukas’ waist and the wind. All of his thoughts disappear and he moves his hands up to feel Lukas’ heart beating. He feels completely safe there.

Lukas is saying something, head craning over his shoulder as they come to a stop. Philip doesn’t hear him at first. “What?”

Lukas cuts the engine and everything goes so still and quiet, just the sound of the wind cutting through the trees.

Lukas climbs off the bike, takes off his helmet and looks at Philip. “I said I fucking love you, too, idiot.” He pulls Philip’s helmet off for him and tosses it to the ground so he can kiss him.

When Lukas pulls back, Philip blinks at him slowly, feeling unhinged. He wonders when kissing Lukas will stop taking the breath right out of him. Or if it’ll always feel like the entire earth is falling away from them every time.

“Now, watch me make this sick jump and totally conquer all my fears.”

**

They went back again, a couple of weeks after the first time. Lukas walking his bike over with him this time. He was just going to see what would happen. There was no pressure on him to actually make the jump right now, but Philip could tell he wanted to do it. Philip could tell he was beating himself up about it already, something tense in the set of Lukas’ shoulders and his jaw.

Meanwhile, Philip was just trying to be there without having another breakdown. He thought at least now that he knew it could affect him like that, maybe he’d be able to stop it from happening.

But as they approached the pond, Philip had the same cold feeling wash over him. That same sinking, dark feeling. Panic but also all too familiar grief. He tried to just keep moving forward, but his bones were suddenly heavy and stiff.

Lukas stopped walking and turned to him. “Hey, if you don’t want to be here-”

Philip shook his head. “No, I need to be here. Just. Give me a minute.” He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, in and out, counting each breath, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale. And then he felt Lukas’ hands on his face and when he opened his eyes Lukas was staring right at him. So he put his hands on Lukas’ face too and held his gaze, saying, “Okay, okay,” and focusing on the way Lukas’ touch grounded him in reality, the reality where Lukas was alive and everything bad had already happened. He breathed in and out and said again, “Okay.”

“You’re good?” Lukas asked, searching Philip’s face.

“Yeah,” Philip said. “I’m good.”

Philip was so used to filming Lukas riding that he felt strange standing there just watching him. But Lukas didn’t need the added pressure of a camera and that wasn’t the point of today anyway.

Lukas did a couple of laps in the surrounding field before turning his bike towards the ramp and the water. He waited there for a few minutes and Philip wanted to yell out to him to see if he was okay, but he didn’t want to interrupt Lukas’ focus.

Lukas finally made a start towards the ramp and was halfway up when suddenly he stopped, braking too hard, nearly throwing himself off of the bike. Even from where Philip stood, he could see the anger rising in Lukas, the way he hung his head, the way he was gripping the handlebars.

Lukas turned around and went back to the bottom of the ramp. The same thing happened. He made it about three quarters of the way up and then just stopped. This time he climbed off the bike and let it fall over. Lukas started pacing up and down the ramp and Philip could hear him cursing as he kicked up clouds of dust.

Then Lukas picked the bike up and went to the bottom again. “Come on,” Philip muttered under his breath, but again Lukas got so close to the top of the ramp and then just stopped. He turned the bike around and when he got to the bottom, he climbed off and threw his helmet to the ground.

“Fuck!” Lukas yelled out into the vast nothing around them, the word echoing back to him.

Philip made his way over to Lukas, approaching him slowly because he’d seen Lukas angry enough times to know he wasn’t always in complete control of himself.

But when Lukas saw him, he started to cry and sat down on the ground. Philip sat next to him and didn’t say anything. “I should be able to do this,” Lukas said through gritted teeth. “But every time I got near the top of that ramp, it was like all the air went out of me and-”

Philip put a hand between Lukas’ shoulder blades and felt his body shake as he cried. “It’s okay,” he said. “You just gotta keep trying. Baby steps, right? We’ve been through hell. You were shot, Lukas. No one’s expecting you to just get back on your bike like nothing happened.”

“You don’t get it,” Lukas said bitterly, pushing Philip away from him abruptly and standing up.

Philip stood up too so they were standing face to face. Lukas’ eyes were dark and Philip knew he’d given himself over to his self-hatred and anger. He knew it was impossible to reach Lukas at this point, impossible to reason with him. Still he said, “Try me.”

“Riding is what people know me for, my thing. If I can’t ride, then what am I to anyone? Just some fag?” He spit the word out angrily and looked away from Philip.

Philip went cold. “I know you don’t mean that, but I’m walking away right now.”

He could hear Lukas calling after him but he didn’t turn around.

He would forgive him later, because he always did. He would forgive him because Lukas would show up at his window in the middle of the night red eyed and he would kiss the hell out of Philip and say he was sorry over and over, say that sometimes he lost himself and didn’t know what he was doing or saying. Philip would forgive him because someone had to love Lukas if Lukas wouldn’t love himself.

**

This morning Lukas is smiling when they get to the jump. Philip has a brief moment of panic wash over him when he sees it, but this time it goes away almost as quickly as it shows up.

“You want me to shoot this?” he asks, pulling out his phone and wishing he’d thought to grab his good camera.

Lukas looks at him and looks at the jump and looks at the sun coming up over the trees. “Nah,” he says. “Let’s just let what happens happen.”

Philip isn’t sure what’s got Lukas in this good of a mood. He thinks it must have been one hell of a dream Lukas had. “Yeah,” Philip agrees, stepping back from the bike. 

“You’re not gonna give me a good luck kiss?” Lukas teases.

Philip shrugs. “I mean, the first time we kissed, three guys were murdered. I don’t know how much luck I have.”

Lukas shakes his head. “Come here,” he says. Philip steps forward and Lukas pulls him in, a finger hooked in his belt loop, kissing him deep and slow. “You have no idea how lucky you make me feel,” he says quietly when they pull apart.

Philip laughs. “Seriously, what’s with you today? You’re acting so weird. It’s kind of nauseating.”

Lukas slaps him lightly on the face. “I’m just feeling good, Philip. Just feeling good,” he says, shoving his helmet back on and riding off towards the jump.

Philip holds his breath watching him. Lukas picks up speed and starts up the ramp and just when Philip thinks he’s going to stop, he doesn’t. He’s in the air, over the water, and then he’s touching down on the other side. Philip lets out a loud involuntary whoop, jumping up in the air.

He waits for Lukas to circle back around and when he pulls up, Lukas barely has time to get off the bike before Philip is tackling him, throwing his arms around his neck. “Holy shit,” Philip is saying into his shoulder. “You did that.”

Lukas laughs, pushing Philip back so he can look at him. Lukas is smiling so wide his face might actually split in two. “Dude,” is all he can say, breathing heavily, both of his hands on Philip’s shoulders.

“How did it feel?” Philip asks. He catches Lukas’ contagious smile and feels like he’s going to float right up into the sun any minute now.

“Amazing,” Lukas says. “It felt like- You know what it felt like?” His hands are on Philip’s face now, fingers pushing into his hair. “I’m gonna be weird and nauseating again, ready?” Philip nods eagerly, biting down on his lip to try and suppress his smile just a little bit. “It felt kind of like the first time I saw you slouching into Mrs. Miller’s English class and I was thrilled and terrified and, like, finally understanding this buried part of myself. Just kind of free all of the sudden. That’s what it felt like.”

Philip feels his cheeks going hot. He isn’t sure how Lukas went from the kid punching him in the face at school to this guy who loves him and constantly makes him blush. “Shut up,” he says, pushing Lukas.

But Lukas doesn’t budge. He’s still got Philip’s face in his hands and he kisses him and keeps kissing him until Philip can hardly breathe. He forces himself to pull back to catch his breath. “Um,” he is panting against Lukas’ mouth, eyes still closed. “We should go somewhere. Celebrate.”

Lukas laughs, kissing him again. “I think my dad’s on his way down to Poughkeepsie by now. Should be gone for a few hours.”

“Perfect,” Philip says. “Let’s go.”

They still have so many things to overcome, so many wounds that need healing, so many fears that need conquering, but this one victory makes them feel triumphant and invincible and Philip puts his hands over Lukas’ heart on the ride back to his house and he feels good.

also here on AO3

Part 2 of 2 SWTOR

As the star ship entered into Hutt space and his preparations were complete he cast out his mind into the ocean of the living force. Like a shark following the scent of blood he searched the sea of people for the one, seeking out her presence through the strong emotions surrounding her. In truth searching Nar Shaddaa it was like trying to locate a single ripple on Manaan, but when one is so intimately familiar with that ripple it becomes only slightly more into the realm of possibility. Still all he would likely be able to locate nothing more than an echo, but an echo would at the very least bring him nearby, within the same district at the very least. That would save him months or years of searching and if the force was truly with him, narrow it down to weeks or even days.

          He felt it singing to him as if from a great distance, like a woman’s voice at the furthest end of some cave, she was here, in the entertainment promenade. That much should have been obvious, perhaps that’s where her new companion lived or worked, still, that place would be densely packed with various comings and goings. He felt the fluid begin to drain from his tank and his feet once more touched the ground, he shivered slightly as the cool air hit his wet skin. He stepped out of the tank drying himself off and dressing in semi-luxurious attire, not to stand out, but also not to draw to much attention. He stood before the mirror and looked at himself, he sighed as he realized what he must do, his scars and his mustache were easily his most identifiable features. Carefully and meticulously the mustache was shaven away, he withdrew a facial cream and applied it to his scars blending them with the rest of his face.

          Jur’ten exited the ship quietly keeping his saber pike extended like a staff or fancy walking stick, keeping it hidden in plain sight, on his hip rested a blaster pistol he had set to stun, it was underhanded, but honor is a fool’s virtue. He melded into the crowd and reached out with the force passively searching for her presence, it was like trying to identify a single voice out of a planet sized chorus. However, the occasional whisper spoke to him, eventually however his wristband chimed, his holonet database had identified approximately 6 matches to her physical description, only two of which corresponded to his conclusions about the entertainment promenade. The first of which worked in the pleasure quarter, the other resided in one of the many yachts that constantly swarmed about the skyways of the planet.

          The pleasure quarter was the closest to his current position and his landing pad, while he was not terribly enthusiastic about having to visit that area it would be best to search it first. It did end up being just as unpleasant as he had expected it, the instant he entered through the thresh hold he was assaulted with an innumerable number of topless gyrating women of various species. He squinted through the deathstick smoke and wove his way through the crowd of partiers, as well as the inner rim and core world teens and young men out for their first thrill. The sheer number of twi’lek women who were blue with relatively large breasts was making this less like finding a needle in a haystack, and much more like finding a needle in a stack of needles. He pushed one evidently intoxicated women off of him and avoided a grappling group of men as he scanned the faces of all present. He checked his armband again and ascertained the employer of his first candidate.

          It was the largest of all of the “brokers” present in this part of Nar Shaddaa, which would make things both easier and more difficult at the same time. He walked in through the automatic doors wrinkling his nose at the assault of aromas that clung in the air. Mixtures of cheap perfumes, sweat, drugs, and cheaper alcohol. He moved past a couple walking out the door and approached the topless receptionist. She smiled up at him, a cheap attempt at seduction, he could see the deadness in her eyes, this was likely not her first choice in career paths.

          “Well, hello there,” She said with a fake smile and extended a hand in greeting “How might I be able to help a delicious specimen like yourself today sir?”

          “I am looking for a very specific girl,” He said with a much better, at least he hoped, fake smile than she had given him “she should look about like this.”

           Jur’ten pulled up the holographic mockup of Kassumi generated by the parameters he had originally given to the holonet search base. The receptionist scrutinized the image somewhat scowling slightly in thought. She looked him up and down and then entered in a sequence of numbers and letters on her terminal. She sat in silence for several moments before brightening up some as she seemed to come to a conclusion.

          “Ah, yes, she is one of our more popular girls, however, she is with a client at the moment and is booked throughout the month,” She said turning her monitor to face him as if for visual confirmation “Could I book you for an appointment sir, it can be on site or a house call.”

          “I need to see her now,” Jur’ten said narrowing his eyes slightly, when she opened her mouth to protest he drew the pistol from his side and held it casually on the counter “That was not a request.”

          The woman stared at the pistol for several moments before she proffered up a key card for one room 34A without question, clearly she hadn’t been in Hutt space long if she surrendered to a man with a gun so easily. He pondered the idea that perhaps 34A was a trap meant to summon the authorities in situations like this. He determined it best to make the calculated risk and go to the room, so he smiled threateningly at the receptionist who seemed on the verge of tears, and headed up to the turbo lift. As it turned out 34 was the floor and A was the room identification.

          He was the only one on the turbolift which made for a silent ascent if not slow, likely to give patrons the opportunity to “warm up” before they made it to their rooms. The elevator stopped at floor thirty four and the doors slid open quietly. This must be the more luxuriant suites, the lack of perfume and sweat stink was almost palpable in the air, he thought to himself. He stalked down the hall somewhat reading the holoplacards on the doors as he went, the unit he had been looking for ended up being a corner unit at the end of the hall. Soft moans and grunts could be heard from within. He tapped into the living force and placed his hand on the door focusing on the idea of it shattering like glass.

          The creaking of tortured metal emanated from the door as hairline cracks formed in its structure, slowly they spider webbed out from his palm. As he channeled more and more of the force into his assault on the door the cracks widened until the door shattered into several dozen pieces. He was careful not to let them fall to the floor lowering them softly into a pile by the wall and looked about to make sure he had not been noticed, cameras would not be present for obvious reasons. Once he was sure he had not been seen he reached down and activated the stealth field generator on his belt his form melding into shadow and refracted light blending him into his surroundings.

          The room itself was indeed luxurious tall ceilings and a large bathroom could be immediately seen from the hallway. Holo terminal was in the farthest corner to Jur’ten’s immediate front, and around the corner to his right must have been the actual bed or whatever other furnishing was preferred. He crept into the room with complete silence relying on the force to mask his footfalls as he slowly rounded the corner. The two seemed to have finished their task and were sitting upright together talking quietly both seemingly catching their breath. Jur’ten approached silently and let his stealth field generator deactivate, the man and the escort were rather surprised to see a man with a gun suddenly materialize in front of them.

          “What the hell do you think…” The man started to shout but was cut short when a full powered lethal round from Jur’tens pistol blasted a cauterized hole through his skull.

    “Could have sworn that was set to stun, well no matter, you,” He said pointing the pistol at the woman on the bed, “Stand up.”

“You…you killed my best paying client,” the woman seemed rather shocked at this turn of events though rather more concerned with her loss of steady pay rather than the actuality of the man being dead, she did however comply and stood before him unashamedly.

          Jur’ten scrutinized her for a moment, but it was short order to tell the woman who stood before him was in fact not the one he was looking for. He holstered his pistol and sighed somewhat before turning away.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, you are not the one I am looking for,” He said flatly walking out of the room and into the hallway

          “Well who are you looking for,” She asked following him out into the hallway either not remembering her naked state or just uncaring “and how do you know it’s not me?”

          “Because your nipples were wrong, and it’s nothing you should concern yourself with, for your own good step away and forget this ever happened,” Jur’ten said removing several round objects from his belt and tossing them in various directions where they stuck to the walls and ceiling.

          “What do you mean my nipples were wrong,” the twi’lek asked indignantly following him about as he placed his objects around the hallway “and what are you doing, tell me or I will tell the authorities.”

          Jur’ten halted in his tracks and turned to face the woman, she had her arms crossed with a very indignant look on her face, she was attractive, pity she couldn’t have simply do as she was told. Without a word he ignited the blade on his saber pike the black and purple blade was noiseless due to similar sonic dampeners to his speeder. Her shock turned to pain when he drove the point through her chest skewering her heart in a single, lightning fast, fluid thrust. He withdrew the blade and she fell to the ground with a dull thump. He stared at the dead body for a moment before turning and entering into the turbo lift selecting the return toggle to bring him to the ground floor. The receptionist smiled her fake smile, bid him farewell, and gave him the obligatory “come back soon” which he had no intention of doing if he had anything to say about it.

Once out onto the street again he pressed down on the detonator, the entirety of the thirty fourth floor of the pleasure house exploded in a shower of flame and debris. That at least would do to cover his tracks, a corpse with a lightsaber wound was not something he needed to draw attention to himself. He wove through the crowd of people trying to flee and people trying to get a view of the explosion, somewhere in there he thought he caught glimpse of a first responder. However, he had reason to believe that since this was Nar Shaddaa, a Hutt blowing up another Hutt’s whorehouse  from time to time was likely not an unusual occurrence. Jur’ten cleared the pleasure quarter and made haste to his ship. The myriad of neon lights was starting to annoy him, why did all the crime worlds have to be so damned colorful.

          He did not even wait until the dock officer gave him permission to take off, the only other possible match was the pleasure yacht, and after the disgusting affair of the pleasure quarter he was half tempted to knock the damn thing out of the sky. However, Lady Wrath and Darth Vindicta had demanded a live prisoner, not a corpse, furthermore a firefight in open skies on one of the most heavily populated world in the galaxy was not his idea of trying to remain subtle. There was also the minor inconvenience of a war with the Hutts that Darth Vindicta would likely not appreciate. Jur’ten reapplied the make up to his scars and maneuvered his vessel towards the location of the pleasure yacht.

          While his cloaking device made him relatively invisible it did not make him intangible which posed a very real danger to him on such a densely packed world. So he would have to maneuver twice as carefully since the nigh suicidal Nar Shaddaa traffic could not actually see him. So he flew low, just under the flow of traffic, as the indicator for the pleasure yacht slowly drew closer. It an interesting phenomenon to watch the air traffic flow around it like a river around a stone, I guess one could never really tell which was owned privately or a Hutt’s. Jur’ten maneuvered himself around and underneath it, he extended his landing skids and magnetized them. Such a maneuver was risky, but he was counting on the traffic to mask the sound of  him latching on, then like a leech he attached himself to the yacht.

               He retracted the landing skids until he felt the barest resistance he should have been relatively flush with their hull by then which should allow him to enter unseen. Jur’ten ordered his droid to keep the ship cloaked and running in case a quick escape was needed. He made his way to the escape hatch and opened it, he held onto the ladder as he was nearly blasted back down by the wind. He then ignited his saber pike and stabbed it up through the base of the hull cutting a wide circle out of it, using the force he lifted the piece out and away from the hole setting it to the side. Still using the force he transferred the warheads of several torpedos up through the hole before clambering up himself. This time there were no need for stealth, he was going to kill everything aboard and this new lover Kass had attached herself to. Then and only then would he reveal himself.

    Jur’ten place the warheads throughout the guts of the ship placing the most of them by the reactor. He did encounter a few workman, but most of them were too busy to look behind them, he skewered a fair few of them before he cleared the first deck. His goal was simple, he would make it painfully obvious the place was hit by sith assassins, and when Kass and her new companion returned he would strike, and take her. He made sure to keep the uniform of one of the deck workers intact, he slipped it on over his armorings and pulled its cap down to shield his eyes. Kass was skilled enough to detect and combat his stealth field generator so a disguise was certainly warranted.

    He of course revelled in the slaughter, one of the few times he could ever feel alive was when he inflicted terror and death upon the helpless. It was dangerous for him to partake in things with such enthusiasm considering the great lengths he went to keep his emotions as heavily suppressed as possible. What did keep his nerves on edge however, was the prospect of fighting a trained sith lord and her companion was a wild card. Kass and her penchant for ataru would make things difficult, and his personal take on makashi was largely untested. He was sure however the trauma he was about to inflict on her was going to provide a mediating factor, after all she did not have the same protections as him. As Jur’ten struck down the last of the crewman he looked out over the landing pad and watched as the ornate shuttle came in to land.

She was here, he could sense her, but there was another force presence, it could not be Kass was with a jedi? His face darkened as he watched the shuttle touchdown and the two women walked down the ramp he felt the animosity rising within him. This was becoming far more personal than he had originally intended. However, the consequences of Kass’s betrayal had just gotten that much worse this was likely to result in some horrific punishment from the wrath herself. He exited the control room and coated his chest in blood and gore from one of the mutilated workmen,

“Help me,” he shouted putting all the desperation and fear into his voice he thought he could get away with without sounding like he was acting, “He is killing us all, help us!”

The two women seemed slightly shocked by the appearance of the bloodied man before they both break into a run to reach the hallway he had stumbled into.

    “Wait, who is the one doing this?” Kass asked as she tried to catch up to him, “stop moving let us help you.”

    Jur’ten had to stop himself from a grim smile of satisfaction as the trailed them down the hall, they hesitated as they encountered the saber slashed bodies. He rounded the corner into a blacked out room and listened for them to be following him, he activated his stealth field generator just as they entered the room. He could hear them conversing quietly as they searched the room carefully in the darkness.

“Kass I think we shoul-” she started to speak before she cried out as the purple and black saber blade erupted from her chest.

Jur’ten willed the activation switch for the lighting to trip and as the room was lit and he pulled his blade from the chest of Kass’s newest lover he felt his satisfaction rise. The look she gave him was something he would butcher entire star systems to see again, the look of fear, pain, and betrayal was the sweetest thing of his life to date. Her face contorting in pain and anger she drew her saber from her hip and the two circle each other for a few moments. Her attack came first, the hallmark of ataru a wide sweeping strike delivered from a learp. He deflected it to the side and thrust at her, she managed to twist enough to avoid being skewered but still received a painful glancing blow to her belly.

“Come to take revenge Jur’ten?” she asked growling through the pain of her injury and slashing viciously at him “I am stronger and more experienced than you, you will die here.”

“No,” Jur’ten said flatly and countered the slash locking their blades, “I am not here for revenge, I am here because our dear lady demands your presence, to pay for your betrayal.”

He threw her blade to the side and sent a flurry of force assisted pinpoint thrusts at her forcing her back some. She withdrew a short distance and they circled one another again each combatant trying to find a hole in the others defense. They clashed again, saber pike countered lightsaber and lightsaber deflected pike point. The dance continued around the room, but Kassumi was beginning to tire. Jur’ten’s reliance on precision rather than strength kept his energy conserved. He performed a disarming move against her cutting her saber in twain, she in turn gathered the force in her hands and blasted him against the wall. Jur’ten allowed here to believe in her victory for a moment, watched her as she picked up the saber from her slain lover, ignited it, and raised it over her head.

Jur’ten in a movement quick as lighting drew the pistol from his thigh and fired a shot into her knee, she screamed and fell to her knees. He leapt to his feet and a roundhouse kick crashed into her head with a loud crack throwing her onto her side the saber’s safety activating and cutting its power. He seized her by her collar his fist cocked back, it thundered into her face with a sickening crunch as her nose and cheekbones broke. She went limp in his grip the saber dropping from her hands, he thought better of it and crushed it under his boot. With that he threw her over his shoulder and carried her down through the now derelict yacht. He dropped her unceremoniously onto his ship and then dropped down himself through the hatch.

He dragged her into a force cage stripping her down to her skivvies and injecting her with a force blocking sedative, when she awoke she would wish she had never been born. Jur’ten moved into the cockpit and detatched from the yacht, when he was a fair enough distance away he deactivated the cloaking device. When he was in low orbit, he activated the detonator, he could see the bloom as he left Nar Shaddaa’s atmosphere, various patrol ships turning on their axis and racing down planet side. He entered the coordinates for Arkona into his navicomputer and prepared for his jump to lightspeed. However before his departure into hyperspace he went to his holoterminal and sent his usual cryptic message back to his master.

“...Assignment completed…”

                               “...Understood, safe journey home, Lord Inquisitor…”   

“Art and Life, Nature and Culture, Ulysses” by CHERYL HERR

Visiting Ireland, the same reader may become convinced that the narrative must be understood in context; it is a book about a writer's vexed relationship to a land plagued with poverty, dominated by an oppressive foreign government, and hostile to its own prophets. Later, our reader may tire of travel or politics and turn to aesthetics. By his new lights, Ulysses becomes a multiply reflexive work; style is the subject as well as the medium of this meta-fiction. Or the work may turn forward another of its prismatic faces and lure him into a study of metaphysics, theosophy, epistemology, psychoanalysis, or syntax. In contrast, the philosophical and psychological colors may fade along with the technical and archetypal, casting into relief the personal dimension of the work. Hence, it may dawn on our representative reader that Ulysses is really about the effort to return home and the difficulties of getting there, or it may seem that the novel centers on whether Bloom, at day's end, will go upstairs and join his unfaithful Penelope in bed.

But I do not want to be misunderstood as merely voicing the platitude that Ulysses is a great and various fiction that grows with the reader. Rather than view Joyce's first epic as being about the topics and ideas traditionally put forward as explaining or unlocking the work, it seems more enlightening altogether to view such material as the stuff through which Joyce posed his challenge to the received relationship of art and life. Without a doubt, that confrontation is in Ulysses raised to a power higher than is characteristic of any other work canonized in most American colleges and universities. The challenge emerges from the fact that the narrative is a masterpiece of semiotic pseudo-comprehensiveness; it is a model of cultural processes and materials. And it is the nature of this model, what it encompasses and what it marginalizes or excludes, that occupies me when I consider not this or that aspect of Ulysses but the work as a tenuous and vexing whole. Certainly, a margin—in addition to being a popular spot in critical discourse today—is the appropriate area for examination when studying the whole, not least because it defines a dialectical relationship between what is inside and what is regarded as external. As I read it, Ulysses calls into being a boundary that it challenges in order to reveal the formulaic nature of both life and art—and to evoke something not contained by the specific formulae it repeats. That "something" I will later label, in echo of Fredric Jameson's work, the "cultural unconscious" of Ulysses; it is the complex nostalgia that the work's probing of both mind and society centers on.

But first, to underscore the peculiar relationship of ars and vita that Ulysses explores, I must recur to a day not long ago that I spent in the National Library of Ireland. While doing some research into Irish censorship, I ran across an open letter written in 1885 by a Mr. Frederick J. Gregg to the Dublin University Review. Mr. Gregg claimed to have overheard an attendant at the National Library tell a reader "that Walt Whitman's poems had been suppressed." Gregg asked about this matter and was informed that the librarian, William Archer, had in fact banned or withheld the volume from circulation. Gregg then proceeded to defend Leaves of Grass as a great book, which he found, despite the objections of some critics, not "indelicate." In fact, he calculated that only eighty of its 9,000 lines could be considered objectionable.2 In a letter of response printed the following month, Archer denied having suppressed Whitman,but what caught my eye in this controversy was the cited address of the open-minded Gregg: 6, Eccles Street, Dublin. Delighted at the possibility that Gregg was Leopold Bloom's next-door neighbor, I was playfully pulled at once in two directions. First, I wanted to check Thorn's Directory to see how long Mr. Gregg had resided on Eccles Street; was he there in 1903 when the Blooms "moved in"?3 At the same time, I thought of the ironies of Stephen Dedalus's disappointing conversation with the intelligentsia at the National Library. Whether or not Archer's defense was any more accurate than Gregg's accusation, it is woefully appropriate that after having his place at the Tower usurped by Haines, Stephen should find no better reception in the library than was apparently accorded to Whitman. In another corner of my mind, I wondered in which room of the current library the conversation of Stephen, Mulligan, A.E., Eglinton, Best, and company "took place." Clearly, there are problems involved in such speculation, not the least of which is punctuation; are double quotation marks (like those I've used above) the appropriate markers for verbs that refer to the projected-as-real actions of Joyce's characters? A similar difficulty plagued Richard Best, who, having been absorbed into the world of Ulysses, felt that he had to defend his status as a nonfictional person.4 He had to fight against the quotation marks that forever surrounded his name once it was used in Ulysses.

At this point in the history of Ulysses criticism, it is not necessary to document in detail the curious effect that the novel creates from its reference to an overwhelming number of details from the real Dublin. Nor need we linger long over the book's own oblique comments upon its narrative practice. It may be sufficient to note that Scylla and Charybdis, the episode in which Stephen devotes extensive theoretical ingenuity to elaborating his theory that Shakespeare wrote his life into his art, begins with words that comically highlight the literary uses of life:

Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:

—And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. A great poet on a great brother poet. A hestitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.

He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.

A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck.

—Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffec- tual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. (U, 9.1-12)

The librarian measures art by its echoing of "real life," but his words and actions as Ulysses presents them echo the works he has read and are narrated to us in a self-consciously artificial style. In the brief passage quoted above, we find not only that the librarian's romantic notion of literary truth relies on Goethe but also that the texture of his "life" blends phrases from Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Julius Ceasar, and the Essays in Criticism: Second Series of Matthew Arnold.5Clearly figuring the process by which texts make our reality, Joyce continually quotes both other works and his own, extending the reflexive gesture of his fiction to include all of the life that the tradition ofWestern fiction has created.

The significance of Joyce's varied and insistent mingling of art and life is not exhausted when we merely cite his idiosyncratic attachment in the narrative to the facts of his experience of Dublin. At least two aspects of Ulysses come to mind as germane to our understanding of this narrative practice. The first is Joyce's well-advertised narrative "innovation" in Ulysses—one that attracted much of the initial attention to the text. I refer to Joyce's use of the interior monologue and stream-of-consciousness techniques. A second relevant matter is the rough adherence of the book's design to the encyclopedic schemata that Joyce circulated to Carlo Linati, Stuart Gilbert, and Herbert Gorman. I want to discuss here the persistence with which Ulysses looks and moves in both directions—interior and schematic—at once. With its attention to the supposed workings of the mind and the revelation of the inner identity of Western man, the stream-of-consciousness technique appeals to our sense of what is natural—to the life, particularly the unconscious life, that we seem to share. With its attention to many of the categories by which the Westen world knows itself, this schematic book directs us toward a concept of culture, toward the domain of art. Life and art, nature and culture—on these grand dichotomies Ulysses is constructed, and to the exploration of these oppositions as such the fiction is dedicated. From this process of assertion and challenge, which describes what Ulysses does at its margins, comes, I believe, the force of the narrative for a surprisingly diverse community of readers.

Stream of Consciousness: "Nature It Is" (U, 18.1563)?

Arthur Power tells us of an intriguing conversation in which Joyce maintained that Ulysses explored parts of the psyche that had never before been treated in fiction; "the modern theme," Joyce argued, "is the subterranean forces, those hidden tides which govern everything and run humanity counter to the apparent flood: those poisonous subtleties which envelop the soul, the ascending fumes of sex."6 The means of this revelation have long been discussed,7 the techniques employed by Joyce including third-person narration attuned to the speech mannerisms and thought patterns of the character under attention, direct dialogue, interior monologue, and seeming transcription of thoughts in sentence or fragmentform. There's no question that Joyce's approximation of the flow of consciousness, although dependent on at least fragments of words, represents a significant experimental attempt to portray the movements of the mind; hence, quite early in the presentations of Stephen, Bloom, and Molly, the narrative begins to employ this crucial modernist technique. By the fourth page of the book, we find ourselves eased from narration per se into Stephen's first fully presented thought, "As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too" (U, 1.136-37). Elegaic, measured, rhetorical—these few comments introduce us to Stephen's mind and set the tone for much of his moody selfassessment on 16 June 1904. Similarly, by the eleventh line of Calypso, the episode in which we meet Leopold Bloom, we find fragments of directly "reported" thought punctuating the third-person narration:

Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. (U, 4.11-14)

Likewise, from the first word of Penelope, Molly may be regarded as speaking, or rather thinking, her mind.

In one sense, then, Ulysses constantly and with ever-greater fervor moves us close to life not only by signaling about certain word-units, "These are an individual's most personal thoughts," but also by directing those thoughts toward a wide range of topics, including many subjects obviously unsuitable for polite conversation in Joyce's Dublin. For instance, Bloom recalls his love-making with Molly on Howth and ponders Milly's budding sexuality; he thinks that he might masturbate in the bath; he considers Gerty's serviceable underwear. Stephen rejects both the corpse-chewing God of his imagination and the ghost of his mother; he broods over his social usurpation by medicine man and conqueror; he probes the mysteries of sex and birth. Molly thinks of Boylan, Bloom, Mulvey, Stephen, Rudy, Milly, and a host of other people; she appreciates her soft thighs and firm breasts; she remembers with joy various sexual experiences; she declares her belief in her own powers of seduction. Ulysses asks us to view these passages as reporting the kinds of things that most real people think even if they do not always say them, and readers generally go along with the game, many of them marveling, as Carl Jung did, at Joyce's psychological acumen. That is, the narrative asks for our tacit agreement that the art of Ulysses mirrors life.But in addition, we are asked to agree that life is like art, that our own thoughts emerge just as spontaneously as those of Joyce's characters not out of a void of preverbal desire but out of the Active discourses and received ideas among and through which we live. Consider Stephen as he walks along Sandymount Strand: freed from friends and foes alike, he occupies himself with speculations on God, fatherhood, consubstantiality, aesthetics, sensation, women, language, library slips, and his own rotting teeth. Although Nestor ends with the supposed comment of a supposed omniscient narrator ("On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins" "U, 2.448-49"), Proteus begins by confronting us immediately with the language of Stephen's thoughts: "Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read …" (U, 3.1-2). The entire first paragraph presents part of Stephen's somber witty meditation on vision, knowledge, and the reality of the external world. From these thoughts, we learn that the young Dubliner, supposed by Homeric design to be in search of his father / Father, is wondering how he'll know him if he meets him, with the emphasis on how. The process of knowing and the perils of that process occupy Stephen's interior experience as he defines for himself the bottom line of cognitive possibility ("at least that if no more, thought through my eyes") and accepts the challenge of living as he sees it (not to be able to say with Mr Deasy "/paid my way" "U, 2.251" but to read the "Signatures of all things"). Stephen's thoughts here, as Weldon Thornton, John Killham, Hugh Kenner, and others have documented,8 are mainly derived from philosophic or mystic masters like Aristotle, Aquinas, and Boehme. 

The precision and inventiveness with which Stephen weaves together bits and pieces from their texts are his own, of course, but it is the implied presence of such texts that structures his thinking.Possibly Stephen's awareness of the claustrophic hovering of Western cultural tradition both outside and within his mind accounts in part for his nostalgic search for a non-received language of gesture. As he drunkenly describes the project to Lynch in Circe, he wants to transcend derivation from intermediary texts and to speak the "structural rhythm" of things. To create or use such a "universal language" would be to find "the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy" (U, 15.106-7). Hours after his walk on the strand, Stephen returns to the question of the visible and his hope that he can both read the language of nature and learn to speak it. Alas, Stephen's illustrative gestures allude to"the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar" (U, 15.117); The Rubaiyat is for the moment the dominant work, although not the only one giving contextual significance to Stephen's gestures. One of the things that Joyce's insistent alluding makes clear is that thinking, the streaming of consciousness, the content of interior monologue, the very shape of the self are woven from the materials of one's culture. Fair Tyrants joins The Odyssey and a host of other books in accounting for the contours of individual experience in the narrative; such works insure that whatever the stream of consciousness accomplishes in terms of artistic technique, it does not provide even the shadow of an access to a mythical human nature within or behind or beyond or above those informing texts. The art that seems to bring us closer to life seems to show us that art constitutes life and that nature as we can know it is always only culture. This conclusion, though familiar enough in contemporary thought, had its own radical charm in Joyce's day; it clearly fascinated Joyce enough for him to devote years to charting its implications.A similar point might be made in our consideration of Molly's thoughts as they are rendered in Penelope. Even without knowing Joyce's famous description of her chapter as "perfectly sane full amoral fertilisable untrustworthy engaging shrew limited prudent indifferent 'Weib,' "9 readers would have identified Molly with nature. Her ready acceptance of sexual difference and of different sexualities, her flowing speech and overt desiring, her maternity and menstruation, all mark Molly's Gea-Tellus status and distinguish her from the more intellectual Stephen and Bloom. This assessment of Molly recurs throughout Joyce criticism. And yet, however fundamentally unreflective she may appear to be, Molly's "thoughts"exhibit as much of the reflexive quality of language as do Stephen's. For example, the almost continuous pressure of syntactic ambiguity in her monologue ("the german Emperor is it yes imagine Im him think of him can you feel him trying to make a whore of me" "U, 18.95-96") urges on the reader the constructedness of that prose and its attention to itself as language. Similarly, the eight "sentences" of Penelope and the "8 big poppies because mine was the 8th" (U, 18.329-30), like her reference to other books that have Mollys in them, nudge the reader into seeing Ulysses as a world of ambiguous and constantly shifting signs.10 Like the Circe episode, which pretends to be a descent into the unconscious but constantly cycles out into the comedy of received ideas, Penelope paints the mind almost exclusively as the site on which convention and cliche register. And yet, perhaps because of Molly's own enthusiastic embracing of the natural ("God of heaven theres nothing like nature" "U, 18.155859"), or because of the convention by which women are construed to be closer to nature than men,11 readers have often coded her as the Flesh or Nature or Life that Stephen must embrace before he can become an artist. Elaine Unkeless directly attacks this view in her recent essay, "The Conventional Molly Bloom," in which she argues that Joyce's portrait mostly restricts Molly to "preconceived ideas of the way a woman thinks and behaves."12 

Hence, our response to Molly as Earth Mother is based on our conventional notions of what constitutes naturalness. Drawing that artificial nature into the text, Molly's interior monologue is not unshaped thought but idea and self-image structured by society. The episode conveys at best a nostalgia for primal authenticity voiced from within the heart of culture. This voice echoes Stephen's sense that the "self" is "ineluctably preconditioned to become" what it is (U, 15.2120-21); such conditioning, as we see it in Ulysses, is largely social.The ersatz quality of nature in Ulysses is perhaps most pointedly conveyed when Joyce's Dubliners go on or think about going on holiday outside of Dublin. Miss Kennedy and Miss Douce vacation at a seaside of musichall clichés; Bloom recalls a "High School excursion" (U, 15.3308) to the falls at Poulaphouca, the most typical of tourist day-trips from the city. In Eumaeus, the narrative portrays Bloom as pompously and hilariously holding forth on the value of such trips; "the man in the street," he feels, "merited a radical change of venue after the grind of city life in the summertime for choice when Dame Nature is at her spectacular best constituting nothing short of a new lease of life." Bloom cites Poulaphouca, Wicklow, "the wilds of Donegal," and Howth as suitable spots in which to become attuned to nature (U, 16.551, 552-54, 557). Similarly, Simon Dedalus seems able to conceive of nothing farther outside Dublin than the fifty-mile-away Mourne mountains: "—By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains" (U, 11.219). Significantly, in Sirens that wish becomes part of the linguistic play of that extraordinarily reflexive episode: he speaks and drinks with "faraway mourning mountain eye" (U, 11.273). Even when Ulysses deals with animals, natural behavior is subsumed by cultural vision. Consider Bloom's conversation with his cat.

—Milk for the pussens, he said.—Mrkgnao! the cat cried.They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps. (U, 4.24-42)

Bloom's early morning interchange with Molly parallels this scene. Molly's twice-repeated "Poldy" and insistence that he hurry with the tea are forms of mild anxious, aggressive purring. Bloom "calmly" gazes at Molly's "large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder" (U, 4.304-5), much as he observes the cat's whiskers and sheen: "Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes" (U, 4.21-23). Molly drinks her tea with a degree of self-absorption also found in the milk-lapping "pussens." Of course, the cat does not question Bloom on the meaning of metempsychosis, but the narrative does suggest that the feline and the female share a quality that the book is working hard to capture. Again, many readers have taken this kind of connection at face value and have asserted that Molly is not only artless; she is nature itself. But we need only recur to the description of the cat to be aware of the nonobjective rendering of experience in Ulysses. On the one hand, it is the subjective Bloom who sees cruelty as natural to a cat and masochism as natural to mice. On the other hand, for the narrative to portray a cat as having "avid shameclosing eyes" that are "narrowing with greed" is not even to pretend to a neutral description; animal "nature" is indistinguishable from imposed interpretation. To be sure, there is much about cats that Bloom does not know: he is unsure of how he looks from the cat's perspective; he thinks its feelers might "shine in the dark." But to observe these gaps in his knowledge, especially the latter, is only to recognize that this modern Odysseus has merely blundered about in his culture's encyclopedia of texts and has emerged from his brief schooling with his facts awry. Bloom's view of what is natural and his quest to understand the essence of things lead only to conventional wisdom and comically fractured received ideas.In portraying the unreflective and animal, the text undoes our belief in the natural by circling us back to the social and to a language that purposefully confuses nature and culture. Despite the narrative's evident desire to uncover "subterranean forces" in the mind, the presentation of minds in progress remains a combination of old materials in new ways. In general, the primal unconscious mind, unknowable in words, is evoked— only to be blocked or even denied by the strategies, styles, and content of the fiction. And yet, there is the occasional exception to this statement. For example, Stephen's description of the self, which I mentioned above (the "self" is "ineluctably preconditioned to become" what it is), suggests a contradiction—that the self is culturally conditioned to assume a certain shape, and that identity is conditioned by certain unnamed inevitabilities. These ineluctable forces seem to have, because of their sheer predetermination, the status of natural forces. What intrigues me here is the summoning up of an unknown sphere of inevitability and instinct, which appears to counter the recurrently asserted constructedness of all conditioning forces and the reflexively self-contained quality of Ulysses.

The Schema: Encyclopedism and the Unknown

Ulysses produces within the terms of its own artistry an illusion of unmediated mind, of unstructured consciousness. At the same time, the narrative announces the dominion of culture over nature. In tandem with his ambivalent approach to the unknown unconscious, Joyce explored what in his notes for Ithaca he calls the "as yet unknown."13 This negative space within and outside the text is suggested by the known, the disciplines that make up Western culture and on which Joyce drew for his many allusions. From that body of knowledge, Ulysses generates problems of heuristics, epistemology, ontology, and aesthetics; it also produces lacunae, ambiguities, and our sense of what I have alluded to as the "cultural unconscious" (a concept discussed below by way of conclusion). One efficient way to deal with this version of the enigmatic while developing an argument about Joyce's portrayal of consciousness, is to explore Joyce's own abstracts of Ulysses, the schemata that he prepared for his friends as aids to textual explication.14 Certainly, the schemata cannot be considered authoritative guides to the fiction, for they are themselves only Joyce's fictions about Ulysses. Nonetheless, they continue to be reprinted, drawn on for clues, and distributed as hard classroom guides to the book. David Hayman's widely used study, Ulysses: The Mechanics of Meaning, includes a version of the charts. Similarly, Richard Ellmann's now classic Ulysses on the Liffey and Don Gifford and Robert J. Seidman's Notes forJoyce both liberally incorporate schemata information as readily as do many Joyce scholars when they want to emphasize this or that point of interpretation. Hence, although no one would grant the charts a sacrosanct status, very few readers, scholars, and teachers of Joyce have eschewed their use altogether.

The Linati-Gorman-Gilbert charts have long puzzled those readers who seek in them the keys to the work or a simplified model of its meanings. In fact, the lists of places, times, organs, arts and sciences, colors, symbols, stylistic techniques, and Homeric correspondences tend to muddy the waters. Attempting to take the charts seriously, we often pose more questions than answers. Some questions involve the seeming overexplicitness of the charts; for example, what relationship does the "technic" of "tumescence / detumescence" have to the meaning of Nausicaa beyond underscoring the already obvious sexual encounter of Bloom and Gerty MacDowell? Why, amidst the Homeric citations of the Correspondences, is it necessary to mention that the Stephen of Telemachus is like Hamlet? Other questions probe strategy. Why do episodes such as Lestrygonians, Eumaeus, and Ithaca lack designated colors? What accounts for the choice of listed organs? (Why, for instance, is there no episode for the gall bladder? Why are both muscle and flesh given space?) Still other questions involve relationships among parts of the schema or the interpretation of individual items. How much do Homeric details control, for instance, the problems of organicity mentioned above? Does the art of Calypso, in Stuart Gilbert's version designated as "economics," suggest or include, as has been argued, "home economics"? Any reader of the charts could supply a sizable list of queries.Yet surely to pose such questions is to seek significance without first attending to the very process of categorization. Certainly, each column suggests a body of knowledge or a frame of reference in a way that highlights the conventionalities of Western culture. Like a university displaying in its catalogue its arbitrary division into what used to be regarded as self-evidently coherent "disciplines," Joyce's charts accept and even seem to authorize a divide-and-conquer mentality; they signify atomization as much as the encyclopedic wholeness that, following Joyce's lead, we often assume to be the point of the schematization.15 Hence, it is important that the bodily organs, the symbols, the colors—all the columns—are made analogous or homologous to the arts and sciences, the disciplines through which our culture marshals and imposes the information it generates. Music, medicine, and mechanics, like theology and magic, are in Ulysses the categories by which a social status quo is maintained. Similarly, the many "scenes" that Joyce's schemata list and that his narrative describes are the typical points of political and socioeconomic domination. School, house, graveyard, newspaper office, library, streets, tavern, hospital, brothel, cabman's shelter, house, and bed—the city scape is broken down into its institutional components, and these elements redefine as a cultural site the "natural" strand along which both Bloom and Stephen walk during their shared day. That Joyce was able to find in Ireland many a comic and many a serious parallel for the details of the society Homer portrays in The Odyssey reinforces our sense that Joyce's text reproduces the traditional organization of Western culture. The categories dividing and ruling the Dublin of 1904, including male and female, young and old, potent and impotent, rich and poor, country and city, science and theology, heart and loins, citizens and revolutionaries, are all implied by the terms of the schemata. They form a statement about what Joyce shows us in Ulysses, the swallowing up of the instinctual and unprogrammed by a form of highly organized urban culture that assimilates all experience. They represent the impossibility of conceiving of the self and of exploring nature, human and otherwise, except through this or a similar conceptual paradigm.

To summarize, both from within and from without Ulysses announces its approximation to a nature that is in fact absent from the work. The stream-of-consciousness technique, which seems to transcribe real thoughts and their typical patterns of association, may be more accurately described as documenting the emergence of what appear to be personal thoughts from an impersonal environment of conventions and texts. The schemata, which have long been used as external but reasonably reliable abstracts of Ulysses,must be recognized as signifying a wholeness or encyclopedism that they in fact undermine from within as they present more lacunae and differentiations than clues to coherence.This external evidence from Joyce's charts provides suggestions that are borne out in the narrative. For instance, Ulysses is a book of divisions more insistent than those divisions of economic convenience, the Victorian novel's "parts," or even than those units of mnemonic and pedagogical convenience, novelistic chapters. Eschewing such conventions, the narrative refuses to divide itself using titles, numbers, or asterisks. On the other hand, the movement from one episode to another becomes increasingly clear in Ulysses owing to the changes in point of view and style. Like the analytic schemata, the narrative achieves through these unpredictable shiftings not only a quasi-encyclopedic scope but also a content that refuses at many points to compose a seamless whole.

In addition, just as the schemata do not make self-evident the logic behind the selection of arts and sciences they list, so Joyce's book fails to provide an Ur-rationale for all of the varied philosophical, philological, historical, mythical, literary, scientific, mathematical, and other information put to use in the narrative. Instead, the text seems to ground the information used in the story in the minds of its characters and to suggest that somehow Bloom, Stephen, and Molly directly or indirectly access their culture's most spiritually valuable knowledge. Certainly, one might argue that the controlling aim of Stephen's agonized self-examination is to engineer from the cultural material at his disposal an intuitive knowledge of some unifying code-system or other means of establishing connections among divine and human, person and person, philosophic theory and poetic lyric; this and more he appears to signify in the phrase "that word known to all men" (U, 3.435). Further, as already noted, Stephen's drunken entrance into Nighttown, during which he declares to Lynch his desire for a universal "language of gesture," recalls his morning's contemplation of the confluence of and perhaps potent parallels among natural process, linguistic variety, and primal matter. For all of his Aristotelianism, Stephen is also attracted to Giordano Bruno's Neoplatonic quest for grand design and substantial unity; he wants to connect the language of culture to the perhaps mystic vocabulary of nature and divinity. But the most that Stephen achieves is his morning's ironic restatement of Western humanity's chain of being: "God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain" (U, 3.47779). Like Bloom, who repeatedly puzzles over the exact wording of various scientific principles as well as over their meaning ("Black conducts, reflects, "refracts is it?", the heat" "U, 4.79-80"; "what's parallax?" "U, 8.578"), Stephen has access to only a part—and arguably a marginal part— of human knowledge. Despite the frequently cited suggestion that Stephen represents Art and Bloom Science ("What two temperaments did they individually represent? The scientific. The artistic" "U, 17.559-60"), their interaction in Ithaca does not encourage the view that together they form a "whole" person with "complete" knowledge, or even that they together possess an epistemologically sound and comprehensive approach to human experience.Hence, the extraordinarily diverse body of information alluded to in Ulysses defines an encyclopedism that is at best hollow; it serves to emphasize the distinctions which the schemata present in abstract—not wholeness but discrete sets that defy and thwart holism, terms for the deployment of institutional power. Given this framework, the more details Joyce added to typescript, galley, and proofsheet, the more he signified in his practice the futility of the encyclopedic enterprise: he could never include all of even the culturally selected information at his disposal. Yet ironically, as Joyce embroidered into Ulysses the names of flowers, references to science, Homeric allusions, and the like, the text did take on a "life" of its own. That is, it engaged with the energy of Western culture in absorbing into its organizational and conceptual paradigms any raw material exposed to it. But this process, by which facts become ideology, is a hegemonic activity, whether in a society or in a work like Ulysses that reiterates its social environment. Hence, more than representing unity and completeness, Joyce's fictional encyclopedism reproduces and critiques the dominating divisions at the heart of the Irish life that he shows us.Finally, like the schemata, the narrative prompts many questions and cannot help revealing many gaps, especially in the sphere of characterization. Like the schemata's list of "Organs," the text's references to organs, added together, would not form a whole individual, but only a textualized and scattered Osiris. Like the "Technics," which may appear to imply voices but actually include only such substitutes as "Narrative (mature)" and "Catechism (impersonal)," the narrative's voices are less personal than cultural. Above, I have tried to establish the sense in which Ulysses pretends to reveal identities but in fact undermines our traditional concept of mind by clearly deriving the content of consciousness from existingtexts and conventions. As Ulysses has it, individuals conceive the truth of their selfhood to rest not in theenclosing culture but in an unspecifiable and largely inaccessible personal unconscious. Yet the deriveddiscourses of Ulysses create a different sense of what it is to be a person in Joyce's world: one lives within a stream of consciousness that is finally not distinct from other discursive streams; one can never fullyknow the external imperatives that shape desire and condition action. In Ulysses, then, the signifiers ofnature and individuality are indistinguishable from those of culture and conventionality.

A fiction often read as struggling to present the unified complexity of consciousness,16Ulysses thus produces characters largely reduced to compilations of received fictions enacting a life that at best recalls the natural by arguing the narrative's nostalgia for it. As a fragmented product, the narrative ultimately signifies something other than itself, a kind of "cultural unconscious" that can never be known except through the styles and strategies of the narrative, which transmit restricted ideological practices and stylized versions of lived experience. The enclosing culture does not know but substitutes for a nature that is never trapped in discourse, for what is missing from Ulysses—the living tissue of consciousness and a Gestalt that exceeds the mechanically charted—is missing as well from the society Joyce shows us; at the very least, the "cultural unconscious" that Ulysses evokes is perpetually chased, never grasped. The result of Joyce's carefully engineered intersection of the social and the narrative is his exposing the insufficiency of our knowledge of self and society. For fifty years, readers have explained to one another what Stephen, Bloom, and Molly are really like, have unearthed the real reasons for Stephen's brooding inactivity, for Bloom's similar paralysis, for Molly's adultery. Ulysses has thrown the seeker after causes from Bruno to Vico to Aristotle to Jacob Boehme to Gaelic etymology to topographical study to Krafft-Ebing to Richmal Mangnall to the study of Joyce's school records. In these and in many other sources, valuable information has been discovered; we have enlarged our knowledge of what Joyce did know or could have known. We have understood more about the impact of life on art, even while the absorption of the first into the second demonstrated the artifice within both nature and culture. That is, Joyce's stream of consciousness is a gathering of discursive fragments from culture, and the schemata denote only an engineered unity that the novel partly produces and partly rejects—the unity of philosophic systems, the merely logical internal coherence of a cultural system or paradigm. The unconscious and the unknown are the same absent figures for both Ulysses and life, for nature and for a culture which cannot know themselves fully.

The Cultural Unconscious

Above, the term "cultural unconscious" referred to something unrepresented in Ulysses, whose reality is nonetheless affirmed, or at least desired, by the narrative. Ulysses, that is, may be read as nostalgically yearning to embody discursively the nature that it posits as desirable and necessary for truly gratifying human experience. To this end, Ulysses asserts its status as an encyclopedic book, as a work so comprehensive that it implies or can even capture glimpses of raw motivation, nonideological concept, and uninstitutionalized experience. Bloom's thoughts, however continuously impinged upon and shaped by the city through which he moves, appear to offer the possibility of connection to uncensored impulse and unconditioned emotion. Especially when Bloom drifts off to sleep after his remote encounter on the beach with Gerty MacDowell, we seem to enter a gentle drift of uncontrolled idea, and this event seems to promise deep revelation when the reader gets to Circe. But the expectation is never fulfilled. In its place, the narrative provides a cycling through one cultural proposition after another. The minds that we see in Ulysses are very much the products of their environment, and tracking down the things alluded to in those minds has consistently driven scholars to the world external to the text. The book's cultural unconscious remains an inaccessible force which motivates the various searches by character, author, and reader for the chemical that will transform charted fragments into luminous certitudes about consubstantiality, the incorruptibility of the soul, and the meaning of experience.In The Political Unconscious (1981), Fredric Jameson uses a term similar to "cultural unconscious," and clearly my own phrase alludes to his; in fact, the line of reasoning that Jameson follows in his exciting"Introduction" and problematic "Conclusion" must be partly rehearsed here if I am to round out my sense of the work enacted in Ulysses. Early in his study, Jameson states his belief that a chief task of the narrative analyst is to see every story as part of the "single great collective story" of, as Marx and Engels would have it, " 'oppressor and oppressed.' "17 Jameson contends, "It is in detecting the traces of that uninterrupted narrative, in restoring to the surface of the text the repressed and buried reality of this fundamental history, that the doctrine of a political unconscious finds its function and its necessity."

Whereas Jameson sees the "political unconscious" as a "master-narrative" of historical struggle which is inscribed in various ways into every literary work, I find that in addition Ulysses has inscribed into it also a cultural master-narrative (no doubt specific to the social formation in and through which the work was written) of human connection with primal instinct and authentic wholeness. This vision, what Jacques Derrida and others might subsume into a myth of plenitude, might also be viewed as the logical outcome of bourgeois reality in a world of increasing social fragmentation, reification, alienation, and commodification. By this line of reasoning, nature is construed as transcendent or at least as a good to be sought outside of or in the usually unexamined folds of culture. The cultural unconscious is thus a narrative of nature which emerges from the pressure of modern society, though it has obvious affinities with the pastoral vision of earlier centuries and with various countercultural ("back-to-nature") movements of the postmodern decades. A Lacanian might argue additionally that this cultural unconscious, however much it may be a social construct, nonetheless functions as a motivating Other, a nature that speaks culture. Thus, nature is less a place or an ideal than it is a discourse whose themes are wholeness and psychological or even spiritual integrity. The measure of Bloom's and Stephen's inevitable defeat by a manipulative society is their steady inability to procure imaginative access to this extracultural language. The measure of the narrative's affirmation of this discourse's potency is the constant stream of coincidence that textures the fiction and tempts us always to discern within difference the presence of consubstantiality, connection, and communication. The nature in question here is quite other than the ideological construct that marks Molly as Gea-Tellus and as earthily polyphiloprogenitive; the latter marks only desire in submission to convention, while the former "exists" in the negative space outside the text.One of Jameson's aims in The Political Unconscious is to broaden Marxist theory from its well-known concern with démystification to a recognition that "all literature must read as a symbolic meditation on the destiny of community."18 To be sure, Ulysses itself accomplishes many kinds of démystification; the narrative's exploration of selfhood, gender distinctions, family relations, the social order, and Anglo-Irish interaction vigorously exposes the ideological practices shaping these concepts and dominating much of the life in Joyce's city.19 However, Ulysses also addresses the issue of community, both by demonstrating the absence of the communal in the Dublin of 1904 and by emphasizing the events, actions, thoughts, and dreams linking meandering Stephen and wandering Bloom. In a city marked by clerical, patriarchal, economic, and political domination, Joyce signifies a consubstantiality of characters which, liberated from the theological doctrine that Stephen brings to the coding of coincidence, alludes to the many varieties of collectivity that the narrative aggressively lacks. Thus to contribute here my own coding of the characters' experience is neither sheer fabrication nor mere figure. Rather, to do so is to extrapolate the desire for community (as a version of nature) from the kinds of anomie experienced by Bloom, Stephen, and Molly; from the recurrent critical efforts to account for the novel's odd blend of depressing details and exuberant wit; and from Joyce's persistent interest in social forms and theories.20

One place in which theories abound is the penultimate episode of Ulysses, and it is from this site of rationalization that the cultural unconscious asserts its discourse of nature and community. In fact, it is the contradiction between culture and unconscious that accounts for the mixed readings of that chapter. Many critics have argued that despite the pseudo-scientific perspective, the narrative allows, via the good offices of Epps's Cocoa, a symbolic communion of father and son. Other readers maintain that even to suggest a meeting of minds is to indulge in the novelistic sentimentality that Joyce abhorred. But I detect in the Blephen Stoom encounter the same voice of desire for nature that shapes the consensus perception of Molly as Earth Mother. It is not just by convention that readers have found Molly to be natural; such a reading also emerges from the dialectic between the culture and its unconscious. Strictly speaking, of course, we can never know the difference between these two terms; certainly, those of us who are caught within Western language and logic can conceive of the cultural unconscious only by analogy to our thoroughly conventional experience. What we can know, as Vico proclaimed and Joyce undoubtedly noted, is the "world of civil society" (what Vico also calls the world of the "gentiles"), which "has certainly been made by men." Vico strictly distinguishes the humansphere from "the world of nature, which, since God made it, He alone knows."21 Given the predilection for etymological study that Vico and Joyce shared, it is of interest that the word "nature" has affinities with the Indo-European root gene-, from which "gentile" derives; that is, "nature" contains Vico's world of culture. On the other hand, as anyone with an American Heritage Dictionary can determine, the word "culture" shares its Indo-European root kwel- with "entelechy," the Aristotelian term that Stephen seems in Circe to associate with the quidditas of an object. Perhaps because nature and culture writes themselves in each other, Joyce's fiction nostalgically projects wholeness despite the undeniable fragmentation in the work and its framing world.Less positive assessments of Joyce's fiction have, of course, always been made. Early readers of Ulysses emphasized the "waste land" of Dublin life as portrayed by Joyce, and shades of that reaction color many different readings of the narrative, from Hugh Kenner's Dublin's Joyce (1956) to Franco Moretti's "The Long Goodbye." Moretti's argument about Ulysses, which appears in his very instructive Signs Taken for Wonders (1983), interests me because he argues unequivocally for Joyce's portrait of a Dublin caught in the "crisis of liberal capitalism," a "negative utopia" informed by the author's "consummate scepticism." Moretti grounds this view in the notion that the specific Irish context of the narrative is far less important than is the pressure of English economic history.22 

That is, the essay screens out the very details that Ulysses uses (the life it absorbs into art) to strike a balance between dystopia and community. Such a detail occurs in Aeolus, in which the stalled trams call to mind not only the celebrated paralysis of Dublin life as Joyce portrayed it in his short stories but also the 1913 Dublin Lock-Out.23 That the Lock-Out was a brutally effective management strategy only highlights its equal success in generating some measure of class-consciousness. Such solidarity Jameson links to the Utopian desire for a communal society which he discerns in many literary works. Joyce's own text claims both less and more through its portrayal of the stalled trams, for swirling around those few paralyzed machines is the ongoing life of the city of words in which Irish laborers pursue their tasks, an Irish dilettante named Dedalus ponders consubstantiality, an Irish canvasser named Bloom seeks community, and the discourses of modern social life force us to recognize the significance of what is not said. It is at the margins of Joyce's discourse, where life and art entangle, that the dialectic of nature and culture enacts the work, in both senses, that we call Ulysses.