*A/N* Welcome to: Roomates! As you could probably have guessed, this is about Skulduggery staying at Ghastly's place. Poor Ghastly. Will he survive? *Dramatic Music* Well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you? *Evil Laughter* BTW, an Ornithopter is an old-fashioned flying machine... Trouble always follows in Skulduggery's wake, doesn't it? Please read and review! Thanks-ThinkChimerical

Chapter 1: Can I Stay?

It was a typical rainy day at Bespoke Tailors. Ghastly Bespoke was putting the last few stiches on a gray suit for one Mr. Myriad Dryad. He admired his work for a second and then yawned. It had been a long day.

Little did he know it was going to get a lot longer.

He was getting up to lock up shop, when suddenly there came a knock at the door. He crossed over to it and opened it. He probably shouldn't have. It would've prolonged his sanity a lot longer. The air was dark and quiet. All was blackness beyond the threshold. He stuck his scarred head out the door to take a look. Why would somebody ding-dong-ditch him? It must be a trap, he thought.

"Ghastly!" yelled a soft, velvety rich voice. " You weren't planning to attack me were you? You got this look on your face."

Skulduggery Pleasant stood, dripping wet outside, a suitcase in each hand. He obviously wanted to stay somewhere. And then it clicked in the tailor's mind.

Ghastly promptly turned around into his shop, and slammed the door. He really wanted to ignore the pounding and yelling of, "I'm dripping out here! Pity me!" He really did.

Unfortunately, his kind heart had other ideas.

The last time Mr. Ghastly Bespoke had let one Mr. Skulduggery Pleasant stay at his house was in 1916.

What. A. Disaster.

26 explosions, half a destroyed shop, and a crashed ornithopter later, Ghastly had kicked Skulduggery out, and swore he would never let him stay there again. This time… well, he had to have grown up, hadn't he? Then again, the mage was over 400 years old… But he couldn't let the skeleton, shiver and moan, and catch pneumonia out there, could he?

He could.

But he opened the door anyways.

Poor, poor, Ghastly. May God have mercy on your soul.

Skulduggery had finished drying off, had taken off his hat, and had flopped onto the Tailor's sofa, when Ghastly came in, scowling at a phone. The Skeleton Detective cocked his head and nodded.

"Trying to get rid of me already?" he queried. Ghastly just snarled. He had just called all of thier freinds and a few of thier enemies, too, and not a one would let Skuluddugery stay at their house. That was understandable.

"Anton won't let you stay at the Midnight, because apparently, you nearly killed two of his guests, destroyed almost all of the Hotel, caused various mutilations and injuries to almost everyone present, and let several robbers ransack the hotel. All in the same day." Skulduggery nodded his head.

"Why yes, I do vaguely remember that." Ghastly sighed and continued.

"Erskine won't let you stay, because you caused a locomotive to run full speed at his house. How, I can't imagine, as the nearest railroad tracks are 26 miles from his home. You broke 32 of his glasses and plates, and flooded his bathroom, and burned down his kitchen. Again. All in the same day.

" And the last time you stayed with me, you caused my shop to implode, and somehow crash an ornithopter into the roof. All in approximately 6 hours. Why can't you just stay in a regular hotel? No, wait. I wouldn't want to wish you on those poor mortals."

Skulduggery considered this for a moment.

" Well, anyways, since I'm here, can I make you breakfast? I might as well do something."

Ghastly just gaped at him.

"Were you even listening?"

"Would you care for some poached eggs? I've heard they're quite scrumptious, I assure you."

"Why are you even here?"

Skulduggery shrugged.

"My house burned down. Only these suitcases, my gun, and my Bentley survived. Anyways, is that a yes? If not I can make omlettes."

Ghastly the Tailor wanted to slap him. How dare he come over and expect to be let in? Check that. Skulduggery hadn't forced the door open. Ghastly had opened it. Curses. Now he had nobobdy to blame but himself.

Why, oh, why had he opened the door?