#already read five books and barely through January

[stellasdrafts]

The Light in His Eyes (Vendetta! Leon)

Summary: you have each other’s backs (Vendetta! Leon x DSO!Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: alcoholism (on Leon’s part), some vendetta leon comfort because that man needs it :(, no official relationship but mutual feelings are implied, pining…

Notes: a small Christmas-ish one-shot in january because it’s my blog and i make the rules (i forgot to post in december whoops). also sorry this one is christmas specific but christmas lights are very special to me and i wanted to write a little something about them <3

One of these days, these missions are going to kill you. You’re sure of it. You find yourself sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city, needing some fresh air after almost getting your head bitten off on call today. Being a D.S.O. agent isn’t for the faint-hearted and truth be told, sometimes you aren’t sure how you got this far in the first place. You close your eyes, deeply breathing in the cold, stuffy city air and listening to the night traffic below. What would it be like to live a normal, quiet life? For your only burden to be being stuck in the traffic below on your way home from your safe nine to five? Your heart aches when you have thoughts like these…

You’re snapped out of your mournful contemplation when someone clears their throat behind you. You whip your head around, startled. You barely register your fists clenching and muscles tensing up, ready to throw a punch or something, your tired brain registering the sound as the grunt of an infected.

“S’just me.” Leon lifts his hands, traipsing toward you. “Can I join?”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Truth be told, you wanted to spend time alone tonight, but Leon happens to be the one who saved your life today and you figure you owe him this much. “Mhm.” You nod and pat the freezing concrete beside you.

He takes the offered seat and leans back, propping himself on his arms. His warmth carries through the cold wind and seeps through your jeans. He’s only an inch or two away, after all. Despite your previous sentiment, his presence is oddly soothing. You’ve never met anyone as good as him in your field of work. He makes you feel safe, like somehow, you’re immortal in his presence because he always looks out for his team. It’s impossible, really. You know it’s a childish and dangerous mindset to have in this line of work, but there’s just something about him. You wonder how much that selflessness is destroying him from the inside….

Actually, the habituality of the liquor on his breath may already give you an idea.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” You look up at him, noticing how his eyes are fixed on the sea of tall buildings before you. “Oh, yeah… I like the lights. I’ve always liked lights.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Oh yeah?” He shifts to rest on one knee to get a better look at you.

You feel yourself melt under the older agent’s gaze. “Yeah. All kinds of lights…”

He just watches you for a moment and you find yourself silently cursing the extensive psychology training the government’s had you D.S.O. agents do. You’re sure he can read you like a book, seeing through the façade you’ve been tirelessly trying to keep up. He has his own, after all.

He looks out at the few festive lights wrapped around balcony railings and trees standing proudly in windows. “Like… Christmas lights?”

That reaches you. You turn your head to look at him with a dopey smile. “Especially Christmas lights. I miss them a lot.”

Your nostalgia must be contagious because he smiles at you too. You never see him smile anymore. In your few years of working together, you’ve never known him to be an extraordinarily sunny man, but it had worsened recently. Little to your knowledge, he likes seeing you smile, especially when it’s directed at him. “I didn’t know you liked Christmas so much. Maybe I should buy you a tree and some lights this year,” he jokes lightly.

You shrug, your smile fading a bit. “We never stay in one place long enough… And people don’t celebrate as much as when we were kids. It wouldn’t be the same.”

His expression softens considerably when he notices the shift in your demeanour. His lips pull into a much more familiar tight frown, his shoulders dropping a bit as well. “Yeah, I guess so…” he pauses for a moment, debating his next words. “We could make our own tradition, you know?”

You tilt your head, your smile fully sarcastic and sour now. “Sure. If we’re both still alive by holiday break.”

He grimaces, evidently not liking the sudden grim attitude, even if it carries truth. Ironic, you find yourself thinking, for a man with his attitude. “Don’t talk like that,” he chides softly, wrapping an arm behind you and dragging you a twinge closer. “I’m not letting you die anytime soon.”

And you know that coming from his lips, that’s a vow, not a weak promise. You lean into his warmth, the cold wind hitting you again now that you’re no longer in your cozy bubble of colourful lights and denial. “Right. Sorry…”

“It’s alright.” He gives your side a reassuring squeeze and resumes staring out at the dark skyline.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, admiring (perhaps longingly) the people going about their lives in their apartments and offices. Parents putting their children to bed, couples cooking together, families watching what you self-indulgingly believe to be holiday movies in their decorated living rooms… Even the young man working alone at this hour of the night seems to sit with some sense of serenity. All possibilities of the lives you and Leon could have had if you hadn’t been pushed into the claws of the genius Division of Security Operations. He sighs – if in soul-crushing envy or in momentary peacefulness, you can’t tell. But his whiskey-ridden breath is warm and a welcome contrast to the cool winter night air.

You chew at your lip, getting a bit nervous. “You smell like booze,” you remark quietly.

“I know.” He chuckles and you know it’s a piss-poor attempt to cover how uncomfortable the topic of his drinking makes him feel. “You got a problem with that?” He scratches his neglected stubble.

You know a slightly hostile question is the best outcome for you. If it were anyone else starting an intervention, he would’ve raised his voice already. You’ve seen it first-hand with some other people on the team. “You’ve got a problem with that, Leon.” You stare blankly at the buildings ahead, your previous fascination and warmth for the sight dampened.

You feel Leon’s body stiffen beside you and his demeanour shifts. You look, and like you, he no longer seems as placated as he was a mere minute ago. His brows tug down and his gaze darkens. “Don’t do that. Not you,” his tone is surprisingly tender for being paired with his current expression.

He knows you mean well. He knows you’re worried about him. But he can’t bear having you look at him like everyone else does, like you have to tiptoe around him or like he’s always incompetent and inebriated. He looks away out of shame. He knows you’re right, but he’s stubborn and also knows that’s led to his downfall more than once.

“Are you even going to remember this tomorrow?”

Leon looks back up, his gaze stormy. His defensiveness gets the best of him, as it usually does in these situations. He’s angry, or at least he’s trying to be. But you’re sitting close enough to spot the gleam of self-hatred in those beloved blue eyes. “Why does it matter if I do or not?”

“Because believe it or not, our conversations actually mean a lot to me.” The weight of your words hangs between the pair of you for a moment. “And it’s dangerous to day drink with a job like ours. We never know when we’ll get called out. It’ll get you killed,” you add to try and save face as if you don’t care more about him than you do the other agents.

He cringes a bit more at that, and his anger falters in favour of discomfort. He sighs and leans an elbow on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, even his body heat isn’t enough to cancel out the cold between you now. “That’s what worries me. You act like it’s fine, it’s normal. You don’t even act drunk anymore. You don’t… slur your words or stumble around or vomit everywhere. Apart from being angrier… depressed… you behave normally when you’re drunk.” You turn your body in his direction, trying desperately to get through to him. “You’re not even you anymore. Isn’t that scary?”

He exhales again, letting his hand drop from his face. He knows you’re right. Damn it, you’re always right, but he can never bring himself to admit it. “I… I don’t get what the big deal is. I do my job – well, if I might add. I don’t get into bar fights with random civilians… unless they ask for it. I supply my own drinks and keep to myself. So why’re you worrying?”

You take his face in your hands, your expression softening. Maybe he won’t lie to your face if he’s looking right at it. “Leon, drop the act, please.” From what you hear, he’s a shell of the person he used to be.

His eyes widen with surprise. He doesn’t answer anything for a few moments, your gentle touch making his mind go blank for a second. He can’t remember the last time anyone was gentle with him. He knows he can’t argue when you use that tone or when you have that look in your eye. “Fuck…”

He practically sags onto you as he lets himself feel everything he’s been drowning in alcohol for months. You have an agonizing way of making the tension in his body disappear with nothing but a few words in that honeyed tone of yours.

You support his weight. Like you always do, as he always does yours. Because it’s just Leon. You’d never let him fall, in any sense of the word. “You know, how are you supposed to put up that tree and the lights you offered me if you’re too drunk to make sense of anything? I’m not letting you in my room at HQ if the drinks are making you a grouch, either.”

He does want to give you that, a tree grand and worth being yours, pretty lights you can stare at while you doze off in the evenings, Christmas itself… More than anything, he wants to make you happy. The thought alone makes him happy. He huffs and looks away to hide his smile. “Yeah, yeah. Damn you.”

You let out a breath and a smile of your own, feeling relieved that you got to him at least a little bit. “Try again, please… At least to cut back. We can do it this time.”

He tenses again at your request. It’s not an easy one, and he’s reluctant to agree, not sure if he can even will himself to cut back so easily. But you’re too close, too warm, and you’re using that damn tone in your voice that always gets to him. He wants better for you. For himself, too. A shot at a better life. “I’ll try. Try. For you, alright?”

You hum. “That’s all I ask.” You bring up a delicate hand and brush some of that pesky hair out of his face.

He practically melts into your touch, too tired to bother hiding the effect you have on him. You both know something has been lingering between you for a while, anyway. “Anything else you want from me?” he mutters in a teasing tone, trying to lift the atmosphere he feels he ruined.

You chuckle lightly. “Probably, but we’ll work towards those things later on.”

He perks up at that, a smug smirk toying at his lips as he picks up on the implications of your words. “Y’gotta be a little more specific than that.”

Your eyes soften. Not now. Not like this. “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.” Your timbre isn’t unkind – it’s careful, genuine… You’re trying to encourage him more than anything, knowing he always fares well with a challenge or an end goal.

The muscles in his face ease as well. He gives a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You feel a spark in your chest of something you haven’t felt in a long time – hope. “So will I.”

You’re more determined than ever to bring back that light to his eyes.

[measureformeasure]

@lesbiancassius' january reads

@goosemixtapes did this and i'm a thief so i'm doing one too.

books (well like one book and a bunch of plays)

Through the Woods, Emily Carroll - a beautiful horror/folk tale graphic novel. recall seeing the 'the wolf only has to catch you once' art from this book EONS ago and was kind of jumpscared by it reappearing. i put an e hold on this for a course i dropped last semester and just ended up reading it now when it came in

Switch, Isobel Williams - Williams asks the yet unasked question of what if Catullus was about rope bondage? and the answer is 'you can do a lot of fun translations about it'. yes, maybe there are safety scissors in my closet now...do not look at me

If We Were Birds, Erin Shields - jesus fucking christ can Erin Shields write a play. A staged version of Philomela and Procne's story and like the third play I read this month for acting class

Trauma and Recovery, Judith Herman - I am admittedly never a non-fiction reader but I found this book really interesting. I had seen @ chthonic-cassandra recommend it and I'm very glad I got around to reading it.

The Penelopiad (play), Margaret Atwood - read this for acting class. don't ask me for an opinion i am just delighted to do Odysseus drag.

Passion Play by We Quit Theatre, a linocut zine of improvised erotic Bible stories...I mean what more is there to say than that.

I also read Problem Child by George F. Walker but that was just miscellany for acting class.

articles (i will just list the hits because i read like five million articles this month)

“The Slaves Were Happy”: High School Latin and the Horrors of Classical Studies

The Body in Question: Looking At Non-Binary Gender in the Greek and Roman World

Reflections on a Starved Decade, Charlie Squire (content warning: this is about an eating disorder. it is also really, really good)

Transition, Akwaeke Emezi

on my nightstand (tbr)

Enter Ghost, Isabella Hammad (started this - already quite in love with Hammad's prose)

catch up on the Thebaid readalong I've barely started

Winter Harvest, Ioanna Papadopoulou (I want to read this so bad and the cover looks SO sexy on my nightstand and yet I keep not opening it)

Roaming, Mariko and Jillian Tamaki

Elektra by Jennifer Saint but only because I have book club.

finishing Ellen McLaughlin's Greek Plays

very slowly picking at a French translation of Madeline Miller's Circe I picked up at a secondhand bookstore the other day

godsong?? will I finally fucking read max goosemixtapes' godsong??? who knows but I want to I really do

[chimini3]

MAKEUP THE BREAK UP

Park Jimin | Chapter 4

SERIES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Park Jimin x OC

Synopsis: What happens when Park Jimin's biggest what if comes back into his life? His friendly neighbor, childhood best friend, high school lover, and now his makeup artist?! Amidst the 2020 outbreak, the last thing he needed was Seong Areum making his heart skip a beat and fill his stomach with air. What will he do when unspoken words threaten to slip past his tongue? Would he take the chance of ruining a healing past? Or would he let her slip away once more and let himself get lost in the lights?

Note/Warning: Messy Timeline with real events (once again), not beta read, chapters are going to get shorter now since I’m only writing a few chapters ahead from the ones getting released. I’m posting the next chapter on weekends to slow it down and give me time to finish more chapters :))

Word Count: 2.3k words

A Welcomed Fever Dream

Behind The Scenes of BigHit’s Group Photo

(For better context on the events happening in the following chapters, please refer to the link above)

[2020] Late January

“Everything can change at any moment, suddenly and forever.” - Paul Auster

That was a quote I read from a book Namjoon left unattended on the desk of the BTS waiting room.

I was growing fidgety as I waited for the other members. Most of us had barely slept last night just from the excitement for today’s photoshoot, though it was also partly due to remnants of jetlag and our bodies refusing to rest after extensive Map of The Soul: 7 promotions.

We were all working hard to achieve the goals we had set for the album, though we still wanted to do it moderately and planned to work harder in the last weeks of January to compensate for a break for a late celebration of the Lunar New Year in February. We all had planned personal trips for that week just to spend mentally healing and perhaps fit in a trip back to Busan.

Cue the 5th of February 2020 and it would be BigHit Entertainment’s 15th anniversary, a milestone worth celebrating as the company managed to reach for the stars despite everything it had gone through. It was also time to celebrate the newest addition to our small yet happy company family since TXT was only over a month away from their one-year anniversary since their debut, and from what we can tell they were doing great.

So it was decided for us to do a cute family photo shoot with all BTS and TXT members and the oldest of BigHit artists, Lee Hyun. We also planned on going for dinner after the photo shoot, but we hadn’t confirmed if the rest of the artists and staff were free for the rest of the day.

I stood up from my seat at the corner of the room as a few staff members looked in my direction though I only took my phone to place inside my front pocket before taking steps to leave the waiting room.

���Ya, where are you going?” Namjoon asked as I turned back to look at him sitting beside Hobi with makeup artist noonas touching up their hair.

“I’ll just check up on Lee Hyun Hyung’s waiting room.”

“Wait for me—“

Jin added though I already took a step out of the room as soon as I explained my leave. I laughed and looked back at Jin groaning at me before I went through the hallways of the warehouse in which our photoshoot was taking place.

We had three sets for the day so we expected it to go through smoothly despite the volume of members in the photoshoot. We were always used to just being the seven of us, but now we had Lee Hyun hyung and five TXT members that had to all cooperate for the shoot. Yet at the same time, I was filled with excitement as this is time spent getting to know old and new artists. Lee Hyun hyung has always been a good friend of ours since before our debut and we’d met TXT around the studio and backstage of our tours in the past year, so it wasn’t at all going to be awkward.

I opened a door that had Lee Hyun’s name on it and went through a small corridor as a cameraman followed behind me. I could see a glimpse of the solo artist standing in the center of his room with a staff member fixing his clothes whilst simultaneously adding more pieces of clothing over his black turtleneck.

“Wow! You look so…”

I didn’t finish my statement as I couldn’t stop my cheeks from rising. Lee Hyun greeted me with a handshake as I took a look around his waiting room. It was only a little smaller than ours but a lot more spacious considering a soloist doesn’t have members and their own makeup artists working around.

“I’m not even fully dressed yet! You can’t judge my look right now!” Lee Hyun had a smile on his face though I made no move to leave the room and wait for him to get fully dressed.

As far as I can tell, he still had a white button-up to put on and a dark gray suit jacket on top of his turtleneck and jewelry. His clothes were hung on a rack to make sure no wrinkles appeared before he wore them and there was a box of glasses and jewelry sitting on the sofa, similar to the boxes staff gave me to choose my jewelry. However, I opted to go for a cleaner look for the first set.

I wore a fully black attire. Chelsea boots, fitted pants, a fully buttoned-up suit jacket with a black button-up as my undershirt, and a sparkly black tie that I thought of putting on at the last minute as it caught my eye as soon as the staff brought in options that could spice up our planned outfits. My neck, hands, and wrist were bare, and the only jewelry I had was the earrings I had on my ears. Like I said I wanted to be clean, and my full black attire puts emphasis on my blonde shadow roots.

I sat backward on one of the empty chairs in front of the mirror before watching Lee Hyun get suited up.

“I’ve never seen you dressed like this. It’s amazing and weird.” I teased with a smile on my face as it was meant in goodwill. Lee Hyun was just someone I wasn’t used to wearing such formally dark attires.

“Why? Is it like looking into a mirror?” He teased back and I couldn’t help but laugh.

It has been a long time since I’ve seen the artist, though we regularly kept in touch. He is one of the few artists I can tease and not feel as though I have disrespected them in any way. That is just on how much we’ve known each other and gained respect towards each other through the years.

“Are you going to put some glasses on?” I asked as both our eyes settled on the box of glasses on the sofa.

“I don’t know yet… I don’t think glasses will fit me.”

“Try them out! You just need to find glasses that will fit your head shape.”

I walked towards the box and picked out a few that I thought Lee Hyun would fit the most, though I wasn’t forcing him to wear them for the photoshoot.

I set the glasses aside beside him before going back to the chair I sat on and we continued exchanging jokes and jumped from topic to topic.

“Didn’t you have much longer hair?” I said just in time as Jin walked into the room with his unfinished attire.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to wait to join us. After all, Lee Hyun was Jin’s fishing buddy. Most probably his only fishing buddy considering none of us willingly went on a fishing trip with him.

“Ooh, are you a composer? More like a conductor. You look stunning.” Jin teased.

“Composer or Conductor?”

The more I thought about it, Lee Hyun did look like someone who would lead all BigHit members to perform a choir or something like that.

“It’s like I’m wearing my dad’s clothes.” Lee Hyun looked at himself in the mirror as Jin fiddled with something in his ear.

“Is that a clip-on?” I asked as a metallic ring looped around his Conch.

“Yeah.” Lee Hyun nodded.

Maybe I should get a conch ring.

“Ah hyung, are you free tonight?” I asked as I was reminded of the dinner we planned.

“Why? Are you taking me out on a date?” Lee Hyun joked as we laughed along with the staff letting out a chuckle under their masks.

“Seriously though.”

“Yeah, I am. Why?”

“We were planning on going out for dinner after this. With TXT and the staff.” Jin explained as the eldest formed an o shape with his mouth before nodding.

“You know, I’ve never properly met them before. Dinner would be nice.” Lee Hyun smiled.

“Let’s not get too drunk though? We need to act professional.”

“We are professional, Jin ah.”

We chuckled as we knew deep down that we were most definitely not the most professional people out there.

“Ten minutes.” A man spoke at the doorway of the waiting room.

“You look professional though. Clothes really do make a man.” I said while I stood up after seeing a makeup artist point to me before gesturing for me to come to the BTS waiting room.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.” Lee Hyun said before we laughed and parted ways.

It always felt great reconnecting and talking about light subjects that weren't heavily focused on work.

I walked on our first set of the day. It was an all-white floor and background with white steps and shapes for us to lean or sit on. It wasn’t anything special though it definitely made our black attires pop out from the white backdrop.

The five TXT members were already on set lined up as if they were about to formally greet us like they did the first time we met, though thankfully that didn’t happen and only bows and words of greetings happened.

I leaned on one of the white center block pieces, only a few paces away from Hobi, Taehyung, Yoongi, and Namjoon as the TXT members mostly stayed on the other side of the set. We were now only waiting for three other members to start the shoot.

Jungkook was still waiting for his shoes to arrive. Apparently, he called for his pair of Prada Chunky Sole Combat Boots instead of the planned more formal look of Oxford shoes, Loafers, or my personal favorite… Chelsea boots. But we’ll let him do whatever he wishes.

Jin and Lee Hyun were most probably still busy chatting and getting the layers of their attire all sorted, so we still had a few minutes to touch up our makeup and get a feel of the set, or as much of a feel as we could get as the set was filled with staff, cameramen, security, stylists, and makeup artists.

However, once everyone was ready and on set, everything was bound to be smooth sailing.

Except for a few bumps and loose hats…

After a slight camera adjustment we were forced to pose with a look to the side and I might've not seen it happen but when a manager called to stop the photoshoot for a touch-up, I couldn’t help but look around for the person who needed it especially in the middle of the shoot.

Jungkook to my right was ducking in his position to tie up a loosened lace of his boots. Hobi to my left was fixing his suit jacket and cleaning up a piece of lint he saw. TXT’s Taehyun to the left behind me was comfortably resting his hand in his pocket whilst sparring a glimpse at Beomgyu behind to the right of me.

“Can someone pin Beomgyu’s hat to his head properly?” The camera director sounded a bit annoyed as his momentum of photos had to stop abruptly as I turned to look at Beomgyu behind the space in between me and Jungkook.

He was crouched down on the floor to pick up his black Brenton Sailor hat that had seemingly fallen off his head during the shoot. He stood up straight with a cringed smile on his face though sending apologies to us and the staff.

I smiled at him to reassure him that it was no problem at all before I turned back to face the camera. Little did I know that what I was about to see would make me believe in that quote Paul Auster wrote.

It was her.

Not once had she crossed my mind in the seven years we had split. Perhaps being an idol left no room for such thoughts.

She was different, but I know her eyes when I see them.

Doe dark brown eyes that always shined and made my insides curl more than the workout I’ve done in my debut days.

She carried a packet of black hairpins as I removed my legs from her path in between the props to reach the TXT member behind me. Another makeup artist followed behind her with an unplugged though already heated straightening iron.

She had her dark hair kept in one big braid that ran behind her neck to her back and a striped white and blue sweater over a pair of dark jeans. She wore a thin white mask though it was a bit too big for her face so it laid lower down her nose and made the mole right on the side of her nose bridge visible to confirm that it really was her.

Why did I feel the need to take note of every detail about her? I don’t know.

But her walking past me with a scent so unfamiliar yet similar felt surreal. Like a fever dream that wasn’t unwelcomed though uncalled for.

“The pins don’t hurt, do they?”

I can hear her faint voice speak to the younger member before getting drowned out by the chatter around us. I’ve never wanted to yell shut up to a whole room before, but I shouldn’t, it was unreasonable.

I clearly hadn’t expected this. I mean, who would?

The last time I heard of her name was when my parents informed me that she and her whole family had moved to the States. It wasn’t as if it was that big of a deal before either. I merely shrugged at my parents before replying something along the lines of “good for her” before I excused myself since I didn’t particularly feel like eating dinner when it was already closing into my debut and abs were needed to perform a routine.

I hadn’t thought much of it. The news even came as a relief to me.

At least, we broke up face-to-face instead of having a long-distance relationship. I don’t think 17-year-old me would do well in that. I’d probably hurt her more than I already did by prioritizing my passion over her. The fact that we were bound to break up anyway comforted me through all these years.

So the question lies on what the hell was she doing here?!

[pageandpanel]

Or, A Retrospective Quest to Find my Favorite Book

(originally posted @ Page and Panel on wordpress)

For anyone who considers themselves a “reader,” there is a single question that we all dread being asked but secretly love answering. What is your favorite book? Do you have a few books on hand to rattle off at a moments notice or do you shrug and say that you don’t have one? Do you tailor your answer to the person asking the question or you have a single, absolute, definitive favorite that you sing the praises of any time you’re given the chance? I, like most people I’m sure, have given different variations of these answers over the years along with dozens of others. Realistically, if you ask me this question my answer will change given the time of day, my mood, and the direction of the winds. And that’s totally fine. But I’m trying to generate content here so I want to interrogate this question a little. Or a lot.

Baby’s First Bookstagram Post ^

I started actively tracking my reading in 2017 on Instagram. Scroll all the way down on my page if you want to see some truly uninspired photography, but also if you want to be shocked at how consistently I posted when I was using that as my primary tracking method. I have a nearly infallible log of everything I’ve read in the last five years. According to Goodreads, I’ve read a total of 688 books between January 1st, 2017 and December 4, 2021. That’s absolutely more books read in the last five years than in the entire rest of my previous 25 years of life. That’s a lot of content to condense into such a small span of time and I already know my brain hasn’t retained all of it.

Running the numbers like this has left me with two questions I want to explore:

How many of these books do I actually remember?

Which of these books is actually my favorite?

And that’s what this series of blog posts is going to explore. I am going to be re-examining books I’ve read and logged, maybe dipping in to re-read or skim a few here and there to see if my opinion has changed. I want to see how actively I have been reading over the years, or if I’ve truly gotten sucked into the social media gamification of reading where I’m just burning through books to hit a goal. And, because I love a list, I’m going to be ranking the books I revisit in a quest to figure out which is my definitive favorite. Or if such a thing even exists.

Where was I in January of 2017? Well, let’s check the caption on my very first official “bookstagram” post:

“2016 was a trash fire in the middle of a shit storm for me. So one of my goals this year is to read more and to read every day. Earlier today, I decided I might as well chronicle this effort on Instagram. So here is the pile of stuff I read yesterday.” (JANUARY 2, 2017)

Yeah so that about sums it up. I was struggling to recover from the gut punch that was the 2020 election (still recovering), dragging myself through my last two semesters of college (remember not having student loan payments?) , and working full time at my local comic store (still the best job I’ve ever had). I think it hit me that over the previous few years I had only really been reading books for class–English Major life–and comics because that was my life at the time. And I really wanted to expand my reading life. Thus, I started logging my books and trying to read a little every day. The first few books I finished that year were actually comics so bare with me.

Book One: Midnighter and Apollo

written by Steve Orlando with art by Fernando Blanco.

Let me start off by explaining that the way I’ve tracked my comics over the years is by bundling single issues (aka the 20 page floppy magazine style books that come out every week) as they are released in trade paperbacks (aka graphic novels that collect 5-7 single issues in a single bound book). i feel like doing it this way gives me a more realistic number at the end of the year, given I read hundreds of 20-ish page comics a year.

Midnighter and Apollo is Steve Orlando’s follow up miniseries to his run on Midnighter (Vol 2 2015-2016). I’ll be the first to admit that I am not a big DC comics reader. I have a few characters that I like to dip in and out of whenever they show up in books, but I grew up on Marvel and never really made the jump to being a fully dedicated DC fan. However, this was an era of DC comics that I actually really loved and Midnighter is one of those characters that will always get me to pick up a book. The incredibly reductive elevator pitch for Midnighter as a character is that he’s Gay Murder Batman. And if you’re not on board with that, then you’re on the wrong blog, my friend.

I absolutely loved Orlando’s run on Midnighter and this miniseries was just as thrilling. The basic plot, without giving too much away and without digging into all of the minutiae of a character written inconsistently for the last 11 years, is a To Hell and Back For Love kinda story. Apollo is abducted and Midnighter has to fight his way through literal Hell (fire and brimstone actual Hell, not metaphorical hell) to get him back.

The book reunited the couple who had been married in 2002 but separated and largely absent from comics for the last few years. Coming off a run of comics that I loved, I think I was a little annoyed by the reunion and then unceremonious shelving of these characters after this series. Particularly because 2015 had been kind of a good year for gay comics. Midnighter was having a good active run, consistently showing up in Grayson (Nightwing’s comic when he was a spy for a minute) as well as having his own title. Over at Marvel, Iceman would come out as gay in November of the same year. Not quite as groundbreaking as back to back bisexual Robin and Superman 2.0 announcements, but we were still begging for crumbs in mainstream comics back then. It was fun to pick up a comic every month and watch a gay man have to leave a Tinder date to go murder a bad guy. But Midnighter and Apollo reset the character to a status quo with most queer characters of the time.

Instead of letting a queer character be single, date around, and live their lives like many straight characters are allowed to do, gay characters in superhero comics tend to be coupled up and desexualized to the point that their can easily be overlooked by people who don’t want to see it. Northstar of Alpha Flight and X-Men was married to his partner, a human dude named Kyle, in Astonishing X-Men #51 (2012) in the first gay marriage in superhero comics. Post-wedding, the two rarely appeared in comics until very recently. Additionally, everyone’s favorite gay couple at Marvel–Wiccan and Hulkling–have been together since their very first appearance in Young Avengers Vol 1 in 2005. After their initial appearance in that series, they wouldn’t be seen again with any regularity until Young Avengers Vol 2 in 2013. Consistently, gay men at the time were coupled up and pushed out of major story lines to cater to an assumed straight male comics readership.

Obviously I’m never going to be mad about happy gay couples living their happy gay lives, but this desexualization of queer men to make them more palatable felt like a step back for the direction Midnighter had been going in his own series. I also think that it’s important to note that Steve Orlando is a queer man who has written almost exclusively queer comics. I also don’t know how much publisher influence there was over the decision to put the couple back together verses how much Orlando actually wanted this couple to be together. Regardless of my skepticism and whatever decisions were made by who, I did end up loving this six issue run of comics. I was already pretty committed to reading everything Orlando wrote, but this cemented it for me. This isn’t the last of his comics that will pop up throughout this project. I am also always on the look out for new Midnighter content. In 2021 he found his way back to the spotlight in at least two comics: DC Pride #1 and Midnighter Annual #1.

When I read this originally, I gave it 4 stars on Goodreads and I think that’s still a pretty solid rating. I know it’s going to rank somewhere in the middle of my extremely top heavy list. Overall, I highly recommend this series to anyone interested in getting into queer DC comics, but I would also advise starting with with the original series, Midnighter (2015) as well as Grayson (2015) by Tom King, Tim Seeley, and Mikel Janín. I definitely want to carve out some time to revisit both of these series in the very near future to see how they hold up and where they will rank on the list.

BOOK TWO: SHADE THE CHANGING GIRL

written by Cecil Castellucci with art by Marley Zarcone

Unlike Midnighter and Apollo, this is an ongoing series rather than just a mini-series. As I said earlier, for the purpose of logging comics, I bundle them in as they’re collected in trades. So, Midnighter and Apollo is issues #1-6 for the complete story. Most comics on this list are going to be broken up into similarly sized chunks, but will have multiple volumes. So, Shade the Changing Girl has a Volume 1 (collecting issues 1-6) and a Volume 2 (issues 7-13). For the purposes of this project though, I’m counting all 13 issues as a single story, and will treat most runs of comics the same way. Every new #1 is a new story, etc etc. Hopefully that’s enough explaining my own process for this post.

Cecil Castellucci draws just enough from the original series to capture the utter madness of Milligan and Bachalo’s Shade, but create such a fascinating character in Loma that you don’t actually need to read the original series to get deeply invested in this new one (which is probably for the best because I doubt Shade the Changing Man holds up). And Marley Zarcone’s art is beautiful and creates the perfect atmosphere to tell this weird ass story. I can’t tell you how many times I sat down with these issues and ended up just staring at the art. And in Volume 2, there’s a breathtakingly beautiful issue drawn by Margurite Sauvage, one of my all time favorite artists.

I honestly don’t think Loma has popped up in any comics since the sequel to this series, Shade the Changing Woman (we’ll get to it), which is a shame because I would buy literally anything else with her on the cover. I also really miss this era of comics. Vertigo has made every attempts at a comeback since the glory days in the 90s. Young Animals, I think, is the closest they ever got. After a first phase of comics (they’ll all be on the list at some point) that all lasted about 12 issues, a cross over event, and then a second phase of 5-6 issue mini series, the entire Young Animal imprint was scrapped and DC attempted to revitalize the Vertigo brand. None of those books ever took off (and none of them were very good) and DC has since scrapped the entire like altogether in favor of their “Black Label” imprint. In my opinion, Young Animal is the closest DC ever got to the classic Vertigo books I was obsessed with in high school. But money talks and sales for his books never really took off. I think we sold 5 or 6 issues of Shade ever week, despite my best effort to hand sell it. So pour one out for Gerard Way and his weird comics.

Unsurprising, I gave both installments of this series 5 stars and I stand by that. I can’t recommend this highly enough and it’s definitely getting ranked above Midnighter and Apollo. Seriously, I’m sure you can find the back issues of this so cheap in any comic store dollar bin or on Comixology for a discount. Even if you’re not a big comic reader, this one and it’s sequel are perfectly self-contained stories and absolutely worth checking out.

BOOK TWO: ARISTOTLE AND DANTE DISCOVER THE SECRETS OF THE UNIVERSE

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Finally! An actual novel. I promise the comics thin themselves out in 2018 when I stop working at the comic store.

What is there to be said about Aristotle and Dante that hasn’t already been covered by anyone who has ever read a book? Seriously, you’ve all read this right? I don’t need to talk you into it. Somehow I had made it to 25 without reading this absolute classic of a Queer YA novel. I’ve actually been meaning to reread this one all year and haven’t quite gotten around to it. Maybe it will be the next book I pick up and we can end this year on a high note.

Aristotle and Dante is the story of two very different boys from two very different backgrounds. And against the odds, they form an incredible bond, becoming close friends and eventually something more. One of my favorite things about this book, and one of the things I think about constantly when I read other queer stories, is the relationship between Aristotle and his parents. Aristotle is going through a turbulent time of self-discovery, trying to figure out the kind of person he’s going to be. And there is never a point in the story in which his parents, specifically his father, abandon him in that journey. It’s exhausting to see queer teens in stories abandoned, neglected, or abused by their families. Seeing that love on the page remain strong and unquestioning, especially as they come to a collective realization about the person Aristotle is growing up to be, is deeply affirming and refreshing.

I didn’t grow up with ready access to a lot of queer media, especially media aimed at younger audiences. I learned about gay things like every other middle school kid in the early 2000s: on Degrassi: The Next Generation and roleplaying X-Men characters on Xanga. And as an adult, I don’t read a ton of YA but I will almost always pick up anything queer. I love that these books are available to kids as they learn about themselves. And more than anything I love the care with which Sáenz handles these characters and their lives. You can feel his affection for Ari and Dante in every word. This is a book that is swelling with emotion invites readers to really feel their own vulnerability along with these characters.

I have this as a 5 star read. Fantastic call on my part. Of the books entering the list today, this is the one that I feel the most emotional attachment towards so I’m slipping it in at the number one spot. I wish I had more to say about this book except that I absolutely adore it and I can’t wait to read the sequel (waiting for the paperback release so my books match is so stressful). If this has been sitting on your TBR for a while bump it up to the top. For now, I’ll leave you with a quote I took a picture of for instagram that I do think about pretty regularly. It feels like a fresh gut punch every time I read it.

WRAPPING IT UP

Okay so the fun part of all of this is coming out with a ranked list of books I’ve read. Okay maybe that’s just fun for me. I’m going to keep a running google doc list and insert the books I talk about wherever I think they should go on the list. This one is going to be pretty easy, since the only books entering the list are the three I talked about in this post.

There’s not a ton to wrap up on the first installment in this project. Nothing super controversial here. Just one popular YA book that everyone has read and two comic series no one has read. I’m excited to see how this pans out and where I land on books I haven’t thought about in a while. Next time I have two more comic series and one of my all time favorite novels to add to the list. The next few posts are going to be pretty comics heavy, so hopefully no one is totally put off by that content. I promise, they fade out by the end of the year.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Because Hearts Get Broken - I Know That You’re Scared (Part 2/3)

Continuation of ‘Because Hearts Get Broken’ - see my masterlist for it :)

Synopsis: She’s trying to move on. He’s still hoping for a chance

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Genre: angsty, bruh, but with a sprinkle of fluff and a hopeful (??) ending

Warnings: swearing, emotionally distant mindset... can’t think of anything else, really. 

Word count: 3656

Heartbreak isn’t loud. Y/N doesn’t even know if it had a sound what it would be like. Like glass shattering against the ground? Or maybe like a book being ripped and shredded apart, memories of time spent together ruined. Or maybe it'd like the crackle of a fire, as it slowly but surely crept up and turned everything into charred remains before it became nothing but ash and was carried away by the winds.

        No one in her family talked about feelings. If they did all they received back was ‘suck it up. That’s life’. After that, it was time to move on. So, when she got together with probably the most open-hearted person in the world, it was almost laughable.

        Y/N had always been the friend others went for advice, relationship or not, but she herself never asked for one, simply because she didn’t wanna bother anyone. Not that she thought the others were bothers. It’s just having grown up in a household where emotions were basically suppressed, opening up was quite impossible. 

       Then came Harry. Perfect, impossible, loving, sweet, kind, ridiculously open Harry. God, she just wanted to punch him because no one should be that nice. 

        January 2nd, 2020 he’d called her up, having gotten Y/N’s number from Sarah (after ages of pleading, because as much as Sarah sometimes couldn’t handle drunk Y/N, she’d defend and protect her until the very last breath), and they set up a coffee date.

        Slowly but surely, they spent more and more time together and seeing as her job had her based in LA for a while, visiting Harry was no problem. Then the pandemic hit, and on March 18th the whole stay-at-home order was issued in California. 

        Y/N was in a panic. She was meant to leave LA in ten days, and the hotel her company was paying for had been paid until the 28th. With all flights getting rapidly cancelled, she was scrambling to get one, but even her firm was unable to get her a seat. That’s when Harry had called up, his tone a worried, urgent mess as to if Y/N was alright and what her plans were.

        Of course, him being him, he immediately offered her a place to stay.

        “We don’t even need to stay in the same room, there’s like five other guest rooms you can take up,” he tried to joke, and ease her tension.

        “Fuck, Harry, just rub it in how rich you are.” Y/N cackled, and when she heard him laugh in the background, her heart did that stupid fluttery thing she’d grown so used to. 

        It took a little persuasion from Harry’s side, and reassurance at least seven more times, that Y/N wouldn’t be intruding on his space, and he was more than happy to spend the quarantine with someone else, instead of being alone, and that in no way her taking over a room or two would limit him and his own artistic endeavours. So, apprehensively Y/N packed her suitcases, grabbed an uber, wearing a mask the whole time, and drove to Harry’s place.  

When Y/N saw the gated community and the palace he was living in, the inside of her cheek was practically bitten in half. They’d barely been together for three months, and now she was basically moving in with him, but given how it was either live with Harry in a fucking mansion or walk across the country to New York, she took the first option. 

        As much as Harry loved on her, pretty much shagging her brains out every possible second, and loving on her until her cheeks hurt from smiling, the anxiety about the whole situation never left.

Harry was worried about his mom and sister, Y/N was scared of what was happening in New York. So, when the state boarders opened, immediately, although reluctantly, she flew back to her apartment and her dying plants, but never forgetting to FaceTime with Harry. But they couldn't stay away long from one another.

        Which is why they decided, given how she was able to work from home now, and Harry could do so as well, they’d fly over to one another every two weeks, quarantine together for the next two weeks, and then fly to the other place. Her boss actually loved the idea that Y/N was so willing to go back and forth between the two cities, so all her flights were written off as business expenses, not to mention when she said she wouldn’t need a hotel, he was more than thrilled to let her be in LA whenever she wanted, as long as her work got done.

        It seemed funny to her now, that before Y/N couldn’t wait to get back to the sunny state of Cali. Now when she had to fly over (which was just a couple of times since the breakup), going through JFK security made her sweat, and landing was a vomit-inducing action. And the last time she’d gotten back to the home-base state, she’d actually thrown up, Harry’s last words ringing in her ears.

        It’d been three weeks since Sarah’s New Year party, and three weeks since she’d spoken to him although he still kept calling. Every morning she’d wake up to a couple of notifications of missed calls, and each time she’d listen to the messages; it was all the same – I miss your voice. And every time she’d listen to it, her thoughts were exactly the same. You could say it was almost pathetic as to how many times she’d listened to his albums, just to hear him sing. Almost like he used to do right before she fell asleep.

        But Y/N had no one else but herself to blame for it. She’d been the one to call it quits, she’d been the one who walked out of his apartment, and the one who decided she wouldn’t fight. 

        Now, she was sat by her small magazine table, documents spread out in front of her as if a tornado had rolled through, while an apple and cinnamon candle spread its delicious scent through the air. 

        Y/N would only admit it once because, well, the proof was all over the apartment, but she was very lazy when it came to taking away the Christmas décor. It made her feel warm and comfy. And it reminded her of Harry. How when she’d woken up after their first date, already in the new year, he still had colourful fairy lights strung across the curtain rods, giving everything a soft, cosy glow. 

        He’d also been the one who convinced her that a real Christmas tree was so much better than a plastic one. 

        “Yes, it’s a hassle,” he’d said through slurred words as they’d slinked away from the partying crowd after the countdown was done, and each of them had taken three shots of vodka. “But it’s so worth it. Smells like a fucking forest in your room. Like proper Christmas!”

        And although she’d spent this holiday season alone, Harry had been right. Just like he’d been right about Y/N.

        She tapped her pen against the glass surface and readjusted her position on the floor.

        “This is the periodic table, noble gases stable, halogens and alkali react aggressively,” Y/N hummed as she highlighted the incorrect parts of the paper in front of her. “Each period will see new outer shells, while electrons are added moving to the right.”

        Just as she was about to start off the second verse, her doorbell rang, and her stomach gurgled in response.

        “Ugh,” she groaned to herself. “Pasta come to fuckin’ mama.”

        But when she opened the door, she wasn’t greeted by the Uber Eats delivery man.

        “Harry.”

        Y/N was taken aback. She didn’t expect him to visit her, especially not so soon and especially to fly out to New York (as much as he was most likely there to do other stuff as well, her gut told her he was there for her). 

Sure, she hoped that one day they could be friends, if not acquaintances, he was too important of a person for her to lose completely from her life, but that was looking like five years into the future.

        “I bring gifts.” He raised his hand where her boxes of food hung in a paper bag. “Can I?”

        “Uh, yeah, of course!” She shook her head to clear it from the shock and allowed Harry to enter into the warmth of her apartment and escape from the cold January air.

        “I was on my way up when the delivery man came in, and I recognised by the boxes it was yours.” The smirk on Harry’s face was something Y/N loved to see, but usually, she liked to also wipe it away. Preferably with her own lips. 

        She let out a small scoff, not waiting to see if he followed inside, as she scurried to the adjacent kitchen and grabbed two plates, while he opened up the white cardboard containers and allowed the delicious smell of spaghetti Bolognese as well as a carbonara waft into the air. Y/N had wanted to eat the latter at some point during the night when the munchies hit, but she supposed Harry was probably hungry as well. “Maybe there’s someone else here, who likes Italian.”

        “Probably, but only you would order from the shittiest Italian restaurant just because they have pesto and parmesan bread.”

        “Hey!” She slapped his arm. “They’re not shit. They provide me with everything I need – calories, carbs and bread.”

        “What more does a person need?”

        “Exactly!”

        Both of them let out small chuckles and then settled down on her couch to dig into the meal. They ate in silence, and despite Y/N’s initial shock, it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, they were sitting pretty much shoulder to shoulder, as she watched Harry re-read the spread-out articles on the table and use her marker to tick some stuff that could use re-wording. He had a knack for words, after all.

        “I uh…” He wiped his mouth with one of the napkins provided by the diner before clasping his fingers together and looking at the woman sitting next to him, as she slowly set her empty plate on the small cupboard beside the sofa. “I was hoping we could talk.”

        Y/N hung her head. She should’ve known he wasn’t here to just check-in and have some dinner. “We already did. Twice might I add. What makes you think this time the ending will be different?”

        “Third times the charm?” Harry let out a little laugh, and she rolled her eyes. “Look, I didn’t wanna leave everything the way I did. I – I said some pretty shit things.”

        Y/N fiddled with her thumb. ‘I had,’ Harry’s words echoed in her head. ‘Only she didn’t trust that I loved her the same.’ “Nothing that was untrue though.”

        “See, that’s where I think both of us are wrong.”

        That was not what Y/N thought this conversation would be whatsoever.

        “I – “ He cleared his throat. “I know I said I didn’t think you trusted me that I loved you enough. I think you know I did – do.”

        If Y/N still had any food in her mouth she would’ve choked on it, as she bit back the rising lump in her throat, but instead of interrupting him, she let Harry continue. “And honestly, it’s not your fault that it fell apart, ‘s my fault too. I pushed you to do something, you didn’t want to, weren’t comfortable with, when you told me not to… just because I wanted to feel important, ‘nd because I wanted to get a role in your life you weren’t ready for yet. And I’m sorry for doing that. I should’ve never forced you.”

        “Harry…” Y/N was at a complete loss. “I – I don’t really know what to say.”

        He took her left hand in his and clasped it, finally able to properly say what'd been eating away at him. “During the New Year party, I didn’t go about it the right way. I was just – I was just still so hurt, and I wanted you to hurt the same because… it didn’t seem like you cared at all, which I know you did… I know you loved me, and…” He took in a deep breath. “I hope that you still do. At least enough to give us another chance. We can take it at your pace,” he instantly added, knowing how she’d react, expecting the sigh and the almost tired and resigned ‘Harry’ that escaped her lips. But he’d say everything on his mind. “You can take how long you need to feel like you can trust me with what’s bothering you.”

        “Harry,” she repeated, but it didn’t seem like he was about to stop.

        “But I think we can do it, and we can do it right this time. We know where we stand, we won't make the same mistakes.”

        Y/N’s hand came to rest against his cheek, and he practically melted, engulfing her palm with his as to not let her touch leave his skin for even a second. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

        “Look, I know, you��re scared, and the thing is, so am I. I don’t want it to end like that or end. Period. But I do want to try again.”

        And if nothing but to humour him Y/N asked, “And if it does end the same way?”

        “It won’t.” He was so sure of it, she had to laugh.

        “Harry, the big difference between us is – you like to talk about your feelings. You like to go through them and stuff. I don’t. I feel… icky when I even think about talking to someone of what I feel. We’re just too opposite.”

        “Opposites attract.”

        “No,” she pointed a finger at him, stifling her laughter, though Harry seemed not to be hiding his smile. “Do not use science against me.”

        He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m not, I’m just supporting my point with facts. Scientific facts, that you can’t argue against.”

        “I mean…” Y/N shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno… Maybe it was a good thing we ended it when we did. It was ten months – almost ten – amazing months, but… can you imagine if we’d gone so far as to think about moving in together, and then it fell apart? That would’ve been a whole different kind of a mess.”

        “Do you love me?”

        Y/N sighed, resting her cheek against the couch while she smoothed away his brown locks from his face. “Of course, I do. Don’t think there will be a time in my life I don’t.”

        “Then that’s all I need.”

         “Is that really enough for you?”

        “Yes.”

        And there was no lie in that single word. Did he want for Y/N to feel comfortable enough with him that she talked about whatever concerned her, however small? Of course. But he also wanted her to be comfortable enough to be herself. If that meant her keeping things to herself, and trusting Harry to support her decisions, it’d be enough.

        Her Y/E/C eyes hadn’t left his green ones, and they only widened as he leaned forwards and pressed his forehead to hers.

        “Haz…”

        Fuck, how he’d missed her calling him that. It wasn’t an exclusive nickname by any means, but when it came from Y/N’s mouth, it was the sweetest sound in the universe.

        He was her Haz when he broke a plate, he was her Haz when she threw her head back as pleasure exploded through her body, he was her Haz when he took her hand in his to quell her anxiety, and he was her Haz when he gave her tissues as they watched a movie, and she couldn’t help but cry each time a dog or cat died (or a dragon, but he was a sobbing mess as well because ‘Dragonheart’ messed with them both).

        His lips were so close, and just as they skimmed over her own, Y/N’s phone rang making her physically spring back, eyes like saucers.

        “S – Sorry,” she stammered, scrambling to find the annoying device between the cushions. It was Sarah’s name that lit up her screen.

        “Hey, what’s up?” Y/N started, voice trembling and shaky. God, when had she suddenly gone so out of breath? And why was her head so dizzy, as if she’d just gotten off a rollercoaster?

        “Yeah, he’s here,” she replied, eyeing Harry. “Yeah, just a sec,” and Y/N handed him her phone with a quiet ‘why’s your phone always dead?’

        ‘Didn’t know it died’, he said, but that was untrue. He’d turned it off so this sort of a situation wouldn’t happen; so a call or text wouldn’t interrupt him at the most critical moment. He had to give the universe a proper talk once he was done.

        “ ‘Ello?” 

        Seconds of silence passed, and Y/N didn’t like how weird it was, so she took the empty plates and put them in the sink to soak.

        “Now?”

        She could see the frustration rise in Harry as his forehead creased, and he let a hand rake through his hair. “Fuck’s sake… yeah, I’ll be there in ten. ‘S alright,” he sighed. “Not your fault Sarah. Tell Jeff not to worry, and that I’m not dead.”

        With that, he pressed the red button and ended the call, drumming his fingers against the screen. God, he really didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not after he’d been so close.

        “Uh, work?” Y/N asked, arms crossed in front of her as if she was protecting herself from the answer. 

        “Yeah, sorry. I uh a meeting from tomorrow got rescheduled for tonight, like right now because there was some sort of an emergency from the label’s side."

        “ ‘S alright, I get it. Showbiz never stops.” Y/N motioned to the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

        There were a couple of times in his life Harry wanted to give himself a beating. Once when he was six and Gemma had told on him after he’d broken a favourite vase of their mothers, he decided to get revenge and destroy her favourite plushie. He’d never forget the tears Gem had cried, and how absolutely heartbroken she’d sounded. He vowed although he was the little brother, to never ever let anyone hurt her like that, and if someone did, they’d meet their maker sooner rather than later.

        The second time was when he was still a teenager, One Direction on the rise, and it had gotten to his head just a little bit more than it should’ve. He’d gotten really messed up at a party (which Harry shouldn’t have even been at). The disappointment on his mother’s face as she scolded him through FaceTime was gut-wrenching enough to make him promise to always know the limit.

        And Harry guessed this was the third time.

        He could’ve said no to the meeting. Jeff was there and so was Sarah and Mitch. The three of them could handle it for him. It’s not like he would mind much whatever they came up with if it had given him the time to settle things with Y/N. 

        “It was great to see you, Harry.” She brought him out from the thoughts as she unlocked the door and opened it for him, bringing her jumper sleeves over her palms to hide from the cold outside air. “Really. I – I missed you, and honestly, I’m glad we got to talk. I uh well, take care. And say hi to Sarah from me please.”

        “I – “ he took hold of Y/N’s wrist before she could turn away. “I’m holding a small concert in a week. Here in uh in New York. It’s for charity… I want you to come.”

        “I umm… I’ll have to check if I’m free, but yeah. I will. Thank you.”

        “ ‘S no problem… Sarah missed you like crazy now that you’re not in LA as often… ‘n yeah. Anyway. I’ll put your name on the guest list, so just bring some ID, and they’ll let you backstage.”

        “Okay,” she whispered and gave him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. I’ll really try to come.”

        “Yeah.”

        And he was going to go without doing anything else. Harry truly was. But as he released her wrist, going to the stairs, he gave Y/N one last glance back, and it was like his feet had a mind of their own, as they carried him back to where she stood by the still open door, grabbed her by the waist and pressed his lips to hers. 

        He expected Y/N to push him away, but to his very huge delight, she didn’t. Instead, her fingers wove through his hair and her legs almost on instinct rose so he could take her by the thighs, wrap them around his middle and press her against the doorway. 

        The groan that Harry swallowed from Y/N only ignited the fire that’d been burning ever since he met her, but it wasn’t the destructive kind, like the ones that leave nothing but charcoal behind. It was warm. Safe. Like the light of a fairy light. Like the embrace of home.

        “Come to the show,” he muttered against Y/N’s lips, as they broke apart, and he set her down on the ground, not letting go until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “I’ll wait for you.”

        With that, he left because if he didn’t, he’d make sure Y/N would be unable to walk for a week.

        And Y/N watched him retreat while her brain fought with her heart.

        What was it he’d sung in ‘Golden’, as he’d twirled her in the sea of bodies and glitter a little bit more than a year ago? ‘Loving is the antidote?’ 

        Maybe love was the antidote to her fear.

        She closed the door.

        And smiled.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Everything tags: @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @teenwolflover28 @lestersglitterglue @im-squished

Harry Styles tags: @sarcasticallywitty15​ @breezykpop​ @girlboss99​ @harrystylesdoesntknowiexist​ @alliyjane​ @sirtommyholland​

A/N: I’ve been listening to ‘Fine Line’, ‘The Periodic Table Song’, ‘Welcome to the Christmas Parade’ (Welcome to the Black Parade mix with All I Want For Christmas) and ‘Rasputin’ Boney M remix exclusively... I feel like a complete crackhead... :D

Decided to tag also those who wanted a part 2 but didn’t necessarily ask to be tagged :)

P.S. I guess there will be a part 3???

P.S.S. if you wanna be added to a tag list drop me a message :)

[svnflowervol666]

I Want Your Belly (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: Oddly specific, kinda weird, sappy sweet. Got a good handful of asks for this one so here you go! Harry asks Y/N to join him in the Watermelon Sugar music video. It was a bit hard to write due to the nature of the scenario, but I hope you find it just as cute as I did. Take care and TPWK.

Even in January, the California heat is brutal and unforgiving. Sure, being by the ocean where the momentum of the cool waves cast a light breeze does something to midigate the miserable feeling of feeling like the sun’s rays are going to burn you alive, but it’s only a crumb of salvation really. We’re talking sweat running down the backs of your kneecaps, legs painfully sticking to the seat of whatever chair you’re sitting in, not enough water in the world to keep you from being dehydrated hot. But she wanted to be there.

She’d been oggling him from her sand chair for the past forty-five minutes. I mean, who isn’t oggling him when they see him tracing his fingers coyly over the flesh of a sweet, ripe watermelon. He’d been glancing in her direction in between nearly every take, smirking at her through his aqua-tinted sunnies and wondering if what she was seeing made her reconsider the offer he’d been begging her to take him up on for weeks. All she would give him back was her iconic side-eye before she’d go back to reading the novel in her lap and occasionally picking at the bowl of freshly-cut fruit she’d swiped from the prop table.

“And that’s a wrap on scene one!” one of the directors called out over the crashing waves.

Harry did what was proper - shaking hands and bowing heads and saying his ‘thank you’s before all but jogging over to where she was sat underneath the oversized pale-blue gingham printed umbrella.

“Change yeh mind yet?”

He had his hands on his hips, fingers resting on hem of the crochet-knit tank top he’d chosen himself for the occasion. She waited until she finished the page she was on before even daring to peer up at him through her sunglasses.

“How are you not dying in those pants?” was all that Y/N gave in response before going back to her book.

“‘M absolutely wretched down there if that’s what you’re askin. But yeh didn’t answer my question, lovie.”

She sighed heavily, dog-earring her place in her novel and casting it aside it in the sand before leaning up to rest her elbows on her knees.

“I just don’t know why you want me to be in it so badly. This is your video. If I’m in it, everyone’s gonna go crazy and it’ll be an even bigger shit show in the press than it’s already going to be.”

This made Harry crouch down to her level, his white loafers digging even deeper into the sand as he leaned on his haunches.

“That’s exactly why I want yeh t’ be in it. ‘S my video and that’s what I want. Want this t’ be fun and it would be even more fun if I had m’ girl with me.”

She stared at him, silently giving him her please drop it look, but it only spurred him on further.

“If it’ll make yeh feel any better, I’ll make sure you’re not in it a bunch when it comes ‘round t’ editing. Barely put yeh up close too.”

That was enticing,Y/N could admit. He’d surely let her have the final say in how much she was involved, but there was still a lot of stress that came with being on camera. Especially in her state. She knew she wasn’t exactly hiding anything, as they’d been spotted countless times in public and their friends had posted photos to their stories with her body clearly visible in them, but some things she’d rather not shine a direct spotlight on. Doing something like this would most definitely be putting her business on display for the world to see, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. 

“Please, baby? I won’t ask yeh again, but I’d really love it if you were beside me.��

She wet her lips with her tongue, eyes darting up to the underside of the umbrella as she really, truly contemplating giving in to Harry’s pleads. On her life, she can barely recall a time when she hadn’t given Harry anything that he wanted. He just had a way with people that wasn’t manipulative or conniving in any way - he was magnetic. Everything about him was so charismatic and mesmerizing and anyone that met him found themselves gravitating towards him and going along with whatever he was saying or suggesting. I mean, she let him put a baby in her for christ’s sake.

“Help me up out of this thing and find me something to wear,” she huffed, to which Harry dramatically punched the air with his fist in celebration.

“One condition,” she interjected his boast and Harry tilted his ear in her direction and tapped his earlobe with his finger to show her that he was listening.

“You have to go down on me when we get home. It was torture watching you finger that watermelon, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that.”

“Yeh talkin’ like yeh think I wasn’t gonna try t’ squeeze in a quickie during lunch anyway.”

He pulled her up to her feet, making sure to keep a steady hand on her back as he led her away from the ocean and towards the beach entrance where the trailers were parked.

//

“Wha’ about this one?” Harry asked as he pulled a strapless swimsuit with a palm tree print littered about the fabric and presented it to her.

“One wrong step and my tits will fall right outta that thing,” she quipped.

Harry held it at arm’s reach so he get a better look at the garment himself.

“Yeah. You’re right. They are gettin’ pretty big, aren’t they?”

There was no malice laced within his comment, but when he felt a harsh backhand graze his shoulder, he realized what he’d just said.

“Jesus, Y/N. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it like tha’. Yeh know I love your boobs. Especially now.”

He tried to make up for it by reaching his hand out to playfully grab at Y/N’s chest, but she slapped his fingers away and continued thumbing through the racks filled with dozens if not hundreds of swimsuits for something she could manage to squeeze herself into.

“Ohh, wait! This one’s nice.”

Harry’s fingers got tangled in the lacy straps of the neighboring article of clothing beside the one he was trying to pull out, making a few hangers crash to the ground with a harsh sound against the linoleum. When she saw what he had found, she didn’t hate it. It was a sherbet-orange colored bikini that seemed as if it would cover everything she was concerned about showing, and the bottoms looked like they’d be somewhat decent at keeping her ass contained and wouldn’t ride up and make her constantly have to readjust it every five minutes. 

“Alright, Styles,” she squinted her eyes and nodded in approval.

“I’ll bite.”

He watched her as she peeled her romper that perfectly cradled her small yet still mighty bump, lingering for just a bit too long when she unhooked the back of her bra and dropped it to the floor.

“You gonna give me the swimsuit or are you gonna keep staring at me? It’s fucking hot in here, Harry.”

She was stark naked and had her hands on her hips, a sticky veil of sweat still shining on her skin from the mugginess of the wardrobe trailer. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at her state, his heart full of nothing but admiration for the girl standing in front of him.

“Here, I’ll help yeh into it.”

Harry kneeled down to the floor and guided her legs through the bikini bottoms. Just as he pulled them up around her thighs and onto her hips, he gave her bump a quick kiss. 

“We’re kinda matchin’ yeh know,” Harry babbled as he fastened the straps on her top.

“‘S the same color as m’ nails,” he stuck a leg out in front of her to wiggle his toes and show off the bright orange pedicure he’d gotten that morning.

“That’s disgustingly cute actually. Maybe I should change,” she joked.

“No way,” he dismissed her.

“Yeh ass looks too good in this one.”

Harry clapped both hands against her bum with gentle force, the two of them erupting into a fit of giggles. He spun her around by the shoulders to get a good look at her body, protruding belly and all, in the clementine orange swimsuit.

“M’ pretty, pretty girl,” he whispered as his lips met hers in a kiss.

“You’re lucky I love you enough to do this.”

“I know I am,” Harry muttered against her mouth.

“Alright,” he continued.

“Just gotta change into m’ shorts and then I’ll be good t’ go. Meet yeh at the umbrella?”

“Oh hell no,” she jested.

“If you got to see me naked, I get to see you naked. Now get to stripping.”

//

The day went by in a blur.

What was supposed to be a brief cameo turned into Harry dragging Y/N into every scene he possibly could. When the directors instructed the models to gather in a pile around the pop star, he found his head perched in her lap, nestled perfectly atop her thighs with his temples pressed against her belly. When they’d wanted clips of everyone romping about the shoreline, he’d ended up carrying her around the beach after she’d gotten winded from doing one-too-many takes.

“Harry, I cannot fucking do this anymore,” she panted.

“I can practically feel my cankles growing.”

“Fine then,” he replied, hooking his forearm around the underside of her knees and scooping her up so that she was cradled against his burly chest.

“I’ll just carry yeh.”

He’d made her feed him raspberries as he sang the lyrics into the camera, even going so far as to suck on her fingers seductively when she went to drop one into his mouth. It wasn’t intended to be a serious attempt at filming the video, only him messing around and trying to get a rise out of her as he always did, but everyone ultimately decided that that the take they were going to use. She’d cursed him out under his breath, but they both knew it was for making her practically soak her knickers rather than getting dragged into more than she bargained for during the shoot.

Constantly, his hands always found themselves gravitating towards her belly. Whether it was rubbing her taught skin like a crystal ball as he sang the chorus instead of gesturing to the large watermelon that he was supposed to be holding, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her.

She’d known it was bound to happen at one point, but sometime throughout the afternoon he’d called for her and when she turned around, he was had shoved a watermelon up under his sheer, yellow blouse.

“Y/N!” Harry shouted at her from a few yards away, interrupting a lovely conversation she was having with one of the models.

“I’m you!”

He gestured to the fruit stuffed inside of his shirt, toyfully stroking the exterior in the manner that she always found herself doing even she wasn’t realizing. 

It made everyone, and I mean everyone, explode in laughter. It only made her hide her face in her hands after promptly shoving her middle finger in his direction.

But she’d gotten him back. When the director wanted shots of each of the girls taking bites out of a slice of watermelon, she’d made sure to take the messiest bite she could manage so that the juice ran down her chin and down the valley of her breasts. Y/N threw her head back as if were the greatest thing she’d ever tasted, exposing the column of her neck that Harry loved to mark up and bruise with his skillful tongue and lips.

“Yeh tryin’ t’ make me hard right now?” he all but growled in her ear when she’d joined him behind the camera so the next model could have their turn.

She simply cocked her head to one side and smirked up at him.

“Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it? I’m going to the bathroom. All of this watermelon’s making me have to pee.”

When it came time for the portrait and everyone was being distributed their designated slice of fruit, Y/N found herself confused when Harry pulled her out of line.

“What are you doing, H?”

Harry held up a hand to signal that he’d be right back, to which he returned with an uncut watermelon. Quite possibly the biggest watermelon that she’d ever seen at that.

“Yeh don’t get a slice, yeh get the whole damn watermelon.”

They’d all piled up on the bench and stared stoically into the camera, only instead of raising the wedge to their lips to take a bite, Y/N sat on the grass at Harry’s knees, a whole watermelon resting in between her legs in front of her bump.

//

Y/N’s day ended up being far more fun than she’d ever imagined it could have been despite her constant nagging and jabs at Harry’s expense. While she’d initially only agreed to be a part of Harry’s music video under the condition that her role would be minimum, she was secretly hoping that all of their side conversations and what would be considered “outtakes” would actually make in into the final cut. 

In fact, she’d had so much fun that at the end of the day when filming had wrapped and her and Harry were on the way home, the gentle hum of his convertible and the cool breeze that followed a blistering day on Malibu beach had slowly began willing her eyes shut. 

“Baby,” Harry beckoned her from the driver’s seat.

“Hmm?” Y/N picked her head up from where it was leaning against the window to look over at him.

“Don’t go t’ sleep on me now.”

He reached over to grab her left hand that had settled itself on top of her round stomach. Before lacing his fingers with hers, he kissed her knuckles tenderly.

“Still got t’ go down on yeh when we get home. Bet yeh gonna taste like strawberries.”

[bookstantrash]

A/N: I can’t believe I’m staying true to my word and posting it before the year is over. My self imposed deadline was met, yey me!!

A little heads up for those who read my stuff: January will be a tricky month for me — I still have one exam left — so I don’t know if I’ll be able to post. Then there’s the acosf release, and I plan to avoid being in social media (aka tumblr, twitter) until I’ve read it at least two times lol. I’ll try to write in any spare time that I have, but I’m sorry in advance.

Now, let’s end 2020 with style!! I hope you enjoy the new chapter and wish y’all a good 2021 💜

In which she makes a friend, Part Five

Nesta woke up to soft knocking on her door.

She groaned in her pillow, wanting nothing more than to go back sleep. She was not used to waking up so early — the sun had barely risen on the sky — and she’d had a poor night of sleep, her latest nightmare still too vivid in her mind.

Nesta had a lot of those. Nightmares. Before, it was of Mandray. Of being beneath him again. Of not being able to scape. After being kidnapped by Hybern, they were about Elain. Of failing time and time again to avoid her sister being thrown into that blasted Cauldron.

Once the war had come and gone, it got worse. She’d dream of Elain in that camp, chained near the Cauldron. Would dream of Feyre failing to rescue their sister. Would dream of both of them dying while Nesta was unable to protect them. Another failure that’d hunt her through all of her miserable immortal life.

And she’d dream of him. Of his wings being broken and his screams piercing her ears, her soul. Of Hybern killing him in front of her eyes while she was held down by the evil king’s power. And once she got free, once she blasted that bastard to nothingness, she’d find herself in world without him. A world where she lived with a big nothing inside her.

Last night, however, had been different. She had been dreaming of failing Elain and Feyre again when suddenly she heard a voice. His voice, talking in that melodic and enthralling language, his voice a soft caress that eased her troubles. But as soon as she felt herself calming down, Nesta felt him go away. And so she desperately asked for him to stay with her. At least in her dreams she’d be less proud and afraid to say what she wished to. What she wished she had said to him two months ago.

Don’t go. Stay.

And in her dream he stayed. It had been so realistic that Nesta swore she could still feel his warm calloused hand against her skin, smell his scent, his voice a lover’s caress in her ears and—

She got up from the bed quickly, shaking her head. No good would come from going down that path. She willed her heart to behave and stay quiet in the cage she had locked it into. Wall after wall being risen, being toughened. Sometimes, feeling nothing was better then feeling too much or even anything at all.

Nesta heard knocking again, and quickly discarded her nightgown for the Illyrian leathers. She had struck a promise to train with Kaelin before the girl’s morning training and Nesta hated to be late.

“I’m awake, you don’t have to tear down the door Kaelin” Nesta said, opening her door and almost hitting her face in a leather clad chest.

Cassian was the one knocking on her door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“Good morning to you too sweetheart” he gave her a teasing grin “Last that I checked, I live here”

“One would wonder if that is true, given your long absence” she replied, knowing she had hit her mark when she saw a muscle twitching on his jaw “Where’s Kaelin?”

“Training has been rescheduled. The younglings start earlier now so those preparing for the Blood Rite can have more time on the training areas” Cassian managed to say.

“I see” Nesta was thinking about going back to sleep when the male in front of her interrupted her thoughts.

“Would you care to have breakfast with me?”

She opened her mouth to dismiss him when she caught the look on his eyes. Not angry anymore at her earlier jab, but anxious. She had never seen Cassian so unsure before, so difficult to read. It was as if his feelings were all over the place.

“It wouldn’t hurt to eat with him” she thought, recalling her dream.

“You are cooking” Nesta declared, moving past him to the kitchen.

“As you wish, your Highness” he did a mocking bow and followed her.

Nesta eyed the tall male in front of her. He cooked with expertise and seemed completely comfortable in the ambient, humming while he mixed some eggs in the frying pan.

He was so... domestic. Nesta almost smiled imagining him with a silly apron, an image so at odds with his usual scary General appearance.

“I talked with Kaelin yesterday” Cassian said after some time.

“And?” Nesta asked, raising an eyebrow

“He’s been training with you. And I was wondering....” he placed the food in front of her, clearing his throat “I was wondering if I could train you. Both of you. Kaelin is not so advanced with his training and there’s also the matter of—”

“The matter of what” she snapped

“Your powers” he fidgeted with a knife, twirling it on his hand, not scared to cut off a finger by accident “I don’t know where you were with Amren in regards to them, but it’s also important to have them in sync with any self defence moves you can learn”

“My powers are none of your concern”

It was a lie. Her classes with Amren had just grazed the surface of what she knew she could do. But she was scared of them. Of what she could do. Her powers were a wild beast that was she forced to live with, a constant reminder of the life she lost.

She hated it.

However, Cassian was right. If she truly wanted to be capable of defending herself — of defending Kaelin were her secret to be discovered — she’d have to accept his help.

“We can train after breakfast” she nonchalantly said, stabbing a piece of the scrambled eggs on her plate “I’m already changed either way”

“Brilliant” Cassian smiled, his whole face seeming to lighten up like the sky after a storm “Prepare yourself to be challenged sweetheart. I’m not one to go easy on my students”

~•~

Cassian did not lie. He didn’t go easy on her. Her whole body ached and she almost regretted her choice to not stay in the cabin, rereading one of her books.

But she had places to go.

“You’re late”

“I’m not late Esmée” Nesta stated, grabbing an apron by the tent’ side and moving to one of the tables “I’m exactly on time”

“You’re thirty seconds late. That’s enough to lose the boiling point for a healing potion and make it a poison instead” Esmée, the chief healer of Windhaven huffed “If I say you’re late then you’re late.”

Nesta only dipped her head and started to work. Esmée might come out as a grump and mean female, but she was only serious about her work, a work which left her with no time for idle talk or sugarcoated pleasantries.

Nesta liked her just fine.

Kaelin had been the one to present her to the healers. Once her period was over and it was safe for her to leave the cabin without someone noticing the change in her scent, Kaelin had taken Nesta in a tour through Windhaven. Nesta did not know anything else except the area around Cassian’s cabin, which included a solitary trail to the forest and the outskirts of the village.

Kaelin appeared to know everyone they passed by. The younglings — who were yet too young to train — happily waved at her when they passed, as did some females who were working. On the other hand, it was different with the males. They eyed Kaelin with distaste and something akin to betrayal in their eyes. Nesta had yet to ask Kaelin why. Was it because she was walking with Nesta, an outsider who not only was High Fae but also the sister in law of their High Lord? She had tucked the information inside herself, analysing everything and everyone they met.

And it was when they were nearing the end of the tour that they had come upon the healers tent. Nesta recalled helping them in the war, bringing buckets of water, doing bandages for the wounded and holding the most serious ones down while they were patched up. She had felt like she had a purpose back then. Like she was not a burden.

She tried not think how it also helped her take her mind off the fearless Illyrian who leaded the troops, leaving only dead bodies with whoever met his blade.

Esmée had remembered her, as did some of the other females that worked alongside her. They had not eyed Nesta with pity or distaste, something she was used to in Velaris. No, they simply gave her a nod of recognition and went back to work, mixing herbs, cutting straps of bandages and tending to patients.

“Are you going to help or will you stay all day there?” Esmée had snapped “If you want to, grab an apron and come here. We need more jambu to be ground so that fella over there can stop whining”

Kaelin had come still beside Nesta, fearing she had been insulted by the healers harsh words. But she simply grabbed an apron and rolled her dress’ sleeves.

“Which one is jambu?”

And from that day onwards Nesta began to help the healers in any way she could, going after her training with Kaelin in the morning and coming back in the late afternoon. Kaelin always walked her back, stopping at the tent after her training.

“It’s not safe for females to wander alone” the young girl had informed Nesta “Specially when it starts to get dark”

Nesta knew better than to dismiss Kaelin’s words. She knew what males were capable of doing to those they thought inferior to them.

“Charming as ever, don’t you agree?” Jacira said, appearing beside Nesta.

“Lovely” she mumbled back, the corners of her lips almost raising in a smile.

Jacira was one of the least shy healers around Nesta. She had beautiful dark green eyes, which contrasted with her dark raven hair and dark brown skin. She also had a very sharp and curious mind, and was teaching Nesta all she knew about what being a healer was like.

Nesta liked to think she had found another friend in Jacira.

“I see the General has come back”

“Really? I didn’t notice” Nesta replied, busying herself with her task.

“He had been gone longer than usual this time for the inspection” Jacira whispered “Word says it’s because some serious trouble has risen in other camps, specially Ironcrest”

Jacira was also a shameless gossiper. In the two weeks Nesta had started to work with her, she knew practically everything about anyone that lived in Windhaven. She said to herself that no harm would come to listen to Jacira’s blabbering. She was simply gathering information as to not stay in the dark.

It was not gossip. It was only intelligence material about the Illyrians in Windhaven.

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?” Cassian had not spoken a word about it with her.

“I don’t know. I only know that the camp lords are whispering between them, and seem to be anxious about the Blood Rite.” she got closer to Nesta “In my opinion, they want it to arrive fast so any feuds can be resolved there”

For the Blood Rite was not only the chance for the Illyrians to prove their worth as a warrior, but a bloodbath. An event that allowed matters to be resolved without the laws of the war camps binding them.

“More work and less talk ladies” Esmée hissed at them “Those tonics won’t be done by themselves”

“Yes, m’am” Jacira replied, batting her eyelashes innocently, making Nesta snort. That girl had no fear of danger.

They kept to their work, Jacira talking when she thought Esmée was not looking, Nesta saying something now and then. The time she spent among the healers was precious to her. It brought a sense of normality back to her life. Even the wild beast inside her gave her a time out, seeming to purr whenever she dedicated herself to chopping herbs and making tonics or healing potions, the scent of all the ingredients calming her.

But the thought that something was amiss among the Illyrians bothered her. It was something that stayed on her mind all day.

Nesta was quieter than usual at dinner — she caught Cassian glancing worriedly at her when he thought she was not looking — the gears inside her head turning and going through every possible outcome.

She went to sleep still thinking about it, and came to a conclusion.

Something bad was coming.

And she would get Cassian to tell her whatever it was.

•

Tags: @sayosdreams @thewayshedreamed @sjm-things @perseusannabeth @arin1030 @caotica-e-quieta @vidalinav @swankii-art-teacher @ireallyshouldsleeprn @duskandstarlight @greerlunna @thegoddessaltenia @dayanna-hatter @verypaleninja @awesomelena555 @courtofjurdan @allilal @sensitiveillyrian @moe8 @illyrianwitchling13

{Please let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list}

[fwoopersongs]

《红颜旧》 - afterthoughts

We were talking about the three songs 《红颜旧》, 《风起时》 and 《赤血长殷》 from Nirvana in Fire in Langya Hall back in January. Someone wanted a poll to find out which was our favourite among the three, and thinking of how to answer that made me realise I couldn’t remember which I liked the most! So of course I had to go listen to them again, right? As it turns out, though it’s been about five to six years since first hearing them all, I still have quite a bit to say…

This will be the first of a three-parter on the NIF drama songs. I'll be rambling on (really just a whole lot of rambling lol) about my thoughts, feelings and new stuff found in the elapsing time between 2016 and now for 《红颜旧》. There’s also been so many translations! WOW. At least 6 full ones from English to Chinese - some of these have really interesting notes! One retelling in classical Chinese following the style of the Classic of Poetry (Shijing) and one tumblr meta about its use in the drama. There are many things I love about everyone’s work so I’ll definitely be mentioning them later as we go on.

Feel free to join in and chat, because nif song talk will always be welcome in this blog ~

The non-exhaustive list of 《红颜旧》 translations: 19 Oct 2015, Changing Face by 墨白妈妈 04 Dec 2015, Aging of a Beauty (and translation notes) by Joyce 02 Jan 2016, Fading Beauty by Fwoopersongs 03 Feb 2016, Bygone Beauty by xjc396 24 Jun 2016, 《红颜旧》by Yvonne 23 Mar 17, Shijing style classical chinese by 之梦轩主人 06 May 2017, Faded Beauty by Kana @chiyanjun 30 Jan 2021, The Aging of Beauty, chorus only & meta on its use as an insert song in Episode 54 by @hunxi-after-hours.

All the kudos to Joyce’s ‘Notes Made When Translating: Aging of a Beauty’ because her cultural notes and analysis are just so good!!!! She did it for the other two songs and also the NIF game theme too. Would strongly recommend checking those out as I learnt a lot and had a fantastic and rather educational time reading them \o/ rabbit holing in song translation is such a MOOD.

ORIGINS

Lyricist: 袁亮 Music & Arrangement: 赵佳霖

Originally released as 《忍别离》 Endure Separation, the third song of Cui Zige’s guofeng themed album 《小美人》 The Little Beauty in Dec 2013, 《红颜旧》 was later adopted as an insert song of the 2015 drama, Nirvana in Fire. I thought it was specially written as Mu Nihuang’s character song, but apparently not! But it’s really the beauty of music and credit to whoever picked it that it’s just so easily relatable to her.

The one difference I can spot between the two songs would be in the last line, likely as an improvement for better flow:

不变是此情悠悠 - 《忍别离》 bù biàn shì cǐ qíng yōu yōu 唯不变此情悠悠 - 《红颜旧》 wéi bù biàn cǐ qíng yōu yōu

TITLE

As both Joyce and Yvonne have noted, 红颜 | hóngyán is used here to refer to the lovely features of a beautiful woman. 

Although 红颜 is more often used to refer to a woman, sometimes in poetry it also evokes the image of a youth, young men or boys in the peak of health with fresh faces and pinkish-red cheeks. For example, this poem by Shen Yue of the Northern and Southern Dynasties and also this one by Du Fu of the Tang Dynasty. Before, I vaguely knew of the word 红颜 through the chengyu 红颜知己 | hóngyán zhījǐ, which one would call a close female friend and confidante. A relationship with a 红颜知己 is somewhere between platonic and romantic. Something like how we imagine Lin Shu and Nihuang’s relationship would have been like once upon a time.

Then comes 旧 | jiù, a word with many meanings! Yvonne covers most of them in her little preface; something worn out, something old, something from the past, perhaps an old lover.

Most of us seem to have gone with the ‘old’ or ‘growing old’ shade of meaning; choosing to use ‘beauty’ for 红颜, and rendering 旧 either as an ongoing process of aging/fading or as something of the past that is faded or bygone. There is something melancholy about this title I think, in the passing of a lady’s youth and beauty, but something strong in there too, in a young face that is aging with grace.

My first attempt at the title before making any attempt at translating the song was ‘Lady Love of Old’ and it was left as that for some time before I gave in to a nagging feeling and changed it to ‘fading beauty’, then eyed ‘bygone beauty’ for some time. I can still see it as all the options though. Especially when squinting (figuratively xD) and that’s why I prefer to call it hongyanjiu to this day. That way you don’t lose any shade of the meaning...

And oh! An interesting exception among us would be 墨白妈妈 who went with Changing Face, as a reference to the William Butler Yeats poem ‘When You Are Old’.

“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face”

And you know what? This is so valid. I like it a lot as well!

OKAY, and now for the song! I’ve gone as literal as possible for all the interpretations. I’ll go over it line by line for interesting points in the original lyrics, plus across the various translations. Maybe a little bit afterwards on more feelings and/or why I chose to deviate a bit sometimes.

INTRO

西风夜渡寒山雨  A west wind blows past in the night; in the cold mountains, rain falls. 家国依稀残梦里  With home and country indistinct in fragmented dreams, 思君不见倍思君  thinking of him but not seeing him, my longing doubles. 别离难忍忍别离  Parting is hard to bear, but it is borne.

One of the things I’ve learnt since 2016, is that 西风 | xī fēng, a wind from the west is often associated with autumn wind, and with it a certain heaviness, sorrow, grief and loneliness. As an example, this poem (in English here) by Song Dynasty minister and poet, Ye Mengde, which I love for its imagery in the first two lines.

《水调歌头·霜降碧天静》 - Water tune prelude · after the snow falls // 霜降碧天静 秋事促西风 | after the snow falls, the azure sky is clear and all is quiet; autumn preparations are hurried by west winds. 寒声隐地初听 中夜入梧桐 | the whooshing of that chilling wind, indistinct in the beginning, rustles the parasol trees as we enter into the night

Photo source

渡 | dù, a word I’ve been thinking about lately, has multiple meanings. Crossing (a river), to cross, ferry or move pass. Here, because the location is in a 寒山 | hán shān cold mountain, the 渡 would be referring to the west wind blowing past. Both 墨白妈妈 and Kana used ‘sail’ in their first line as a nod to the word’s other meanings, which is very clever and a really nice touch because it calls the same associations to mind.

残 | cán, the word for fragmented of 残梦里 | cán mèng lǐ - within fragmented dreams - is the same as that of the word for cruel, 残忍 | cán rěn. When I first heard the song with the lyrics in front of me, I didn’t know 残梦 was a word by itself and understood it as ‘cruel dreams’. Home and country as you remember them being dangled in front of you, but barely in sight and out of reach. I still like that interpretation right now, and thus kept the line as is.

For the line 思君不见倍思君, the word 君 | jūn here refers to a man who could be her husband, could be a beau, could be a friend - Joyce covers it all already!

Special mention for 倍 | bèi, meaning many times over or double in this context of 倍思君: it was difficult to express that feeling (I gave up xD) of thoughts reaching out for someone, finding a void and only able to settle back - not subsiding but growing instead. It was so cool to see that someone did manage to capture it in the end! In Kana’s ‘Missing you but not seeing you, twice does the yearning grow’, that return of the yearning twofold is expressed so elegantly!

The fourth line of the intro along with some of the lines from the next verse calls one of Li Shangyin’s untitled poems to mind, so I’ll introduce it below.

VERSE 

狼烟烽火何时休  When will the beacons of war rest? 成王败寇尽东流  Victors become king, losers - outlaws; it all flows east (to the sea). 蜡炬已残泪难干 Although the candles have burnt till only reside is left, it is difficult for tears to dry. 江山未老红颜旧 Before the mountains and rivers grow old, the beauty ages.

For the first two lines, Joyce already covers them with a really detailed explanation and pictures. Do go check that out if you haven’t already! I especially enjoyed learning about 狼烟 | lángyān, beacon fire, or more literally, ‘wolf smoke’, possibly being named that because a component of it may or may not have been wolf dung. She also digs into the next line pretty thoroughly. I’d just like to add on something I found out about the origins of the chengyu! (It’s a bit of a rabbit hole, so feel free to skip!)

The exact phrasing of 成王败寇 | chéng wáng bài kòu, succeed - hailed king, defeated - condemned outlaw, originates (at least, this exact phrasing does) from one of six short poems by Liu Yazi (1887 - 1958), a Chinese poet and political activist, for his review of the book《太平天国战史》on the Taiping Rebellion by Sun Yat Sen.

Rough interpretation following as I’m not familiar with the context, and none of this information is available in English:

成王败寇漫相呼，直笔何人纵董狐 chéng wáng bài kòu màn xiāng hū, zhí bǐ hérén zòng dǒng hú Victors are hailed king, losers condemned as outlaws, on this, all are in accord. (But) when it comes to penning down history, is there anyone who will give Dong Hu free reign?

(Confucious praised Dong Hu as a good historiographer of the Spring and Autumn period. His rule for writing was not to never conceal the truth.)

Snapshot source

Alright, back to 《红颜旧》!

Special mention to the Chinese classical poem rendition, because I really love the rhythm of this line: 王兮寇兮，滚滚东流 wáng xī kòu xī, gǔngǔn dōng liú, which is like (you can ignore 兮 unless it amuses you to read it as HEY! it’s actually a slightly gentler dragged out sound, but I heard it sung once in hokkien and the heyyyyy stuck fast xD) king, outlaw & the river surging east. But the word for surging is 滚滚, which also reads as boiling/raging/surging. When pitted against overwhelmingly powerful forces of nature, like raging rivers, like time, titles and labels are just words that feel so insignificant.

For line 3, 蜡炬已残 | là jù yǐ cán, is like ‘of the candle, only remnants are left’ and the following photo is roughly the image that pops into mind.

Why candles? Because recall:

a west wind blows past in the night; in the cold mountains, rain falls.  with home and country indistinct in fragmented dreams, thinking of him (but) not seeing him, my longing doubles. parting is hard to bear, (but) it is borne.

It is still that cold Autumn night. 

The last line of this verse is, 江山未老红颜旧, literally ‘before the mountains and rivers grow old, the beauty ages’. And the beauty of this (if you’ll pardon the pun) is that both the kingdom and the mountains and rivers? They are ageless. The passage of time will only be apparent to and on her.  For this, I love love love how xjc396 puts it as ‘lands 'nd rivers are in bloom, but my beauty is past’, because of that wistful? mournful? feeling evoked by the contrast of placing something at its zenith and another in decline side by side.

And oooooo, so as mentioned before, there’s a little poem rabbit hole for the last two lines which extends also to the chorus. I’ll introduce it at the end of all this.

CHORUS Part 1

忍别离， Bear the parting, 不忍却要别离， even if you can’t, we still must part. 托鸿雁南去。 Entrusting the geese to go South, 不知此心何寄。 I do not know how to send this heart.

Again, Joyce has our backs with her Notes Made When Translating (thank you!!!!! haha I don’t know how you did it, and with such beautiful pictures too!).

It’s pretty obvious even at the first glance that we all have rather different styles. After all, in translation - at least, how I see it, the differences come from how we’re always balancing between these three things:

And of course, any personal associations we have with certain words in both the source and target language. Maybe there are more things? Idk hahaha. I’m just a hobbyist >.<. Back to the song!

So so so there are two versions that are similar which I like a lot, and then one which surprised me at first but then grew on me more and more. Starting with the two that I like:

Faded Beauty: I plead the birds to bring my message south. But how do I send my heart with them? 《红颜旧》: I entrust the swan-geese flying south with my heart, but I don’t know where to tell them to send it

The main difference being in their interpretation of 何 | hé in 不知此心何寄, which can mean both how and where. 

‘I may write my hopes and longing into a letter and send them to you, but that isn’t enough. It does not convey my heart - would that I may be by your side too!’ - That is my understanding for ‘how’.

‘I would send my letter and my heart to you, if only I knew where (because you are no longer here)’.  - This is my understanding for ‘where’.

I leaned toward the latter for my final version because 《红颜旧》, with its melancholy and resolve, feels like a ‘after Chiyan’ song. But really, I love both interpretations and regret that they must be split in English (but aha therein lies the awesomeness of multiple translations. It’d be weird if I post several versions of one song, but if a bunch of people do it together…)

The one that surprised me: 墨白妈妈: Letters may reach you. Envelopes fail to bear my heart

And just as as another example of a poem in which the poet sends his longing home with the returning geese (um metaphorically).

《次北固山下》- Stopping at the foot of Beigu Mountain // 乡书何处达 归雁洛阳边 | Where might my letter to home be delivered? With the returning geese to Luoyang.

CHORUS Part 2

红颜旧， The lady ages; 任凭斗转星移， Let the Big Dipper turn and the stars shift (and time fly), 唯不变此情悠悠。 with only these feelings remaining unchanged, unwavering.

THIS. This is the turning point of the song. Parting, war, home and country distant, pointless conflict, passing time wasted - keenly felt, lost bearings. But the bedrock of her resolve is love. And with that, though it is painful, even when she’s grieving, feeling unmoored, her love is unwavering. 

The fact that it’s the last line but sung without calling any attention to it just before the verse and chorus repeats... it’s like, blink and you’ll miss it. But after that when she repeats the chorus again and again, it really hits home - the vulnerability but also steadfastness that comes with that love. I’m just so in awe, and usually in tears. Tao-jie’s singing + these lyrics are so emotive.

I want to specially mention the Shijing version here because how this last portion was ‘rephrased’ there is exquisite. But first to break down the last (and most important) line: 唯不变 | wéi bù biàn, (the) only (thing) that does not change 此情    | cǐ qíng, (is) this love 悠悠    | yōu yōu, that goes on and on 

And then how it is said in Shijing version, starting from the line about the shifting stars (references not included...that would be a whooooole ‘nother post of its own): 浩浩河汉，无情之游。 The vast, boundless sea of stars, cold and unfeeling on their paths 我心匪石，永以弗休。 My heart will not be turned, forever shall it refuse to rest.

- and isn’t that just SO very much like Jingyan, Nihuang and Mei Changsu in spirit? 

Final Comments

Overall, I feel like both  Faded Beauty and  《红颜旧》 come the closest, in their own ways, to expressing the vibe of the song while very close to the original lyrics <3 all my kudos to them as a fellow translator. 

I really love xjc396′s version (Bygone Beauty) as a whole. They have somehow managed to preserve the meaning of the song while also being very poetic and beautiful.

墨白妈妈 took the phrase ‘artistic license’ and ran with it, in Changing Face, keeping the core but getting there in a slightly different way. I really enjoyed their creativity!!!

I’m honestly still very impressed and blown away by the shijing version?????? IT’S SO GOOD. 之梦轩主人 \o/ \o/ \o/

Also, hunxi’s answer about its use in episode 54? so insightful! Seriously, go look at it.

Oh and one my tags from 2016 was this: #loving how this shows her as a warrior/general/princess/lady. And yes !!!! YES I still would shout this from the rooftops. Usually, these - forgot the word for them, but there is like a genre (?) theme (?) of poetry written from the perspective of ladies longing for their men who are garrisoned far far away, worrying for their safety while in the war. But it’s a little bit of a play on that trope here, because framed from Mu Nihuang’s perspective, certain lines can take on very different meanings from how they would ‘traditionally’ go.

For example, 家国依稀残梦里 | with home and country indistinct in fragmented dreams, as a general leading her troops in the South, who is doing so while grieving her father and her betrothed - very likely dead, labelled a rebel and forever disgraced… All these identities and the responsibilities on her shoulders. And her home and Da Liang forever changed.

Another example: 狼烟烽火何时休 成王败寇尽东流 | When will the beacons of war rest? Victors become king, loser - outlaw; it all flows east (to the sea). Instead of a deeply worried wife, resenting the pointlessness of the war, Mu Nihuang gets the front and center seat for witnessing the clashing of vipers and conflict stemming from the Emperor's painstaking balancing of power. Which is another, probably even more infuriating and disheartening POV to be experiencing to be honest.

...............................................................................................................

Okay and the final rabbit hole is another Li Shangyin poem! 

Intro 别离难忍忍别离 // parting is hard to bear, (but) it is borne Verse 蜡炬已残泪难干 // although candles have melted, wax hardened, it is difficult for tears to dry. 江山未老红颜旧 //before the mountains and rivers age, beauty fades. Chorus Part 1 忍别离 不忍却要别离 // Bearing with parting is difficult, yet we must part Chorus Part 2 托鸿雁南去 // Entrusting the geese to go South,

《无题》- untitled 相见时难别亦难 | It is difficult to meet, difficult also to part; 东风无力百花残 | spring’s east wind weakens, its myriad flowers withered. 春蚕到死丝方尽 | Only unto death does the silkworm cease to spin its thread; 蜡炬成灰泪始干 | only when candles are burnt to the quick do tears begin to dry. 晓镜但愁云鬓改 | She sits before the mirror at dawn, distressed at the change in her hair; 夜吟应觉月光寒 | murmuring poems in the night, how chilling the moonlight must feel! 蓬山此去无多路 | Between here and the mythical Penglai mountain, there are few roads; 青鸟殷勤为探看 | may the blue bird often visit on her behalf.

That is not to say that the song either does or does not allude to this particular poem, because there are many mediums of creation that do use these themes and imagery. But just that I found the poem while googling that line about the candles’ remnants and tears drying, and it added an extra dimension to my reading of it. Because wow. This is so desperate and intense O.O 

[moondustaeil]

cynosure ⌖ lee jeno

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ✧☾.·:·.cynosure

⠀ ⠀⠀ about

⋅  genre : contract killer/gangster!au : romance, fluff, angst

⋅  characters : Jeno x fem!reader and ot21

⋅ word count : 17k (yes, it’s a lot)

⋅  warning : violence, use of weapons, gambling, kidnapping, betrayal, blackmailing, timeskips, murder, blood, character death, roughly based on bap’s skydive. Don’t read if you’re not ready

⠀ ⠀  ⠀ ⠀

⠀ ⠀⠀ synopsis

⋅  Contact-killer Jeno finds himself lurking between twenty possible perpetrators. One mission-based game with only few chances to save y/n, if it’s not too late that is. Only one gets to be the last man standing, but who will be the lucky cynosure?

suıǝ 

“Lee Jeno”

The voice of unofficial leader Taeyong made Jeno look up from the tiled floor. It was the strictness of the voice that required him to pay attention. “What?” He asked.

“I just did the casting but if you’re uninterested, don’t bother to come. You know what that means, right?” Taeyong asked, his white hair falling in front of his eyes as he tilted his head to the side. Not that Taeyong expected an answer, and not that Jeno was willing to give the answer even if it was expected from him. All twenty-one members were aware of the one unwritten rule, perhaps a little selfish to remember that one but forget the remaining ones. Everyone knew, and yet there was one person who felt like reminding everyone. “More money for the rest” words said by no other than wiseacre Doyoung.

A silent sigh threatened to escape from Jeno’s lips, but the word “money” kept him hostage despite not being interested in a new robbery. “Just give me my task please,” he said while his eyes traveled from Taeyong to the other nineteen people around him: wearing the same black outfits, carrying the same uninterested attitude, and still it was him who got called out. “Easy. You and Yangyang, clean up after the rest leaves.”

“Cleaning up your mess? Am I a trashcan or something?! All I’ve been doing in the past weeks is clean up behind your dirty ass, wiping blood from floors like I’m cleaning snot from a baby’s face” Jeno opened his book of mental complaints, letting them flow out mindlessly. It wasn’t exaggerated as in the past few weeks he had only been paired up with younger members, given the task to make proof disappear as stars disappeared from the night sky. 

“Audition for a different part next time, loverboy” Taeyong shot back upon hearing the complaint about his casting method, his words gaining strength from Donghyuck who was making soppy kissing noises in the background. When was the teasing finally going to stop? Did he prefer scolding instead? Yes, he did. At least scolding wasn't as hard to ignore as bratty behavior. "At least I'm not lonely" Jeno quietly protested despite feeling lonely in the group of twenty other young men, no one seemed to take his side and those who considered taking it were silenced. 

Laughter followed after his words. These were his friends, his enemies hidden behind a tight string that tied them together. This was neo culture technology, and he belonged to the limitless set of demons. 

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"I'm not from NCT, I'm a part of wayV" Yangyang insisted as he pointlessly raised his finger in the air to prove his point.

Jeno couldn't help but let out an annoyed sigh at the younger boy. After nearly three-quarters of an hour, he was tired of the constant boyish behavior... Little did he know he acted like that too around older members.

"That's the same thing, just not in public. You're even lucky you got in, I bet no one else wanted an annoying orange" Jeno shot back. Pacing back and forth in the dark alley, shadows didn't even follow him as there was no light to give him the double life. "At least I didn't get stuck in a group named dream, with some other teenage kids. Speaking of, when are you going to graduate?"

Jeno swallowed thickly when he heard the question, his focus changing from the annoying boy to the content of the things he said. It was ridiculous to fear a simple graduation while he risked his life at least once a week. No one in the dream team dared to urge a word about graduating, scared it would speed up the process.

Where would he go once he graduated?

Perhaps his rank would be higher as he moved into another unit. Or this was the end of his young life in the environment, or even in the world. Time would give him an answer, though he preferred not knowing the answer to that question.

Dream was a wonderful unit as the name already stated. Wonderful enough to make it sound like they were a clubhouse rather than a gang.

"I don't know" Jeno answered truthfully, his eyes lowering towards the black earpiece in the palm of his hand. With a sigh, his fist clenched around the piece of plastic. "We should focus on the mission now. Even if we're just the blood wipers, I want to know what's going on" he said, moving the earpiece from the palm of his hand into his ear.

Yangyang was quick to follow the lead despite his natural reaction of following his own nature. The millennium kid had made his official debut to the gang in 2019, January to be exact. The training he was required to follow before that date didn't prepare him much for the real job. When he wasn't being annoying, or rather, when he was feeling insecure, he would follow the lead of older members. And apparently, this minute had hit a certain level on his insecurity meter.

Gunshot

The sound seemed to break the talk Jeno and Yangyang had between the two of them but in reality, it was the earpiece that separated their vocal connection momentarily. Nothing but footsteps and some incomprehensible words falling from voices he didn't recognize.

Gunshot

This time things seemed to get more frantic. The quiet footsteps seemed to turn into a nonexistent escape route and he could hear Taeyong yelling something to the rest of the team.

"Take the money"

Protests followed after those words, the same voice from before begging for either his life or the packs of money. But between gangs: there was no such thing as concern for justice, peace, or respect for each other. Humans were no people, they were animals hunting for the prey. 

Gunshot

That was the cue. The third gunshot existed but ended just seconds after its birth. "Go" Jeno announced to Yangyang, pushing the boy out of the alley as he followed behind.

Multitasking between looking around to check surroundings and listening to the other members leaving the site was hard, surely when he had Yangyang to watch over as if he was a toddler from barely two years old.

Time ticked by as the members did their own tasks, as many members left the site: Yangyang and Jeno entered the site, Doyoung and Kun took out their earpieces from their hideout. That's how neo culture technology worked: alone together. Each with an own task, all for one pot of money.

Between the identified color of blood and forgotten bills of green gold. Jeno found himself with one earpiece dangling on his shoulder, replaced by his phone that was currently pressed against his ear.

"I'll be with you soon" he spoke into the phone to break the silence you had offered him. It wasn't an awkward silence until you connected the soppy sounds together with him not saying much, someone else's blood was getting erased from the floor but would drip from his glove-covered fingers instead. "Just be safe, not quick," you said in a soft tone, hushing yourself just in case the walls had ears.

Jeno couldn't help but chuckle softly at your worried nature, totally ignoring Yangyang and the task that he was given. "You know me," he said into the phone, already knowing which answer you would give, and he was waiting for those exact words. Your reply followed not long after, the smile audible as you spoke, "That's why I said it."

"See you soon, y/n"

ıǝʍz

The pearly white silk protected your skin from the fitted sheet that covered the mattress. Smoothly and without friction, your sleepy body turned itself forty-five degrees.

Heaven seemed to live its secret life in your bedroom: no sounds, no such thing as too much or too little. The symbolic golden spoon-fed you and Jeno, in reality, it was made possible with money from robberies and killer contracts.

A soft sniffling sound turned heaven a little bit cold, your eyes opening from your own sounds. Your side felt uncomfortable now that you turned to it but felt the bones through layers of skin, yet, your body had no intention to make you comfortable again.

Next to you was your boyfriend, Lee Jeno, your first and hopefully last. The naturally dark roots fell over his closed eyelids, shielding him away from the miracle of a new day. His broad shoulders half-covered with the sheet, the other half showing up from where the same sheet was crumpled together.

The peaceful feeling made you blink slowly, on the verge of falling back into a light slumber. Until, in the midst of blinking, your eyes noticed the lonely dot on the sheet.

As red as love, shot through the arrow of Cupid.

Sobered up from your drowsy moment, your body untangled itself from Jeno's. Your face hovered close enough to the red dot to see that the dot no longer seemed a dot: whatever it had been before, its wetness had seeped into the sheets overnight to create something that changed the circular form if you looked close enough.

The heap of sheets suddenly felt like a rag covered in blood, and you were in the midst of it. That little dot, that tiny little dot, made you feel even tinier than the few inches it was.

"Lie down, it's cold" Jeno's voice interrupted your silent investigation. A crime scene unfolding as you still had to check whether the blood was from either of you or not, but the map with possible hints was quickly thrown overboard when your boyfriend made his appearance.

Your body was frozen in its position, your lips tightly pursed together which prevented you from giving an answer to your boyfriend. "y/n?" Jeno asked, his eyes finally opening when he realized you weren't lying down with him again. His brown eyes were greeted with your silk-covered back, your shoulders tense enough to make it noticeable. "What's wrong?" Out of worry, he sat up as well, his arm lazily slinging around your shoulder as a sign of comfort.

"Please talk," Jeno said, the hand on your shoulder pushing you into his arms but your muscles wouldn't allow that. It was then that he noticed you were staring at something, his eyes angling themselves the same way as yours in order to see what you were looking at. And that's when he saw it,

the droplet of blood on the Virgin-white sheet.

As used as Jeno was to blood and gore, he found himself staring at the little dry patch for a few seconds. Unlike your mind, his wasn't focused on finding answers to questions, he just stared with a black expression displayed on his face.

"Whose blood is this?" You asked him, your arm pushing his arm as you immediately wanted an answer. Even if it was a lie, an answer was an answer. Jeno licked his lower lip before he separated the upper and lower part to start speaking "It's mine" he uttered out, the two words coming out slow even though he finished speaking after one second.

You looked away from the blood, instead, looking at your boyfriend. A question mark seemed to be written on your face, though, it was only a symbolic sign for your confusion. "Yours?" You asked him, eyes begging for an explanation instead of your words. "Mine. When we were cleaning up the scene I cut myself on a bayonet. I forgot about it and just went to bed"

Jeno's words made you throw off the sheets as fast as possible, not that you wanted to get rid of the little droplet, but if he was telling the truth, you had to clean up the wound for him. "Fuck, Jeno" you whispered in shock as the fitted sheet was now not only white but also had a red gradient in it. The patches were still partially wet, and those that weren't had started to discolor. 

Jeno's eyes didn't follow yours this time, knowing well enough what was going on near the end of the bed. "Let me get everything to clean it up," you said quickly, not waiting for a reply as you got up from the bed and ran around the place to get the first-aid kit.

Minutes after, you found yourself and Jeno sitting on the clean side of the bed. His back pressed against the soft headboard while you sat on top of your pillow, his arm resting in your lap while you took care of the wound. While you cleaned the wound, your tough contract-killer boyfriend had winced due to the stinging of the alcohol in his open gash. He should have been used to it by now, it was something monthly as sometimes they stupidly got hurt during their robberies.

"I should have told you, but you were asleep. And it was past midnight" Jeno tried to explain to you, looking at you rather than the open wound. He wasn't the type to look at it continuously, which probably was surprising seeing his profession. "You should've" you answered to his words, not giving him more attention since you didn't want to mess up and make the cut worse. "I will next time," he told you, but mostly himself. A spoonful of lies that he swallowed down, he wouldn't wake you up in the middle of the night for a stupid cut.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Jeno opened his eyes again for what felt like the second time that day, in reality, it was the second time that day. Tiredness had taken over his body after the crime scene cleanup, or two of them as he could suddenly remember how you cleaned the cut this morning.

"y/n?" He asked out loud, scanning his surroundings momentarily but was quick to conclude that you weren't there with him.

As tired as his body was, he sat up and got out of bed. Replacing his lazy sweatpants by the usual black outfit, not forgetting to layer over the bandage on his arm. No one had to know he got hurt, not even Yangyang knew as he had mistaken Jeno's blood for that of the enemy.

He called out your name again as his steps quickened once he was out of the bedroom. Panic spread through his body as he became aware of his hate for you living in your own apartment instead of at his hideout with the others. No one could protect you, apparently not even him when he was around.

"calm down, Jeno" your voice called out from the kitchen, immediately he followed the sound of your voice, and more than that the scent of fresh breakfast. The frown he unknowingly had on his face was replaced with a look of relief. "I'm calm" he answered, steps slowing down until he was able to reach out to you.

His arm wrapped around your waist in an attempt to pull you closer, or an attempt to apologize for not telling you about the wound. "You didn't even say good morning" he complained in a more playful way, needing affection as he did feel a bit down after what happened and the way he was treated by the others. "It wasn't exactly a good one," you said, trying to smile despite your feelings. Was it disappointment? Or were you just worried about him?

"I know, sorry" Jeno mumbled, his head meaning towards your neck before he placed a tiny kiss upon the skin. He could imagine that waking up to heaps of blood wasn't the most pleasant thing, he didn't have to imagine it though as he had gone through it together with you.

Your standard answer laid on the tip of your tongue, it was only a matter of seconds before your lips parted and you let the words escape. "It's fine" were those words, words that you used weekly if not daily. Jeno knew that it wasn't fine, and you knew that Jeno knew. Yet, neither of you protested against those words.

"I love you, you know that right?" Jeno asked you, his lips trailing towards the side of your face. You had a hard time not smiling, but as soon as his lips were placed against the corner of your lips, those corners curved upwards. "I know" you confirmed, your head lightly tilting to enjoy the warmth of his lips against your skin. "I love you too," you said back to him, finally turning your head for a small peck upon each other's lips.

Breakfast took place on the sofa, the two of you sitting intimately close to each other while having some minor talks. Talks about your life rather than his, because he didn't want to put you at a risk by giving you too much information.

"Why don't you live with us..." Jeno started his sentence but never got to finish as you held up your hand and finished it off for him. "It's a lot safer?" You asked, using your index and middle finger as quotation marks.

He nodded as soon as you finished what he started, nervously tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. "It's a lot safer and we would see each other more," he said. You would say yes because you would see him more, but you still said no because it wouldn't he safer at all. Moving in with him would mean that you stood in the midst of chaos, safe, but one mistake and the circle pulled you in as a guest.

"I don't know, I'll think about it," you said with a tiny smile on your lips, which disappeared due to the frozen reaction of your boyfriend. "Please do," he told you, putting down the finished bowl of cereal before he leaned back.

It seemed like he didn't care after that. Though in his mind war was going on: could he manipulate you into living with him? And did he do it for your safety or just because he wanted to be close to you?

ıǝɹp

Jeno [ 9 : 19 am ] : good morning x

The small hand of the clock had moved itself upwards while Jeno waited for a response, he hadn't heard the seconds tick by but was aware of how slow they were passing.

"Why aren't you awake yet?" He asked himself out loud, unaware of the members that were in the same room as him. Though it was Renjun who decided to get up and make his way towards his friend: as quiet and savage as he was, Renjun cared deeply and was ready to fight anyone who hurt his friends.

"What's wrong?" Renjun asked, his eyes on Jeno rather than his phone to give the man his privacy. Jeno's response was silence for a few seconds, but after a short sigh he decided to speak up. "y/n isn't answering my texts. She was busy today so she can't be sleeping" he said, slamming the phone against his free hand in frustration and worry.

Renjun couldn't help but smile to himself at Jeno's contradicting words. "Did you hear what you just said?" He asked, trying not to laugh because it was cringeworthily adorable to see Jeno worrying so much about you. Jeno didn't reply as he didn't see the point, he knew well enough what he said: you were busy so you couldn't be sleeping, which meant something must have happened to you.

In his head he was already imagining how another gang broke into your home and killed you without mercy, yet, he saw your alive form in his imagination.

"y/n is busy, that means she can't reply to you because she's doing other things. You said so yourself" Renjun pointed out, snapping Jeno out of his filthy imagination. Perhaps Renjun was right but that didn't stop Jeno from worrying about you, and yes, he had reasons to worry about you.

In the meantime Chenle had also joined, his read resting on Renjun's shoulder as he was listening to the conversation. "I think Renjun is right about that. y/n is probably busy, you just said that yourself so why are you expecting her to reply?" the youngster inquired. It wasn't a real inquiry as the two other boys were just trying to make Jeno see the context of the situation and the reason why you weren't replying to a simple morning text.

In their eyes, it had been merely one hour that passed by, in Jeno's eyes it was like you hadn't messaged him all week. It couldn't be ignorance, you would never purposely ignore him, not even on your worst day. The image of someone killing you continued to live on his thoughts.

"I bet you're right" Jeno concluded, his phone dropping on the little coffee table in the middle of the living space. His lips carried a fake smile, unable to kill his thoughts despite the tries of his dream team.

Everyone could see the smile was fake. Even Hendery who was on the other side of the room could see the fabricated facial expression. But no one spoke up about it: not even Renjun and Chenle who had been trying to guide him through the thorny path just seconds ago.

The minutes continued to pass by, it seemed like time had no motive to move forward, perhaps it even wanted to move back to another moment in its big fragment album.

When Taeyong walked in, the time had seemingly decided it was time to follow the leader. "I got our next mission" he declared, holding the big white envelope between his index and middle finger like he was proudly showing it off to the twenty guys in the room.

He opened the envelope, handing everyone a little bundle of white papers. The Korean writing on it revealing who they were supposed to kill, whether they had to take money, and if they could elegantly kill the person or if it would be a bloody job.

"We're killing this man for our mission. He's forty-one years old, one of the better people for his age... At least in his job." Taeyong quickly described as his own information sheet was thrown on top of the table, he knew his victims before they were even his. "Just a bullet through his skull, as elegant as possible. Clean up the scene and that's the job" he continued his plan, it became clear this wasn't a twenty-one people job. A maximum of five people could be assigned to this, otherwise, they would become their own victims.

"Price tag is 100.000 for the hit. Divided by the dream team who will do the job. Jaemin will lead the team and cast the others" Taeyong said, giving a bod as a sign that was all they had to do. Though behind the five-person job was a broader network: people who were always waiting somewhere close in case things got a red code, others who stayed at the hideout but listened through their earpiece and updated on possible information as they kept control over the surrounding streets.

Jeno glanced at his bundle of information. His eyes on the little picture of the man he was supposed to kill, unless Jaemin cast him in the cleaning team again, but he wasn't going to let that happen this time. His eyes needed only one scan over the text to get the man's name and situation, not missing how he had a daughter of nine years old and a son who was merely five. Information about a wife or partner wasn't included but guessed the man had no time for love or his children seeing his profession.

"Jeno, can you come with me? I need to speak to you" Taeyong asked seriously, his eyes on Jeno who still seemed caught up in reading the mission. Jeno looked up slowly but his eyes quickly shifted when the youngest, Jisung, snatched the papers out of his hand and threw them on the table. "Go," he said, trying to do his best on impressing the others even if he had been a part of the team for years.

Jeno nodded his head slowly, getting up from his seat and followed Taeyong towards the empty office space. Once both were in, the door was closed and silence filled the space like furniture was supposed to do.

"Something wrong with you?" Taeyong asked, his arms crossed, and yet his posture seemed open enough to trust him. Jeno shook his head at first: not ready to tell him how he was worried about you, and not ready to tell him even more than just that. "Nope" Jeno answered, his casual speech making him lore suspicious. And Taeyong who saw the tiniest details knew Jeno was giving false information.

"I'm just worried about y/n" Jeno admitted, breaking eye contact as he knew Taeyong could look through him. "I knew this would happen, that's why we don't have girlfriends," Taeyong said, though the tone he said it in didn't match the words, it was sounding more caring than the words truly were. "She didn't reply to my text earlier. It's been over an hour, almost two hours, and she still didn't reply" Jeno continued off where he left earlier, leaving Taeyong’s words in the dark.

"And why are you so worried? Usually, you're too busy to even notice she didn't answer." Taeyong stated, his eyes narrowing as he needed Jeno to specifically tell him what was going on behind the scenes. Perhaps he knew what was going on, but preferred to hear it from Jeno's lips instead.

"because someone sent me a picture of her while she was outside."

ɹǝıʌ

"So you're not staying the night?" You asked Jeno just to be sure, but the way he was preparing his gun didn't make it seem like he would stay the night. Your eyes picked up how he shook his head in response, his lips pursed not to spill more secrets about the contract he had signed for tonight. You would be the one killing him if you heard he was going to kill someone who had two young kids and still half of his life to live. You just didn't understand his job, which was the reason talks about that were nonexistent.

You nodded in response to his little signal, your phone clutched in your hand as you tried to hide a bit of the frustration. Fighting about this wasn't common, but arguments were as for him it was just a delete button that he had to press, while you saw it as killing real humans who had something to live for.

"And I'm going out with Dream after that" Jeno said quickly as he looked up at you, hoping that part would make you smile a bit. And to his surprise, that smile appeared on your lips. "Finally some time for yourself" you commented just as he expected you to. For some reason you always liked to see him doing his own things: going out with his friends, exercising because he loved doing so, going outside without a gun hidden behind his zipped up jacket.

You stood up and let out a silent sigh as you stepped towards your boyfriend. Once he was close enough, your arms wrapped around his body from behind, engulfing his body as you wished he would be safe tonight. "Be safe" you whispered, your nose pressed against his shirt to take in his homely scent.

"Always," Jeno said, his hand brushing over yours as they connected on his stomach. He noticed your smaller fingers under his, his hands standing out more due to the veins and the silver ring around his finger. As a promise he would be safe and come back to you, he slipped the thick band from his finger onto yours. "See if as a promise for now," he said, his body turning towards yours to look into your eyes. You looked surprised, still tense but he could also see a bit of relief upon your face. "You should take my necklace as a piece of good luck," you said, your hands reaching behind your neck to unclasp the piece of jewelry. Once you removed it from yourself, you carefully put it on on him.

"I love you" he whispered as he smiled, the relief you had on your face, reflecting onto his as well. He was more worried about you than himself: even if he stood at a bigger risk to get killed in the mission. "I love you too," you said back with a smile, your hands resting behind his neck where you just clasped the necklace.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your lips, showing you indeed how much he loved you. His arms snaking around your body to hold you close: the fear of losing you still played in the back of his mind even though this time he had managed to hide it well from you.

"I should go now, I still have to get to the hideout and get the others" Jeno whispered against your soft lips, hesitating as he was trying to pull away but the warmth kept his lips glued against yours for a few seconds.

It wasn't him who eventually pulled away as you did, leaving his lips completely after one last peck. "You really should" you whispered as your body separated from his, the lack of warmth making you wrap your arms around yourself. Jeno nodded in agreement, knowing if he didn't leave now, the mission could go horribly wrong even if it was only a few minutes late.

"you don't need to tell me to be safe, I already know," he said with a small smirk on his lips, knowing you wanted to tell him those words once again. You let out a small laugh, your boyfriend knew you a little bit too well. "Still, be safe. And have fun with the boys later" you said, a soft and calm smile on your lips as you tried not to worry too much about your boyfriend... Even if he a part of the best gangs and contract killers, that didn't mean others couldn't make him a victim.

His hand brushed over yours as he walked past you, his presence leaving out of the door as soon as his body did as well.

The fortune-teller in your minds was right, troubles were on the way, even if you hadn't believed now. You would be a believer by the end of the day.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Jeno held the old-fashioned glass with liquor in one hand, the ice cubes within it making a slight ringing sound as the glass was moved towards his lips again.

"Does it take that long to clean up?" Renjun asked with a deep sigh as he glanced at the entrance, waiting until the door opened and the two youngest dream members walked in. But nothing seemed to happen, even if they had been waiting for half an hour already. "Jisung might have gone home, he can't drink anyway" Jaemin answered, an oversized wine glass standing in front of him which made the red liquid cover a part of his face.

Jeno didn't answer as he kept on glancing at the bar, his eyes on the man who seemed to sit there and enjoy his drink alone. "who is he?" Jaemin asked curiously as he tried to catch a glimpse of the man's face. Even though Jeno didn't come alone, he stood up, took his glass, and looked apologetically to his friends. "I have to talk to him, we just know each other," he told Jaemin who didn't seem satisfied with the boring answer.

Jeno went over to the bar and placed his glass down, catching the eyes of the man by just his manner of doing so. "Jeno," the man said with a slight smile on his lips, welcoming Jeno to sit next to him and talk for a little while. "Didn't expect to see you here. You dropped out before we knew it" Jeno said soft, his hand resting under his head in an attempt to look more interested than curious about the ex trainee.

"I wanted to make it alone in the world. More money for myself, fewer chances of getting caught." The man said, his wise words leaving an impression on Jeno even though he wasn't planning on leaving NCT just to get more money. "How about you? Are you still part of NCT?" He asked but already guessed the answer as he remembered Jaemin and Renjun from the few times they had seen each other while training.

"I am. I think I found my place there" Jeno answered with a smile, it felt sentimental to smile while thinking about his group of friends even though they were killers and did other things that no one was supposed to do. "You seem like you belong there, NCT is getting big. You deserve to be a part of it" He answered, his hand loving to Jeno's back to give it a little supportive pat.

Jeno's eyes shifted to the entrance as the door opened again, revealing not only Jisung and Chenle but also the other sixteen members. "I should go," he said to the man as he quickly got up, not wanting to be guilty of talking to someone else who did the same as him. He stood up but instead of going to his friends, he first went to the back of the club to try and call you.

His fingers were quick to find your contact within the list as the amount people that he saw outside of his gang were limited as well. The sight of your contact name already made a smile appear on his lips, he was just in love with you.

The beeping tone made him expect that it would last no longer than a few seconds. At this time of the night, you probably weren't asleep yet, in fact, you were probably waiting for his call. It was like a routine built up for nights when he wasn't going to be around you and yet when he wanted to update you.

"y/n?" He asked as he heard his line being connected to yours, the smile on his lips already prepared for what you were about to say. Slowly the corners of his lips tired themselves out when silence was his only reply.

Jeno repeated your name once again, the phone pressed tightly against his ear like that would make him hear the silence better. "Hello? y/n?" He asked, this time louder in case you hadn't realized you were on the phone with him.

Without realizing, he swallowed away the worries that collected in his throat. His heart seemed to beat slightly faster and out of slight panic, his fingertips quickly made an end to the one-way conversation. Yet, he kept the phone in his hand just in case you would call him back right away, or just to call your number again within a short time.

His feet to him back to the bar as he saw his glass still as filled as before, though, not awaiting for him as much as an unfamiliar black envelope did. The young man he had talked with minutes ago was gone as he had never been there, or like he had been replaced by the envelope.

Jeno's hands were curious and grasped the clasp envelope from the bar and between his two fingers, scanning the paper case for a handwritten message or name. Though only the black color greeted him from every angle possible. It didn't take long before the flap was undone from its glue and opened up.

Nervously his hand stuck inside the paper wrapper, gripping onto anything that his fingers could sense. He felt tense as his hand slowly revealed itself again with all of the collected documentation.

A picture was flipped between his fingers, his eyes unprepared for the image that was burned on the retina just seconds later.

"y/n" he whispered quietly as he stared at the picture of you. Jeno's eyes went over every little detail of the picture: your eyes closed but not entirely, your hands that weren't in the picture but from the angle of your arms they weren't really placed comfortably and your knees that were pulled up towards your chest like you were freezing. Something definitely was wrong.

Wildly Jeno began to look around in the club, searching for the culprit as the envelope couldn't have flown itself to here. His eyes began to examine all of the people around: the members who seemed all occupied in their own thing, a small group of girls who were just having a drink, the people on the dance floor acting drunker than they actually were. But where was the barman? Jeno was about to suspect him until he saw the man return with a few bottles of champagne.

The other documents in the envelope were forgotten as he went to his group, more specifically, Taeyong as he would know what to do. The urge to not say anything and go straight to your apartment overpowered him: anyone was a suspect, even his best friends.

Rational thinking didn't seem to pop up into his mind, straight away leaving the place together with the evidence. Even though he came with the others, he was stupid enough to run all the way to your apartment.

His veins were filled with dynamite

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Steganography

A message within a file, that was what Jeno was staring at. The message had been revealed on the back of your picture, or the picture of you. His eyes scanned each syllable slowly even though, together they would form words that would turn into sentences once they were put together.

Invisible ink. Just those two words didn't sit well with him, and then he wasn't even thinking about the odd fragrance that was now stuck to the picture. Did he ever use invisible ink? No, but he knew people who used it. And those people were a little too close to him.

"It's do or die."

Jeno mumbled as he read out the words, staring at the unfamiliar handwriting until something else caught his eye. In the right corner of the picture was an address written, together with a very specific time. The place he knew all too well: another dark alley between a couple of houses that were open for rent, but no one was willing to live there because it was infamous to be a dealing place or even worse than that.

The words on the back of the picture slowly turned invisible again, so slow that Jeno didn't even notice how they faded before completely disappearing. He didn't need to see them again: it was printed in his mind like the image of his first kiss with you.

He turned his wrist and checked the time, mentally checking if it was close to the time that had been asked of him. "Shit" he silently cursed when he saw that in fact, there were only a few minutes left before he was supposed to be at the given address. Without thinking twice, he bolted from your apartment and started to run the way to the alley, hoping he would get to meet the person who had you captured, but wished it was you who just tried to pull a prank on him together with one of his members.

Though his wish wasn't granted, he didn't need a genie to tell him the wish he made was impossible, he knew it as soon as he stood in the middle of the alley, being over five minutes later than planned. It didn't feel like you could be there, this probably was one of the places you wouldn't even go because you knew what went on once innocent people found themselves in the midst of the gangs.

Silent footsteps made Jeno want to turn around, getting tense at the thought of someone being behind him. His fingertips reached behind his jacket, merely touching the grip of the gun but was interrupted by someone roughly pushing him forward against the brick wall.

Jeno's breathing sped up, perhaps a bit of fear jolted through his body and made his hands tremble so much that the light grip he had on his gun turned into non-existent. Out of habit, his head slightly turned to look behind him but as a result, his head was pushed against the wall roughly.

"where is y/n!" Jeno said loudly, his voice breaking the wince he was about to let out after getting his head bumped against the wall. The sound of a gun cocking made Jeno's eyes get darker, and just like he expected, the cold object was placed against the side of his head in order to keep him still. He was focused on that and that only, wanting to hear every little sound so that he could defend himself when things got out of hand.

Once more his head got pushed against the wall, his forehead falling to the side after it came in painful contact with the stone wall. It was like the world stopped spinning for a while, but once it did, he could hear footsteps running further from him.

His hand instinctively went to his forehead, soothing the possible wound in rough rubs before he turned his body around. Relief washed over him for a mere amount of seconds, until the real realization seemed to hit him: he still didn't have you in his arms, nor did he know who actually led him here. While continuing to rub rough circles over his forehead, his body bent over the lying black envelope. Once again the envelope greeted him without name written on top of it.

His bloody hand was quick to open the new piece of evidence or a new clue towards you, shaking the envelope upside down until its contents fell to the ground. A bundle of A4 papers faced him: more specifically a file that looked similar to how Taeyong received files of those they had to delete off of the world.

The handwritten text over the file screamed out his name before the picture did, the message was clear enough without the picture, and Jeno was willing to comply.

"Kill the informant"

ɟun̤ɟ

The sound suppressor attached to the muzzle of Jeno's pistol faded out most of the noise as a bullet was shot through the informant's skull. Blood spattered against the half-open window but left some small evidence upon Jeno's black coat.

He pulled his gun back as soon as he had reached it a few seconds ago, hiding it behind the long coat that was already in possession of a half confession. His eyes went to the man once more and the heap of files that were waiting on the seat next to him, minus the file Taeyong had taken with him when he left the place a few minutes ago.

A new mission for NCT, perhaps the last one now that Jeno had pressed a delete button in front of the informant's eyes. But he didn't care about that fact: he followed the path of the person who had you and didn't care how different that path was from the path he wanted to follow. Any path where you were on, was the path he would walk on too.

He stepped away from the car and left the place delict, no time for cleaning up messes as Taeyong would have made him do, no one would find out it was him. The man had more enemies than clients, and those clients were left in a dark hole while enemies were on a lovely display. His eyes went from left to right to check the surroundings, walking out in the open street once he saw no one else was around.

His hands were kept in his pocket before it was the two little devils that made people suspect him of unclean actions. He unknowingly wiped the bit of blood in the inside of his pockets, making the little hiding place feel uncomfortably moist and his hands perhaps bloodier than they had been before he put them there.

The walk to the hideout was longer than Taeyong's car ride, of course, as Taeyong drove past the speed limit. Wasn't fast driving a privilege of being a gang member too? Probably not but there was no reason he would keep the speed to its original limit at midnight. If he had known Jeno would be behind him, he would have given the younger member a ride, but that was the secrecy in friendship. No one needed to know Jeno was behind the murder of the informant and no one needed to know that Jeno was on the hunt for you.

"Jeno is back from his girlfriend. Did you get laid again, lucky boy?" Ten teased as soon as he saw who walked inside, it wasn't hard to guess as only one member was missing from the hideout, and as usual, that member was Jeno. Jeno dug his hand deeper into his pocket in an attempt to hide the blood on his hands and sleeves, clenching his fist in anger when Ten started his endless teasing.

No one could do it like Ten, sure Haechan was the biggest brat out of them, but there was no one as manipulatively teasing as Ten. The sweet smile he carried on his lips while he was at it made people want to punch him straight into the face, but it's what the boy did best. "I didn't," he said, holding himself back from saying that he hadn't been around you since you'd been kidnapped, but he wisely shut his mouth before the tea boiled over the pot.

"Admit that you did. You're such a pussy" Ten shot back and rolled his eyes, a laugh escaping from his lips as he seemed to see a flustered look in Jeno's eyes. Protective sub-leader Kun gave Ten a shove against the shoulder in order to stop the Thai man from provoking even more "stop it" he whisper-yelled although it was loud enough for Jeno to catch the words from a distance.

Jeno looked away, missing one last smirk that Ten gave him. He was about to go to the room he had for himself in the hideout, luckily he was the one who didn't have to share a room as his roommates would have easily found out what happened behind their backs.

"Meeting time" Taeyong announced right before Jeno was about to walk away from the others. A fake hum left his lips as Jeno turned around again to face his group. "Can I change first, I've been running from y/n's place to here and I'm sweaty" he said, making up the excuse without thinking twice about the unathletically long coat that covered his body, and the fact that there was no droplet of sweat running down his defined facial features.

"An hour. You all get an hour and now stop complaining" Taeyong answered unexpectedly, making Jeno get away with the lies he told and he wasn't planning on waiting another few seconds so that Taeyong could realize the lies. He went to his room at a fast pace, his hands urging to take off the coat before he even entered his room.

The bedroom door closed behind Jeno, shielding him in his own little cocoon for a maximum of sixty minutes. His mind ran overtime while Jeno tried to empty it from all thoughts: his layers of clothes getting taken off like a book revealing all of its secrets.

The blood-covered coat got its original spot back in his closet but with rolled-up sleeves, and the gun back in his drawer where he would always keep a gun out of safety. Despite it being after midnight, the reflection of the mirror picked up how he changed into a pair of black jeans and a white shirt. So formal for no one and nothing.

He picked up his phone from the bed before sitting on the spot where his phone lied before. His fingerprint unlocked his device so that his eyes didn't have to stare at the picture of you and him for too long, he didn't want to be reminded of the fact that he wasn't able to protect you. Even though he didn't want that, he found himself scrolling through heaps of collected messages to and from you.

Text messages that had been keeping souvenirs alive from even before you disappeared: messages that had been kept into his phone for months, messages that he would read whenever he felt down but couldn't reach out to you. Each time he scrolled past a sugary sweet message, he smiled at the memory of even sweeter memories with you.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Jeno brought his hand up to his eyes as soon as the feeling of being awake brought him back to reality. A cold but painful material scraping over his skin as he was in the process of rubbing his eyes, which made him pull away and open his eyes faster than the light allowed him to adjust to the new situation.

He opened the palm of his hand, still a little drowsy from the abrupt awakening, making something fall from his hand and onto his lap.  A silver necklace chain leading the trail to the charm of your necklace and his ring dangling from it as well.

His fingers tightened around the silver, lifting it in the air to examine it. His eyes soon enough fell to the charm that had been yours until you gave it to him as a sign of good luck, he would have smiled at the memory if it weren't for the ring dangling next to it. The same ring he put on your finger just a little over a day ago.

As the band twisted itself around the chain, Jeno's eyes continued following each little movement it created. He could clearly remember the way he slid it onto your finger like he would when he proposed, he could even remember how he said something about a promise.

The tight grip became a clenched fist as realization seemed to spread through his body, eyes never tearing away from the necklace. Looking at it wouldn't give him an answer to the simple question in his mind, but at least he received a hint. The hint that would open a new path towards you: and he was going through every little obstacle to get to you.

His fingertips began to thread around the little chain, consuming it within his first until only the little clasp was left to see. He could feel the charm leaving its print in the palm of his hand due to how hard he was squeezing the material, the pain was nothing compared to anything he had ever felt, but everything was nothing compared to losing you.

"it's one of us," Jeno told himself quietly, knowing very well someone - the culprit - could be listening from outside the door. His footsteps were loud as he approached the door and swung it open rather roughly which made it slam against the plain wall.  The hallway didn't seem as empty as it always had been, perhaps because he knew someone had been in his room the moment he fell asleep.

A hesitant step was made, glancing right, and left to get a better view of the hall. Even though he couldn't see anyone, it was hard to convince himself that no one was here: the others could be in the main space or in their own rooms, perhaps even out of the house. But out or not: it was one of them.

With forty minutes left before the new mission meeting would start, Jeno dashed from his room to the common room, his head wildly spinning from one side to the other to get a glance of those that were in the room. After a brief glance, he had managed to count all twenty people that needed to be there but still, his eyes weren't able to detect the perpetrator.

"Something wrong?" Jaehyun asked, immediately receiving Jeno's eyes on him. Jaehyun looked as confident as usual, especially with the deck of cards in his hands like he was sure that he would win the game already. Around the same table as him sat Taeil, Mark, Hendery, and Doyoung waiting for the cards to be dealt. "You look as if you've been visited by a ghost" Hendery pointed out, laughing at his own words even though they weren't funny. "Grab a drink and join us, we're not playing for money this round" Taeil said after silencing Hendery's loud laughter by just giving him the slightest slap on his thighs.

Without responding, Jeno used his eyes to go over everyone once more before he turned away and went back in the direction of his room. Not one of them looked like they were capable of kidnapping you but at the same time they all looked like suspects in his eyes: the words Hendery said nearly made it sound as if he had been in the room, and Jaehyun's confident glance gave away a little too much pride. Members who hadn't said anything seemed a little too quiet to be innocent.

Jeno reached to his room again and sat back at the same spot where he found himself falling asleep earlier. The piece of jewelry tightly clutched in his hand as his mind was drifting towards you again, the pretty memories overshadowed by the feeling of betrayal. Twenty possibilities but who was the hidden cynosure?

⋅ ⋅ ⋅ (this involves a listing system with flashbacks so don't read if you don't want to)

Taeyong and Ten "It would be better if I was the leader," Ten said to Taeyong, a smirk on his lips as the younger boy provoked even more by sitting on top of the desk. His fingertips lingering over a couple of files that laid around, hoping to get burned before anyone would see them. "I don't think so, you'd kill one of us" Taeyong answered Ten, not caring if the words were straightforward, everyone knew it was the truth. Ten could kill either of them for the leading position, but in reality, all of them would. "At least I wouldn't withhold money as you do, Taeyong"

Taeil "I get the first shot, I'm the oldest" Taeil announced as shots were being poured into the tiny glasses, more than half of it spilling past the mini-glasses but everyone seemed to blind to notice. "So that's one of the benefits of being the oldest?" Xiaojun asked in a rather playful way, though was not prepared to receive the attention of a pair of serious eyes. "If you'd only know my benefits, you'd feel poor."

Johnny, Jaehyun, and Mark "Do you think we should mislead him?" Mark asked with a tiny devilish laugh as he looked at Doyoung in the distance. Jaehyun's half-smirk didn't disappoint, showing off his sweet dimples but the smirk was what made it mischievous "I think we should" he said to Mark but looked at Johnny. Johnny twirled the car keys around his finger while he listened, of course, he was willing to mislead Doyoung, anything so that it wasn't him who had to clean up the blood. "Get out. We're leaving."

Yuta "Do whatever you want, I don't want to be a part of this" Yuta said as he raised his hands, instead of surrender it was a sign of how he wasn't going to participate anymore. The body of a man who wasn't meant to be killed hanging over the table as his last breath had been let out minutes ago. Some furiously began to clean up the mess in order not to get caught, but Yuta only watched as everyone worried. He sat on his knees, picking up some fallen money and shoved them into his pocket behind everyone's back.

Kun and Renjun "Tell my parents that I'm dead," Renjun told Kun, his expression staying blank as he said the words. Kun shook his head almost right away, sighing in disappointment. "Why would I do that?" Kun asked, glancing around the room to see if anyone was around, no one seemed to be around but walls still had ears. "They have been calling me non-stop and they don't need to know I like killing people for a living!" Renjun exclaimed, nearly showing his phone to the older member but stopped himself as he didn't want to give too much private information. "You shouldn't like killing people, Renjun" Kun said, trying to keep his voice down as the light footsteps seemed to come closer to them. "You shouldn't either, yet you did it for fun before joining us, right?"

Doyoung, Jaemin, and Haechan How was it that Taeyong's office was opened in the early hours of the morning? Did he leave it behind like that after he drank too much and forgot about the secrets that he was supposed to keep? "Look at the money" Jaemin whispered as he pulled Haechan inside of the office without hesitation, the pink-haired boy saw no problem in going inside to take the money. "Doyoung?" Haechan asked with a smirk as he saw an older member being nosy, or more than that, taking the bills of money out of the desk drawers. "Aren't you supposed to share with us?" Haechan asked, faking more interest while he looked at Jaemin with a slight smirk. Caught in the act. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed, nosy kids?"

Winwin The gunshot made everyone in the scene look up, but Winwin didn't seem to catch their eyes, his attention was on the prey and the prey only. The young man that was barely older than him limping in any way that was free to go, but a hunter wouldn't let his prey escape, right? Another gunshot filled the silence of the room, blood splashing right before the man's body hit the dirty ground. "Winwin, stop," someone told him, but Winwin had no intention of stopping himself. He went up to his victim, kicking against his body before the third gunshot left its mark on the man's forehead.

Jungwoo and Jisung "How are we supposed to set this up, Jungwoo!" Jisung screamed worriedly as he looked at the scene in front of him. Used bullets covering the floor but no victim in sight, simply because the victim no longer was a victim after he ran from the scene. "I don't know, just make fake blood and tell Taeyong he's been killed!" Jungwoo said, his voice filled with worry but also disappointment in himself. Jisung was about to speak and tell Jungwoo it was an impossible idea, but before he could even start, Jungwoo had already laid a new idea upon the table "we'll just kill someone else"

Lucas and Yangyang "We could easily disappear now" Yangyang whisper-yelled to the other WayV member, the hideout quieter than ever before as they were the ones who stayed there to lead everything and watch over from their position at home. "And what? Let the others get killed in this mission and have no money. The one who survives will hunt us down" Lucas said back, trying to make Yangyang change his mind. Though the youngster was hard to convince when the genius ideas took up a certain amount of space in his brain. "Don't say you don't want to. You kill everyone and I take the money" Yangyang said, licking his lip as if the thought only made him horny. "How about you kill everyone and I take the money" Lucas answered.

Xiaojun and Chenle "Let's burn down these files," Chenle said as he collected all of the papers that he found, all files of people who had already been robbed from their existence in this life. Xiaojun gave Chenle a look and got up from the chair "hang on, I have something else that needs to get burned" he said as he quickly ran to his room, took the object he wanted erased and returned. A couple of minutes later the two of them stood by the fire, watching evidence burn. "So what did you throw in there? Chenle asked, curiosity taking him over. "Invisible ink, needed it once or twice" Xiaojun answered casually.

Hendery Hendery's gun was aimed at Ten, or more specifically at his head like he was about to end the man's career before it even reached its climax. "Do you wanna die?" he asked, his finger on the trigger which made Ten reach his hands up in surrender. The power that Hendery felt made him spin some degrees to end up at another possible victim "do you wanna die, hm?" he asked Mark, a maniacal laugh slipping past his lips as he was unable to hold himself back. Power was a great thing, was it not?

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"So in front of you, you will be able to see the new mission," Taeyong said as he motioned to the papers in front of every member, laid out unlike usual which made Jeno glance from bundle to bundle just to see if his was any different from the others.

Before falling out of tone, he held up the bundle of papers just like the others. He pretended to be interested in what he was reading, but his eyes not once read the text that was typed down in black syllables. Another sense of his was working hard on its job, despite the fact that it had to be hidden.

Invisible ink. Or at least the scent of invisible ink imprinted on the last page of the little bundle, probably the last page as it drew less attention than on the first one.

Everything Taeyong said went in one ear and came out of the other one, but this time Jeno was smart enough to sometimes reply with a hum, yes or no. From what he understood: there were no people that stayed at the hideout, no one to clean up the mission as it was too serious to waste time or leave members. A lot of money was promised, but only if the mission went exactly like it had been asked of them.

"When is the mission?" He heard Winwin ask Taeyong, the blonde-haired boy already mentally preparing for the fun he would have. Though at this moment it wasn't Winwin that Jeno suspected, suspect number one carried a different name.

Xiao Dejun

Why was Xiaojun his first suspect? Because he had seen Xiaojun burning the bottle of invisible ink together with Chenle. But Chenle didn't matter in the story as he hadn't been the one saying he used the bottle of invisible ink.

Jeno glanced at Xiaojun from time to time, each time his eyes got darker as he felt his heart beating faster. Luckily Xiaojun was too busy with pretending to listen to their leader, pretending, just like he seemed to pretend to be everyone's friend while he was the devil in disguise.

"Tomorrow," Taeyong said shortly, since it was included in the file and Taeyong wasn't the type to waste his time answering stupid questions. "But leave. I don't want to see any of you in this room, I have things to take care of" he said, urging everyone out by using his strict voice.

Without holding himself back, Jeno stood up from the chair and disappeared from the eyes of the others. The file was tightly gripped between his fingers, not noticing how he was crumpling the paper out of anger. Footsteps and voices followed behind him: he could recognize Lucas speaking Chinese to Hendery but had no idea what they were telling each other.

He quickly opened the door to his room, and as fast as possible slammed it shut once he was inside. It was as if outside his room a war was going on: all suspects but no one who dared to admit their deeds, despite doing it for a living pretty much. His mind traveled further, to the point where he started to imagine all twenty members being against him and coming up with the plan to kidnap you. Though, he still had some trust in a few of them… his dream team belonging to those few.

A couple of minutes later, Jeno found himself in his bedroom, reading the message that had been written over the last page of the bundle. It was faint but Jeno could see it clearer than it actually was. The set of numbers was not just a set or a code to decipher, it was a phone number presented to him. It had the same amount of numbers as a phone number and started with the right combination to belong to the country.

Jeno dropped the papers on the bed and frantically began to look for his phone. The sheets on the bed getting messier with each rough roam his hand did around the limited space. "Fuck" he cursed silently as he remembered, and not a second after, fished his phone out of his back pocket.

The faint number had stopped showing itself but Jeno needed no reminder, his memory was still fresh despite the many thoughts ghosting through his mind. His fingertips pressed each digit carefully, almost making sure that there was no chance to make a mistake in the phone number. Lastly, his finger hit the call button before he tightly pressed the phone against his ear.

"…Jeno"

Your voice made Jeno sit up straight even though in nervousness, he stood up from the bed, ready to come and get you wherever you were at this moment. He nearly forgot that you were kidnapped and unable to randomly leave whenever you wanted, even though, it had never been confirmed someone kidnapped you.

"y/n, it's me, Jeno" he whispered into the phone, using his second hand to shield over the phone. One of his feet kept on turning from left to right as the bundle of nerves in his stomach was slowly getting bigger, it was already a good thing it couldn't explode.

He listened to your breathing while you listened to the sound of his voice and cherished it for the shortest seconds in your lifetime. "Jeno, I'm sorry" you whispered silently into the phone, it seemed like you were close to the phone one second but further away from it the next, so, Jeno could guess that you were shaking and unable to control your voice. "Don't be sorry y/n, you're going to be fine. I'm going to come and get you once I figure out where you are" he said to you, trying to calm his voice so that you would calm down as well.

"You have to do something for me. There's a mission" you said to his surprise, another mission, the sound of that only made him more nervous as there were once again chances that he would fail. No one told him what it meant if they failed, but there was that little ugly spark that told him exactly what would happen if he did. "What is it?" he asked, taking a deep breath to prepare himself.

"You have to…." you started but halted before you said anything more, the words getting stuck at the tip of your tongue. You wanted to say them but you could feel the guilt washing over yourself before you were even able to pronounce the name of the person that would be dead within days. "You have to kill Taeyong."

Jeno swallowed thickly when he heard what mission number two would involve. His ears heard it right as the voice in his mind was able to repeat the words over and over again until the name Taeyong would no longer exist in his mind. "Taeyong?" he asked you softly, keeping his voice as quiet as possible just in case someone was listening from the next room or just out the door. Perhaps Taeyong was the kidnapper and just wanted to see who Jeno would choose for at the end of the story.

You let out a soft noise as a sign he was right when he said Taeyong. Jeno knew you were selfless enough to think that they should kill you instead of Taeyong, but also knew you deserved another chance to live which was why you didn't tell him to choose Taeyong.

"Who did this y/n? You have to tell me everything you know" Jeno asked, he had no idea if his previous guesses were genuine. By now, he had already suspected everyone at least once, but he couldn't put the label on when he couldn't even guess properly who was capable of doing something like that. "D-did you hear me wrong?! I said kill Taeyong, not Taeil, not Jaehyun. Between. Between now and tomorrow" your voice stuttered over each word that passed your lips, clearly, this wasn't your original message.

Jeno was quiet for a little while, to let the words sink in, yet, he couldn't help but hear footsteps on your side of the line. The shaky breaths you let out against the phone, making it clear someone was around you, and that someone was monitoring your words. "Between?" he asked silently, praying the speaker wasn't on so that it was only you who heard him instead of one of the twenty possible options he had in his head. "Exactly," you said back to him, almost letting out a sigh of relief when your hint had been successfully delivered to him.

"Listen to me y/n. I will get you out of there, I will do anything to save you" Jeno said in a softer voice, knowing now that the message had been delivered, there wasn't much time left for you to talk to him. He wanted to continue speaking to you for hours, but he was wise enough to know how time was money, and in this case, time was a bigger chance to lose focus and get caught. "Be safe" you whispered soft, tears were streaming down your cheeks as a gun was placed against the side of your head, it cost you a lot to not scream and get killed that second.

"Always" Jeno whispered back into the phone, hearing how you were crying silently from the way you said the words. He wished he could embrace you and tell you that all was over, or better, that all had been a bad dream. Though he could pinch his skin over and over again, and open his eyes in the same dimension. His mouth opened to speak again, but the abrupt beeping tone made him close it again.

Not Taeil, not Jaehyun.

Between.

Suspect count: six

sɥɔǝs

4:59 am

A sleepless night and yet Jeno found himself being filled to the brim with adrenaline and nerves, more than energetic, he was left restless after what happened some hours ago.

Jeno would lie if he said that his mind had ever stopped producing thoughts in the past hours, the thoughts only doubled themselves until he went over every possible suspect and worked out a fitting theory for them. But outside of the possible suspects, there was also the fact he was going to shoot a bullet through the skull of the person that gave him a new chance in life. Lee Taeyong.

He forgot for a moment between his six suspects, there was also the leader he was so fond of, that exact same person that gave him his life here. If he killed Taeyong, what was going to happen to NCT? What would happen to each one of them? They were nothing without Taeyong, despite WayV leader Kun's presence.

His thoughts momentarily got killed when the office door opened and after a second was slammed shut once again. What followed after were Taeyong's footsteps going through the common room and towards the door that led outside, darkness out the hideout made his plan entirely possible right now.

Jeno was silent enough as he followed behind Taeyong, knowing the older male wouldn't have one single idea that someone was keeping up with the pace of his footsteps. The walk outside began to get darker with each step further from the hideout: darker because of what was going to happen but at the end of the tunnel, there was a light that would lead Jeno to find you again.

The thought of finding you seemed to speed up the pace of his footsteps, or perhaps it was because he saw Taeyong sneaking between a small street that had old buildings on either side. The dark figure of Taeyong was still easy for Jeno to recognize, though easy to recognize didn't make him an easy target. Together with Ten, Taeyong was one of the better people in his profession, followed up by Jisung who had the skills but had too much of a soft heart to eliminate people from the earth.

A tiny grin was hidden on Taeyong's lips, his tongue running past his lower lip as the sudden catch and shoot game revolved around him as the head character. How did he figure out Jeno was behind him? Simple. There had been twenty pairs of shoes at the door whilst no one had left the house, and then again, which loser that wanted to play a game like this left the light in the common room on at that hour of the day?

Taeyong's feet quickened once again, the straight street making it easier for him to get lost in the darkness like he was an almost invisible shadow on the cold ground. Not even two meters away was his little game buddy: nearly like they were sitting next to each other in the PC room, two different views in one single game.

Though Jeno was left one step behind as the narrow street no longer seemed to give him little hints on where Taeyong was, absorbed in the darkness which almost made it seem as if he was alone here if it weren't for the strong presence that Taeyong left behind wherever he went.

Jeno quickly moved further into the little path he knew Taeyong followed, a mix of emotions filling his heart but no space to let it out in this narrow place. His fingertips wrapped around the gun that he had been hiding in his coat pocket, and with one little finger flick, the safety barrier was now turned off. His only worry: where was Taeyong?

"What game are we playing, Jeno?"

Two pairs of footsteps came to halt right at the same moment, a crossover making it seem like two cars wanting to go over the intersection at the same time, and neither of them were playing it fair.

Jeno thickly tried to swallow away the bundle of nerves he had, his hands gripping tighter in the pocket of his coat, his index finger on the trigger as still, he was prepared to play the game until he made it to the finish.

"I don't think we're playing here," Jeno said as he slapped away Taeyong's hand that was dangerously close to his shoulder. Though his hand retrieved as soon as a sharp object came in contact with the tender skin, the cold metal only meant one thing: a knife.

Jeno slowly turned his head to the right to see Taeyong standing there, the knife in his hand paying a little bit too much attention to the exposed bit of skin on his collarbone. "That was still tolerable for a first hit, right?" Taeyong asked, the grin on his face never disappearing. Jeno had to keep in a wince: feeling the blood seep from his hand onto the ground, the contrast of the warm blood running over his cold fingers only made his head spin more.  "I don't think you know what tolerable is, how would you know? You kill people for a living" pushed past his lips, mentally hitting himself in the face to keep him from getting distraught by the thought of you or the wound on his hand.

"And you do? If I'm correct you're the one who came with a plan to kill y/n's ex and never told her about that dirty little secret. I bet guilt never tasted as sweet as when the bullet hit his non-existent heart" Taeyong pointed out, his tongue running over his teeth as he was trying to make his words more intense. Now that Taeyong said the words, Jeno felt the bittersweet lies on the tip of his tongue. The only gunshots that were memorable to him, combined with the facial expressions of your ex as soon as he knew his end was near, the way he didn't smile in the end which only brought more peace to Jeno's mind at that time. "I didn't kill him for the laughs, I did it for y/n" he protested before Taeyong could continue to dig into the past, a past where there were more truths than lies, at least that was when Taeyong did the digging. "Ah, I get it. You did it for the money so that you could buy y/n the necklace, paid by the money of her ex… You're right, that's real love"

Jeno's hand moved as he tightly gripped the gun and pulled it from his pocket. "I'm sorry Taeyong, I'm going to eliminate you," he said, his words faster than his actions as his finger managed to quiver over the trigger whilst he brought the gun up towards his leader. A loud laugh left Taeyong's lips, the heel of the knife hitting against the gun as a sign there was no way the gun was going to get unloaded by the end of the little game. "Why is that? Out of all twenty possibilities, you choose me?" he asked a little more seriously than before.

The tip of the knife pushed against Jeno's exposed collarbone, drilling into the skin before the younger male had a chance to stop his leader. "Say it" Taeyong spat out, his eyes getting wider as he saw a wound under the tip of the knife. The cold caress wasn't going to end anytime soon if Jeno kept his lips pursed like that. "I'm going this for y/n," Jeno said, his lips no longer pursed which made a wince leave his lips before he could stop himself. Why did this hurt more than getting shot by the enemy?

"True, I nearly forgot, that makes it tolerable"

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Unknown [ 9 : 42 pm ] : failed

Jeno's eyes were greeted with the six lettered word on his iPhone display, after exactly fifteen seconds the word said goodbye and faded out on the screen. The tight grip on his phone seemed to fade along with the brightness until the little device made a soft landing on his lap.

He ran his fingertips through his black hair, all possible scenarios colliding in his mind, but there was no conclusion to take at the end of the day.

After the early encounter with Taeyong, his suspect count had gone down to five. There was no way Taeyong could be a suspect: who would ask to get killed by a younger person, especially the leader of the gang. It was like he scribbled over Taeyong's name in his mind and didn't bother looking at the scribbles once more.

Without realizing, his fingertips went up to his neck, ignoring the plaster-covered wound on his collarbone as he delicately touched the necklace around his neck.

His fingertips caressed over the little charm dangling from the silver chain, feeling the initials of your name but also his own name at the back of it. Love gifted to you with money from your ex-boyfriend, he no longer could deny Taeyong was wrong when he said those words earlier.

Next to the chain was the ring he had given you with a promise, his own ring as it didn't feel like you. It felt like his ring, that he simply gave to you together with a promise he couldn't keep. His finger slid between the silver but pulled back before it could steadily test around his finger.

Unknown [ 10 : 08 pm ] : immediately

The phone lit up again as soon as the same number sent another text to Jeno's number. This time Jeno didn't hold the phone in his hand while reading it, from his lap, he had an excellent view over the text even though he didn't want to see it.

Before the standard fifteen seconds were over, his phone's brightness decided to stay together with a new message addressed towards him. This time more than one word, more than just stupid pieces that didn't bring him closer to you.

An address.

Jeno glanced at the time on his phone and let out a sigh as he realized this was the moment he had to choose: D-day which basically was a mission where a lot of money was involved together with the entire team, or saving you from the hands of one of those teammates. How was he even meeting up with one of them when not even in an hour, they had to be at a completely different location for the endgame.

He stood up from the bed and immediately started to collect a heap of objects he could possibly use in this momentum. A gun without silencer as he was done with little games, his phone just in case he would receive more hints than just the address, and of course his usual coat that would somehow have to replace a bulletproof vest.

Cynosure

His footsteps were loud as he ran from his room into the common room, barely put on his combat boots, and with a loud slam left the hideout.

He didn't even notice how his team members had been staring at him as if he was a fool, but no one was willing to help a fool. Though rather than not willing, it was the case of not being able to as Jeno hadn't shared the context with anyone.

The person who knew the most was walking amongst them, and surely that person wasn't lenient enough to help him.

"Where is he going?" Jungwoo asked as he sipped from his late-night coffee, knowing there was not one chance to yawn during the upcoming hours. The sweet taste of sugar in coffee made him blind to the bitter situation his younger member found himself in. A dart was thrown between Jungwoo and Doyoung who was about to reply, hitting the board with a light thud. "Going to y/n, get some dick before we get our victory," Haechan said as a giggle pushed past his lips, eyes never breaking contact with the dart that found itself pinned right in the middle of the board.

"he knows the rule: if he doesn't participate. More money for the rest"

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

The soles of Jeno's shoes seemed to get worn out a lot faster than usual, these days he seemed to live in the black pair of combat boots. But today they felt exceptionally worn out compared to yesterday.

The combat boots helped him to run through narrow streets. Streets he had never seen even though he found his way through them with ease. Both left and right seemed to end up in the same streets if it weren't for the little name tags and numbers upon the brick walls of the building.

His footsteps faded out as he tried to pause his running. His breathing deep even though he wasn't out of breath or tired from running. His eyelids covered his brown eyes as he tried to recall the address in his mind, even though he was sure he knew, he wasn't confident in trusting himself.

Silently and without a word, he repeated the address inwardly. Once. Twice. And when he lost count because he was so focused, he knew he could continue with his mission.

He picked up his pace again, needing only a couple of seconds before he was at his maximum speed once again. His eyes wildly drifting to everything suspicious around him: every little letter on white tags and every number next to a door. Wasting time was something he didn't do when the first few letters didn't match with the address in his head, he no longer would spend time on it.

It was like he was running through a maze where every little path ended up somewhere in the middle of nowhere. His feet were finally starting to get tired and painful from the neverending fight against time and a stranger that actually was his teammate.

Jeno ran past another little path, scanning the surroundings rather than the tag that was right in front of his eyes. As soon as he wanted to look in front of him again to continue, his eyes met the name from up close. Two steps passed the little street, his feet came to an abrupt halt.

This was it.

The tip of his shoe was dragged against the ground whilst taking a step back towards the little street to his left. The big two steps from seconds ago, became small and slow steps to make himself more camouflaged in the darkness.

He turned his body to the street before he was able to take his first step towards the new path. The repetitive setting staring at him as he felt like the main character, especially when his eyes didn't meet with any of the suspects.

"I'm here, what do you want from me!?" Jeno shouted loudly as his first step forward happened right in the middle of his sentence. His eyes didn't see anyone around, yet, he had yelled out to anyone willing to hear him.

This time it wasn't him getting stared at, his eyes moving clockwise around his surroundings. The houses that seemed to be evenly abandoned like the others, the shards of glass lying on the ground between the cobblestones, the bags of trash collected against one home which made the smell less than pleasant.

Why was he alone?

After hesitating due to his thoughts for half a minute, he started the path further into the street. The stench of the bags of filth filling his nostrils more and more with each step that he took.

It was like the odor took over more than half of the thoughts in his mind. The thoughts he had disappearing rather than being replaced by other thoughts.

Your fragrance.

Jeno swallowed away the fictitious thoughts until the odor solemnly remained.

His nose attempted to identify the strange mix of scents unknowingly. His footsteps following the progress by taking tiny steps towards the place where the scent was only getting stronger.

A molecule of your fragrance contested with the unfamiliar but unpleasant odor as he got closer to the bags of trash. The stench seemed to lose its battle as Jeno limited himself to the molecule of you around him.

Other senses helped him to find more particles of you: his hands spread in order to feel something in case you were close, his ears ready to focus on the sound of your voice, his eyes moving from spot to spot.

You were the cynosure.

His vision stopped at a low point that seemed to catch his eye due to the little details that didn't match with similar positions. Between the different colored trash bags, he could see a white piece of fabric sticking out slightly.

Kneeling down, Jeno started to investigate the piece of fabric from up close. Luckily the ground managed to keep him steady upon seeing the little droplet splattered on the white fabric.

The droplet of blood on the Virgin-white piece of clothing.

As used as Jeno was to blood and gore, he found himself staring at the wet patch for a couple of seconds. Fragments of time seemed to travel through his mind, taking him to one specific moment.

The time the two of you woke up together, his blood resting between both of you after he got wounded during one of his tasks.

This time, the blood wasn't his.

His fingertips no longer delicately wanted to touch the piece of evidence. Instead, his hands started to roughly move the trash bags out of the way.

His fingers were hurting from the dirt they pushed aside but it didn't stop him from moving the last few to the middle of the street. For some reason, his eyes hadn't seen the slow reveal that happened with the removal of each bag, perhaps because he feared what hid underneath them.

On the other hand, his eyes had no choice but to watch the result unveiled. A lump of air got trapped in his throat when the sight wasn't what he predicted.

Around him, the world continued to spin and he felt dizzy living in that frame of time. Together with the rest of his body, his skin felt numb to the salty tear that fell from his eyes and onto his cheek.

"y/n" Jeno whispered as his hands roughly grabbed your white-clothed shoulders, shaking them which only gave him a fabricated response.

Seconds silently ticked by as Jeno waited, or hoped for a short response to push itself past your lips. His hands remained upon your shoulders as he waited, the grip tightening with each second that ticked by. "y/n c'mon" he nearly begged, the last bit of hope soon making space for grief.

A loud wail left Jeno's lips as you had no response to give. Your lips parted but not one word escaped from them, yet, Jeno continued to stare at them as if you would move them to speak any second.

"I'm so sorry" Jeno whispered through the sobs that left his lips, making the words incomprehensible as they had to make space for his emotions. His hands were no longer tightly attached to your lifeless body, instead, he found his fingertips trembling inches away from your face. Too scared to caress the face he had kissed hundreds of times.

His head hung low, allowing the tears to fall onto the dry ground. A cough left his lips once he managed to catch a glimpse of the large red spot that coated the upper half of your heavenly-white outfit, under the lace he could see how the elegant prints had been colored in by your blood. Despite dry heaving, he held the coughs quiet, giving his cries the full freedom.

Your fingertips that seemingly were holding onto something non-existent were resting in the middle of your lap, placed like an old doll. Jeno took your hand in his, ignoring the liquid that was no dripping between the connection you two had. He brought your hand up to his face, making it rest against his warm cheek as he continued to free his emotions from their cage.

"y/n" Jeno whispered quietly, your fingertip brushing against his upper lip as he quietly moved your fingertips to place them where he would want to feel your love. The way your thumb would move over his upper lip and slowly run over his cupid's bow in the process. His lip pouted merely, pressing a little piece of affection upon your cold skin. "Sorry for not being able to keep the promise" he whispered to you, swallowing as he felt the silver chain of the necklace nearly burning through the pockets of his pants.

He pulled out the little piece of jewelry, staring at it with hatred in his eyes. How could a stupid piece of jewelry ruin his beautiful moment with you? His view changed as he remembered the ring was his promise to you, held in his hand as it gave him a chance to make a new and lasting promise.

"always" Jeno whispered, remembering quite a few times where he had used the word to indicate that he would be safe, and each of those times always took the second meaning that he would come back to you. He detached the ring from the necklace, holding it between his thumb and index finger. Delicately, he slid the ring back onto your finger, sealing the promise with the gesture.

Tears fell from his eyes, cleaning away bits of your blood away from his cheek. Blood could be washed away, but pain couldn't. Around the heart filled with love, a layer of pain had coated itself.

Always.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Unknown [ 10 : 58 pm ]  : game over?

Jeno furiously wiped under his swollen eyes as the brightness made him incompetent to read the message that had been sent to him. Though rather than retrieving his eyesight, he got rid of dried-up tears upon his skin.

His eyes read over the two simple words that formed an unneeded question together. In his eyes, it was obvious that the little game had been played, and he was chosen as a first place in being a loser. His game had cost him more than his life was worth, and no matter what price he paid, there was no second chance in which he could prove he deserved to win.

That's when real life and memories started to collide again in his head, not like they did before by ruining him even more, but by realistically telling him there was a mission to finish. D-day was what they called it, and now he realized why it was named that beforehand.

His exhausted pair of feet continued a further unknown trail once more. Silently, he called himself crazy for doing this after what happened, but it felt like a dedication to you... Even though the knife of hope, had already gone through his heart to tell him off.

A couple of minutes after his watch had announced eleven hours passed noon and one hour before midnight, he found himself in the unknown place. The oversized garage door merely opened, but he still managed to crawl underneath it until it left a little tear in his jeans.

It was still around him, no voices that would usually shout at one another for the next stage to finally start. Jeno looked around, trying to be noiseless as he walked further into the seemingly empty storehouse. It was Yuta's long hair that managed to catch his eyes first, but once he looked past that, he noticed the circle his members were positioned in.

Jeno took an unexpected step towards his members, causing someone to uncover himself from behind the large columns. The stranger wearing a combat helmet together with a completely matched black outfit underneath, yet, the black lettering on the uniform gave away that they were faced with authorities.

Within seconds, a dart was tossed towards the police. Jeno was quick to move due to his reflexes but noticed the person that was meant to get hit, wasn't so lucky. The first gesture set the rest into action as more police members revealed themselves from hidden positions, making eyes of the NCT gang widen at the unannounced reveal of the authority.

Gunshot

Jeno's eyes were quick to follow even if he wasn't able to see the bullet until it had been planted in the enemy's shoulder, yet, he turned back to Chenle and smirked at him as praise. His own gun safely stored the pockets of his outer layer of clothing, his hand already on the trigger for the moment he had to pull it out.

Bullets seemed to fly around everyone, lacing them in a spiderweb that they could hardly escape as every bullet was aimed towards one of them. Though, bullets didn't plant themselves in his skin when he moved around just like everyone else did.

"Taeil!" Jungwoo's voice echoed through the hall as his soft voice was suddenly louder than ever before. The tall boy dragged his older friend towards the nearest wall but was instantly killed by a bullet going through his vital organs. His body falling right over Taeil's as the two first victims were eliminated by the enemy.

Jeno barely heard what was happening over the noises around him, he had heard Jungwoo's cry for Taeil but his eyes hadn't picked up how his clan now existed of fewer people than before. He pulled Jaemin aside roughly, shooting at an officer who immediately landed on the ground seconds after the shot was fired.

Right in the middle of the place, between large columns and higher placed people, Jisung found himself crouching over his best friend Chenle. Tears pooling in his eyes, but before they fell, it was his body that hit the ground.

"Shit, Jisung is down." Jeno heard in the background as he looked towards Renjun who was torn between his two youngest friends or continuing to fight for whatever was left. He was about to move to the center to get to the two boys, but it was Lucas who took over the job. Unfortunately for the team, temporary informant Renjun had lost the battle when his eyes had lost focus of what the mission really was.

Jeno rested his back against the column, his eyes taking a little too long to figure out who was going to be his next target. The role of one of his possible targets had been swapped around, as one second later, a gun was aimed at him. His hands reached up in the air, shakily trying to keep himself steady against the column. "Sorry" he mumbled but his voice easily disappeared between the bullets and shouts of other members. His fingers already went up to his shirt before the bullet was planted on the left side of his body, immediately coating his black clothes with a layer of blood.

A cough left his lips, immediately triggering his gag reflex as a spoonful of blood dangled down his parted lips. He slumped down against the column despite his fingertips trying to scratch the material in order to keep him standing. His head was pounding, between all of the sounds around him, he faintly managed to hear you telling him to be safe.

Always.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Monochrome

One shade of black, one tint of white, ten different palettes filled with grey. That was what Jeno's eyes detected when they opened for what seemed like the first time in months. He could only state in front of him, the surroundings not revealing themselves as their dull colors refused to show him what was going on.

An unexpected grunt slipped past his lips when he tried to set his body straight against the cold support in his back. That's when the pain had announced itself and he finally became more aware of the things around him. His hands were coated in blood, as red as love was supposed to represent.

Red was the first real color his eyes saw at that moment, turning the pallette of grey into a never-ending set of colors samples when he looked up from his hand and to the open space around him. His lips held a silent sound of surprise back when the colorized truth came to life.

Exactly nineteen of his teammates on the floor, recognizable by their hair colors, facial features, or body types. A few other bodies scattered around, people who didn't know but were hidden behind protective helmets in order to keep their identity safe. He could see Taeyong lying on the floor, facing him and his eyes were still opened like he was staring into the soul of his younger member.

Jeno licked over his lower lip, unexpectedly drawing in the taste of blood with his actions. His mouth already had an odd taste but knowing the red liquid was covering his tastebuds made him spit it out. The remains ending up right at the corner of his lips, not further than where it had been seconds ago.

"Thought your heart would have been crushed by now," A voice said which made Jeno look up, his eyes weakly scanning the person in front of him even if he could recognize the voice without seeing him. He swallowed thickly, struggling as the metallic taste of blood was pulled further into his body. His lips slowly parted again, some dried blood hidden within the cracks of his lips. Words were mouthed, not spoken as not one sound broke through the momentum.

Instead of speaking, Jeno weakly presented his gun, holding it up a few centimeters as he was too weak to hold it higher. The meaning behind the gesture was unclear, even for himself: did he give himself over to the game, did he want to live in peace and willingly lost because of it?

The older man kneeled in front of him slowly when he saw the gesture Jeno made, seeing it as an offer even though it was a perfect opportunity. Because as the unspoken rule said, who participated got more than the others: and he was the only participant left.

Beneath the black unbuttoned shirt, Jeno could see the bulletproof vest upon his skin. A simple trick that twenty other people had forgotten about despite it being something classic in the world that they lived in.

"any last words?" He asked Jeno, turning the gun around in his hand so that it was aiming at Jeno. Whilst he waited for Jeno to answer the question, his hand helped the gun to find the right angle. Jeno didn't even notice how his hand was lifted up and wrapped around the gun, his index finger resting upon the trigger.

Be safe

"Always" Jeno silently said as his tired eyes stared at the man who once was his friend. Jeno felt a finger over resting over his, immediately feeling the tension if the trigger getting more intense. But gave himself over to the feeling before it even came.

Images of you flashed through Jeno's mind as he tried to find relief in his future, a future he didn't have unless it was with you somewhere in a dream in a dream. Unknowingly his eyes went over the number and name engraved on the gun, yet, in his mind, he read the numbers of your anniversary and your name right next to it.

Gunshot

The cynosure of no eyes was left standing alone between dead bodies, the gun dropping on the ground as he stood up and gracefully walked away from the game he finished playing. Gameover.

960201, Kim Doyoung

Author’s note: 

Helloah, you have reached the end of cynosure! I hope you liked the fic despite the perhaps sad ending (I didn’t cry). I decided to write this in celebration of 5K followers: thank you for 5k, it seriously means a lot to me to know that people like my writing and look forward to reading it!

Anyway. I hope you liked cynosure and if you have any feedback/questions about the fic, I’ll gladly respond  <3

[beemusik]

How David Bowie Invented Ziggy Stardust

Jason Heller’s book Strange Stars: David Bowie, Pop Music, and the Decade Sci-Fi Exploded is the story of how science fiction influenced the musicians of the Seventies. Out now in hardcover via Melville House, Strange Stars also examines how space exploration, futurism and emerging technology inspired the sometimes-cosmic, sometimes-mechanistic music the decade produced. In this section, Heller delves into the creation of Bowie’s most-famous alter ego, Ziggy Stardust.

A small crowd of sixty or so music fans stood in the dance hall of the Toby Jug pub in Tolworth, a suburban neighborhood in southwest London, on the night of February 10, 1972. The backs of their hands had been freshly stamped by the doorman. A DJ played records to warm up the crowd for the main act. The hall was nothing fancy, little more than “an ordinary function room.” The two-story brick building that housed it – “a gaunt fortress of a pub on the edge of an underpass” – had played host to numerous rock acts over the past few years, including Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, and Fleetwood Mac. Sci-fi music had even graced the otherwise earthy Toby Jug, thanks to recent headliners King Crimson and Hawkwind, and exactly one week earlier, on February 3, the band Stray performed, quite likely playing their sci-fi song “Time Machine.” The concertgoers on the tenth, however, had no idea that they would soon witness the most crucial event in the history of sci-fi music.

Most of them already knew who David Bowie was – the singer who, three years earlier, had sung “Space Oddity,” and who had appeared very seldom in public since, focusing instead on making records that barely dented the charts. His relatively low profile in recent years hadn’t helped his latest single, “Changes,” which had come out in January. Despite its soaring, anthemic sound, it failed to find immediate success in England. But the lyrics of the song seemed to signal an impending metamorphosis, hinted at again in late January when Bowie declared in a Melody Makerinterview, “I’m gay and always have been” and unabashedly predicted, “I’m going to be huge, and it’s quite frightening in a way.” Bowie clearly had a big plan up his immaculately tailored sleeve. But what could it be?

Before Bowie took the stage of the Toby Jug, an orchestral crescendo announced him. It was a recording of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, drawn from the soundtrack to A Clockwork Orange. To anyone who’d seen the film, the music carried a sinister feeling, superimposed as it was over Kubrick’s visions of grim dystopia and ultraviolence. Grandiloquence mixed with foreboding, shot through with sci-fi: it couldn’t have been a better backdrop for what the pint-clutching attendees of the Toby Jug were about to behold.

At around 9:00 p.m., the houselights were extinguished. A spotlight sliced the darkness. Bowie took the stage. But was it really him? In a strictly physical sense, it must have been. But this was Bowie as no one had seen him before. His hair – which appeared blond and flowing on the cover of Hunky Dory, released just three months earlier – was now chopped at severe angles and dyed bright orange, the color of a B-movie laser beam. His face was lavishly slathered with cosmetics. He wore a jumpsuit with a plunging neckline, revealing his delicate, bone-pale chest, and his knee-high wrestling boots were fire-engine red. Bowie had never been conservative in dress, but even for him, this was a quantum leap into the unknown.

Then he began to play. His band – dubbed the Spiders from Mars and comprising guitarist Mick Ronson, bassist Trevor Bolder, and drummer Woody Woodmansey – was lean, efficient, and powerful, clad in gleaming, metallic outfits that mimicked spacesuits, reminiscent of the costumes from the campy 1968 sci-fi romp Barbarella. The Jane Fonda vehicle had been a huge hit in England, and it became a cult film in the United States, thanks to its titillating portrayal of a future where sensuality is rediscovered after a lifetime of sterile, virtual sex.

In the same way, Bowie’s new incarnation was shocking, lurid, and supercharged with sexual energy. Combined with his recent admission of either homosexuality or bisexuality, as he was then married to his first wife, Angela, Bowie’s new persona oozed futuristic mystique, which Bowie biographer David Buckley described as “a blurring of ‘found’ symbols from science fiction – space-age high heels, glitter suits, and the like.”

But what bewitched the audience most was the music. Amid a set of established songs such as “Andy Warhol,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud,” and, naturally, “Space Oddity,” the Spiders from Mars injected a handful of new tunes, including “Hang On to Yourself” and “Suffragette City,” that had yet to appear on record. Propulsive, infectious, and awash in dizzying imagery, this was a new Bowie – cut less from the thoughtful, singer-songwriter mold and more from some new hybrid of thespian rocker and sci-fi myth. These songs bounced off the walls of the Toby Jug’s no-longer-ordinary function room. The audience, whistling and cheering, was entranced. A show eye-popping enough to dazzle an entire arena was being glimpsed in the most intimate of watering holes.

Although the crowd was sparse, people stood on tables and chairs to get the best possible view. The stage was only two feet high, but it may as well have been twenty, or two million – an elevator to outer space designed to launch Bowie into an orbit far more enduring than that of Major Tom in “Space Oddity.”

At some point, amid the swirl and spectacle of the two-hour set, Bowie announced from the stage the name of his new identity: Ziggy Stardust.

Like an artifact from some alien civilization, Bowie’s fifth album, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, was unveiled on June 16, 1972. By then, Ziggy had become a sensation. After the Toby Jug gig in February, concertgoers embraced Bowie’s new persona in music venues around the UK. Attendance swelled each night, as did a growing legion of followers who dressed themselves in homemade approximations of Bowie’s outlandish attire.

Just as the album was released, he and the Spiders appeared on the BBC’s revered Top of the Popsprogram, performing the record’s centerpiece: the song “Starman.” For many of a certain age, watching Bowie on their family’s television that evening was tantamount to the Beatles’ legendary spot on The Ed Sullivan Show in the United States eight years earlier. “He was so vivid. So luminous. So fluorescent. We had one of the first color TVs on our street, and David Bowie was the reason to have a color TV,” remembered Bono of U2, who was twelve at the time. “It was like a creature falling from the sky. Americans put a man on the moon. We had our own British guy from space.”

Musically, “Starman” was an exquisite and striking slice of pop songcraft, exactly what Bowie needed at that point in his career. Lyrically, he smuggled in a sci-fi story that centers around Ziggy Stardust, who was both Bowie’s alter ego and the fictional protagonist of the Rise and Fall concept album, as loose as it was in that regard – it is more a fugue of ideas that coalesce into a concept. Through the radio and TV, an alien announces his existence to Earth, which Bowie describes in lovingly rendered sci-fi verse: “A slow voice on a wave of phase.” The young people of the world become enchanted and hope to lure the alien down: “Look out your window, you can see his light /If we can sparkle, he may land tonight.” But that alien is reticent, and his shyness makes him all the more magnetic.

Bowie sang the song on Top of the Pops clad in a multicolored, reptilian-textured jumpsuit, which Melody Maker called, “Vogue’s idea of what the well-dressed astronaut should be wearing.” In that sense, “Starman” is a self-fulfilling prophecy: before he could truly know the impact the song would have, he used it to describe its effect on Great Britain’s young people in perfect detail. He was the starman waiting in the sky, and the kids who saw him on TV soon began to dress like him, hoping to sparkle so that he may land tonight.

If Bowie intended “Starman” to be an overt reference to [Robert A.] Heinlein’s Starman Jones, the book he loved as a kid, he never publicly confessed to it. But the admittedly sketchy story line of Rise and Fall parallels another Heinlein work: Stranger in a Strange Land, the novel that had influenced David Crosby in the ’60s and, later, many other sci-fi musicians of the ’70s. The book’s hero,Valentine Michael Smith, comes to Earth from Mars; in Rise and Fall, Mars is built into the title. And both Valentine and Ziggy become messiahs of a kind – androgynous, libertine heralds of a new age of human awareness. Bowie claimed he’d turned down offers to star in a film production of Stranger in a Strange Land and had few positive words to say about the book, calling it “staggeringly, awesomely trite.” Be that as it may, he clearly had read the book and developed a strong opinion of it – perhaps enough for some of its themes and iconography to seep into his own work.

The opening song of Rise and Fall, “Five Years,” elegiacally delivers a dystopian forecast: the world will end in five years due to a lack of resources, and society is disintegrating into a slow-motion parade of perversity and moral paralysis. It’s a countdown to doomsday, with the clock set at five years. The song’s ominous refrain, “We’ve got five years,” is sung by Bowie with increasing histrionics, his voice sounding more panicked and deranged as he repeats the phrase. “The whole thing was to try and get a mocking angle at the future,” Bowie said in 1972. “If I can mock something and deride it, one isn’t so scared of it” – with “it” being the apocalypse.

“Five Years” set a chilling tone, but Rise and Fall didn’t entirely wallow in it. The coming of an alien rock star named Ziggy Stardust is relayed in a multi-song story that’s equally melancholy and ecstatic, tragic and triumphant. On tracks such as “Moonage Daydream,” “Star,” and “Lady Stardust,” Bowie wields terms such as “ray gun” and “wild mutation.” He also claims, “I’m the space invader,” as though he were channeling the ideas of his sci-fi heroes Stanley Kubrick or William S. Burroughs, particularly the latter’s 1971 novel, The Wild Boys.

As Bowie explained, “It was a cross between [The Wild Boys] and A Clockwork Orange that really started to put together the shape and the look of what Ziggy and the Spiders were going to become. They were both powerful pieces of work, especially the marauding boy gangs of Burroughs’s Wild Boys with their bowie knives. I got straight on to that. I read everything into everything. Everything had to be infinitely symbolic.” The photos of the Spiders from Mars inside the album sleeve of Rise and Fall were even patterned after the gang of Droogs of A Clockwork Orange; Droogs are mentioned by name in the Rise and Fall song “Suffragette City.” Furthermore, Bowie posed on theback cover of the album, peering out of a phone booth – just as though he were that other cryptic British alien who regularly regenerates himself and is often seen in a phone booth (specifically a police call box), the Doctor from Doctor Who.

Bowie also drew from work of the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. Born Norman Carl Odam, the Texan rockabilly artist released a twangy, oddball 1968 single titled “I Took a Trip (On a Gemini Spaceship)” that Bowie wound up covering in 2002; it was from Odam that Bowie borrowed Ziggy’s surname. And after going on a record-buying spree while touring the United States in 1971, he bought Fun House by the Michigan proto-punk band the Stooges, whose outrageous lead singer was named Iggy Pop. He jotted down ideas on hotel stationary while traveling the States, resulting in a name that was a mash-up of Iggy Pop and the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. Ziggy Stardust was a fabricated rock star, one whose sleek facade flew in the face of the era’s reigning rock aesthetic of laid-back, unpretentious authenticity. Instead, Bowie wanted to puncture that illusion by taking rock showmanship to a previously unseen, self-referential extreme.

When it came to Bowie’s urge toward collage and deconstruction, Burroughs remained a prime inspiration. A pioneer of postmodern sci-fi pastiche as well as the literary cut-up technique, in which snippets of text were randomly rearranged to form a new syntax, Burroughs straddled both pulp sci-fi and the avant-garde, exactly the same liminal space Bowie now occupied. Rock critic Lester Bangs accused Bowie of “trying to be George Orwell and William Burroughs” while dismissing him as appearing to be “deposited onstage after seemingly being dipped in vats of green slime and pursued by Venusian crab boys” – a description that sounded like it could have been cribbed straight from a Burroughs book.

In 1973, Burroughs met Bowie in the latter’s London home. The meeting was arranged by A. Craig Copetas from Rolling Stone, and the resulting exchange was published in the magazine a few months later. In the article, Copetas observed that Bowie’s house was “decorated in a science-fiction mode,” and that Bowie greeted them “wearing three-tone NASA jodhpurs.” The ensuing conversation ranged across many topics, but it circled around science fiction – and in particular, the similarity Bowie saw between Rise and Fall and Burroughs’s 1964 novel Nova Express, a surreal sci-fi parable about mind control and the tyranny of language.

In an effort to convince Burroughs of the similarity, Bowie offered one of the most revealing analyses of Rise and Fall as a work of science fiction:

“The time is five years to go before the end of the Earth. It has been announced that the world will end because of a lack of natural resources. Ziggy is in a position where all the kids have access to things that they thought they wanted. The older people have all lost touch with reality, and the kids are left on their own to plunder anything. Ziggy was in a rock & roll band, and the kids no longer wanted to play rock & roll. There’s no electricity to play it.”

Bowie went on:

“[The environmental apocalypse] does not cause the end of the world for Ziggy. The end comes when the infinites arrive. They really are a black hole, but I’ve made them people because it would be very hard to explain a black hole onstage.”

Curiously, it took him another twenty-six years before casually revealing in an interview that a sci-fi song called “Black Hole Kids” was recorded as an outtake during the sessions for Rise and Fall. He called the song “fabulous,” adding, “I have no idea why it wasn’t on the original album. Maybe I forgot.”

But Bowie dropped the biggest revelation about Rise and Fallin the 1973 conversation with Burroughs. Ziggy Stardust, according to his creator, is not an alien himself; instead, he’s an earthling who makes contact with extra-dimensional beings, who then use him as a charismatic vessel for their own nefarious invasion plan. But like Frankenstein’s monster being erroneously called “Frankenstein” to the point where it seems senseless to quibble with that usage, Ziggy Stardust continues to be widely considered the alien entity of Rise and Fall. Considering the shifting identity and gender of Bowie’s most famous alter ego, that ambiguity may well have been his intention. Talking to Burroughs, he ultimately labels Rise and Fall “a science-fiction fantasy of today” before reiterating its similarity to Nova Express, to which Burroughs responds, “The parallels are definitely there.”

Rise and Fall has always been as fluid as Bowie’s facade itself. Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion cast a shadow over Ziggy Stardust, especially the glammy incarnation of the many-faced character known as Jerry Cornelius – who was adapted to the big screen in 1973 for the feature film The Final Programme. It coincided with Ziggy’s own ascendency, not to mention the New Wave of Science Fiction and its preference for fractured narratives and multiple interpretations over linear stories and pat endings.

During their mutual interview, Burroughs brought up the then-current rumor that Bowie might play Valentine Michael Smith in a film adaptation of Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. Bowie again dismissed it. “It seemed a bit too flower-powery, and that made me a bit wary.” For his part, Bowie’s fellow sci-fi musician Mick Farren of the Deviants later admitted he always thought Michael Valentine Smith was a major influence on Ziggy Stardust. “I was certain someone would call him out for plagiarism,” Farren said. “Nobody did.”

Bowie may have denied his affinity for Stranger in a Strange Land by his boyhood go-to author Heinlein, but he was not shy about professing his love for one of the authors Lester Bangs compared him to: George Orwell. Almost as a footnote, Bowie told Burroughs, “Now I’m doing Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four on television.” That project would never come to pass, but it would lay the groundwork for his next, less famous sci-fi concept album – a jagged, atmospheric song cycle that plunged Bowie into the darkest extremes of dystopia.

[luluwquidprocrow]

beatrice

originally posted: april 29th, 2017

word count: 36,845 words

rated: not rated

warning: major character death

beatrice baudelaire/lemony snicket

lemony snicket, beatrice baudelaire, kit snicket, count olaf, bertrand baudelaire, the duchess of winnipeg

implied/referenced character death, murder mystery, alternate universe – canon divergence, detective noir, investigations, murder, the major character death isn’t who you think it is, in which some things are changed around but it all works out sort of how it’s supposed to

summary: Lemony Snicket investigates the apparent murder of a woman known only as Beatrice, and finds himself not only falling in love but into a wild, mysterious, and ultimately unfortunate series of events. 

notes:

IMPORTANT NOTE, we're in weird noir shenanigan territory in this fanfic, where things happen that aren't always exactly what they seem. also, the major character death is the kind of major character death you'd expect in ASOUE/ATWQ, so I don't think there's anything in here that this fandom isn't already prepared for on a general note. bearing that in mind, let's get to it, folks

Also, MAJOR SPOILERS for the ending of Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?. We're talking SERIOUSLY MAJOR SPOILERS, I cannot stress that enough.

.

There was a town, and there was a girl, and there was a crime, but it was a different town and a different girl and a different crime than before. It was the city, and it was a woman, and it was probably murder. I wasn't almost thirteen. I was somewhere in the muddle of self-doubt that most people call someone's early twenties. Most of all, I was hoping that this time, I wasn't wrong.

I returned to the city early in the morning on the coldest day in January, after a long weekend in a faraway town I would prefer never to think about again, but it's always the things you never want to think about that you wind up thinking about. I went there at least once a year, to think through things I also tried and failed not to think about. I did a lot of thinking and not-thinking those days, but I very rarely, if ever, came up with any concrete answers.

The taxi I took back into the city didn't usually travel that sort of distance, but the drivers didn't seem to mind. They hadn't just offered, they'd insisted. They looked back at me every now and then, but I didn't want to meet their gazes. I looked out the window instead, at the thick grey sky and faded brown buildings. I knew they wanted to talk, and I didn't want to. I didn't know if I could answer any of their questions. I tried to hide myself behind one of the books they kept in the back seat—the taxi also doubled as a mobile library—but my disguises have never been very successful, unless I was hiding in a mailbox or a piano.

"You're awfully quiet today, Snicket," one of them said.

"Hm," I said.

"You are," said the one in the passenger seat, and he turned, looking at me. "You haven't even given us any tips this time."

I thought it over. It felt like ages since I'd picked up a book with the honest intention of reading it through—I'd barely had the time lately, between doing what my organization wanted me to do and then doing what they didn't want me to do. I hadn't even read the book I was hiding behind. I looked down at it and finally caught sight of the title. "You should read the sequel," I said. "Some people say it's not as good as the first book, but I think it gives a deeper view of some of the characters and what they became."

"Fair enough," the brother in the passenger seat said, and he turned back around.

I looked out the window again. The brown buildings gave way to smaller, sturdier buildings and slightly more people. We were nearing the heart of the city. I tried not to be too nervous. I was always nervous when I came back to the city nowadays, because I didn't know what had happened in my absence, and I worried about what I would find.

"Can you tell us what you were up to this time?" the driver asked.

I thought that over too. I wasn't sure how to explain why I had been visiting a cemetery when I was supposed to be investigating a post office. I did, in fact, eventually investigate the post office, and sent along the required information to my sister, before I followed the lead further and wound up almost running into a Quagmire. I was still interfering, as headquarters liked to remind me in their letters that I found stuffed in refrigerated condiments whenever I returned to my apartment. You think you'd learn, they said, which I thought was unnecessarily cruel, but typical of them. We have never seen eye to eye on many matters.

Although I wasn't as determined as I had been in my youth, I still believed that we could do things differently. I still did them differently, to the exasperation and worry of my sister. I didn't know what good it would do, or if it would do any good at all, or if I was still very, very wrong, and would be, for the rest of my life, no matter what I tried to do or how I tried to do it, but I still tried. It was the only thing I could do.

"The usual," I wound up saying. I smiled a little bit when the brothers laughed.

After a few minutes I caught a glimpse of the payphone down the street. "This is my stop," I said, and the taxi pulled to a halt a few feet away from the booth.

"Good luck with everything," the driver said, and when I finally caught his eye, he smiled.

"Don't work too hard," his brother said with a grin.

I raised a hand in farewell as I got out of the back seat. I watched Pip and Squeak Bellerophon drive away, and my eyes lingered on the corner where the taxi disappeared. Then I turned back to the phone booth, glanced briefly at my watch, and leaned back against a streetlamp to wait.

The phone rang five minutes early, which was right on schedule, and I slid into the booth and picked up the receiver. "Hello."

"L," my sister said, and she sounded oddly subdued. I had only heard her that way once before, a long time ago at a funeral, and I was nervous to hear her that way again. "There's been a change of plans."

I tightened my grip on the phone. "What's happened?"

"An associate was killed yesterday."

"Who?" It wasn't unusual to lose an associate, especially as we all got older, but I never liked when it happened.

"Do you remember Beatrice?"

I closed my eyes.

I remembered Beatrice.

We hadn't talked much after our apprenticeships started. But it was hard to forget someone you thought you loved, even at the age of eleven. I remembered the way her dark brown, almost black hair curled under her chin, the way she pushed it back behind her ears when she gave her oral report on the sonnet. I remembered the way she blinked at me when I told her arriving early was the mark of a noble person. I remembered the way she listened, like she was doing the most important thing in the world, and she never took her eyes off you. That was why I'd liked her. She listened, and she didn't patronize, and she believed.

We would go to the diner around the corner from headquarters and order a truly outrageous amount of root beer floats. She'd laugh at things I said that I hadn't intended to be funny, but I never got the impression that she was laughing at me. Sometimes the Duchess of Winnipeg would come with us, and the two of them would try to disguise me the best they could with our organization's disguise kits. I'd help them rehearse their lines for their acting classes. I taught Beatrice to play cards, and Beatrice taught the Duchess of Winnipeg, who used her new skills to win my pen collection from me, and then Beatrice would smuggle them back to me between classes.

I kissed Beatrice on the cheek once. She smiled at me and said "Mr. Snicket, you are one of a kind," and then ordered another root beer float.

Sometimes we talked about growing up, about the things we'd do. We didn't have dreams, we had plans, and we were certain we could achieve them. Beatrice was quiet about it, but I thought sometimes that she was even more determined than I was. I ached a little bit to think about that now.

We had been children then, and we hadn't spoken in years. I lost track of a lot of associates after my apprenticeship, and Beatrice had been one of them. In all honesty, I had tried to avoid her once I returned to the city. I didn't think I could face her.

I knew Kit kept in contact with her, and that they spoke often. It explained why she was so upset. I wished I had words of consolation for my sister, but a sudden emptiness had formed in my chest.

"L?"

I opened my eyes. I looked through the glass of the phone booth and out at the city. It seemed colder now. People continued walking by and I watched them and tried, not for the first time, to understand how they could just keep going, even when the world around them kept changing. "Yes," I said. "I remember her. How—?"

"Someone shot her. B and I—we've been trying to keep it quiet because—" She took in a deep breath. "We think it was someone from our organization."

"What?"

"I think," Kit began, very slowly, as if she was trying to keep her voice from trembling, "that O was one of the last people to see her."

It was worrying to hear Kit talk about Olaf now, after the fairly loud and unfortunately public scene that had ended their relationship just a few weeks ago. Even if he was still considered a member of our organization, if he was the last one to see Beatrice, that meant a certain possibility that neither of us wanted to consider. "I see," I said.

"But I don't—I don't know. Something's going on in the organization. I need someone I trust investigating this. I need you to do it."

It was nice that even after everything I'd done, and everything I'd done to Kit, that she still trusted me. But I didn't know if I was the right one to do it. Beatrice deserved someone with a less conflicted conscience investigating her murder. "Kit, I—"

"Please, L."

I could count on one hand the number of times I'd heard Kit say 'please.' I thought about what it would mean to investigate, and my chest seized up at the thought. Talking to associates I'd been trying not to talk to. Having to make choices about whether something was right or wrong, and then doing it anyway. Everything I worried about, with even more significance than usual.

But Kit asked very little of me, and I still remembered the last time I'd left her alone.

I sighed. "I'll try."

"Thank you," Kit said.

"Where can I find him?" I asked.

"There's a bar he likes. One of ours, actually. On Bayberry. It's two blocks up from your payphone. He might be there."

"Alright."

"You'll have to visit B, too. If O doesn't know anything, B might. Or R, even."

"Can I ask," I began, "when you saw her last?"

"I saw her Saturday. We had lunch with R. We were supposed to hear from her on Sunday, but we didn't, so that night R and I went to her apartment. When we got there...." Her voice trailed off.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks."

Kit was quiet for a moment, but quiet in a different way than before, and I felt my throat close up a little. I knew what she was going to ask. She asked every time, and like many other things, it never got easier to hear.

"How was it?"

I cleared my throat. It didn't help. "It was fine," I told her. "I'll talk to you later."

I hung up.

-

The bar on Bayberry Avenue wasn't a bar that I could say I frequented, but I had been in there at least once before, on an occasion where Kit and I had also been looking for Olaf. I didn't think this time would be as pleasant.

Our organization used the bar, like they did with other restaurants in the city, as a front for gathering information, so there was a good chance I wouldn't just run into Olaf, but any number of my associates. I wasn't eager to see any of them, but I had a feeling I was going to be seeing more of them now, so I nodded politely to a potted plant by the door that looked a little like one of the Denouement triplets. It rustled in return.

Inside the small, narrow restaurant, the blinds on the front windows tilted to let in slivers of early morning sunlight that fell into long rectangles across the black and white tiled floor. The overstuffed grey booths by the right wall were empty, and only a few of the squat, round tables in the center of the room had occupants. Between the bar counter and the collection of bottles behind it on the left wall was the barkeep. I caught her eye. Olivia raised a thin eyebrow in my direction, but after a few moments, she smiled.

I saw Olaf at a table in the back. Even this early in the morning, empty glasses surrounded him on the table, another half-full glass dangling in his hand. But he didn't look upset—if anything, he looked almost celebratory.

Then Olaf turned and saw me, and his face broke into a wide sneer.

I sighed.

"Well, well, well!" Olaf leaned back in his chair and raised his glass in my direction. "Lemony Snicket! What sad rock did you crawl out from under?"

I ignored that remark. "Olaf," I said, walking over and sitting down next to him. I thought about resting my hands on the table, but the amount of empty glasses on it seemed to suggest I think otherwise, so I just kept my hands in my lap.

Olaf tilted his head back but still kept his eyes on me. "You've been out of touch with this crowd almost as much as I have, haven't you, Snicket?"

I frowned at Olaf, and he just grinned back.

"Up to more nefariously noble deeds, the ones that take you out of the city for those weeks at a time that has everyone else all up in arms about you and what you're doing?" He started to laugh, and it wheezed out of him in gleeful, hissing bursts.

I have never liked Olaf, and it was moments like these that reminded me just why. I was already worried enough about my affairs, but Olaf tended to throw the things I'd done in my face with a kind of fascination. He found it entertaining to remind me how much this organization had fallen apart, carefully avoiding what it had done to him as much as me.

I used to tell myself that at least I would never be like Olaf, a man who walked a very thin line between 'socially acceptable' and 'morally reprehensible' like it was his job. I'd watched him grow up from an irritating child with questionable ideas into an even more irritating adult with even more questionable ideas. And then I thought about myself, and what I'd grown up into, and I felt like I was walking that line myself, and then falling off into an ocean of endless misery.

I couldn't think about that now. I shook my head and decided to just dislike Olaf more.

"I'm here about Beatrice," I said.

Olaf stopped laughing and gasped dramatically, but I saw the mirth still gleaming in his eyes, and it scared me, a little, how much he seemed to be honestly enjoying an associate's death. "Oh, yes," he said, clutching at his chest. "Would that it were me, Snicket! How awful this is! So young, so talented, and cut down in her prime—why, I'll always remember, with all the fondness I can muster, which is, I'll have you know, a considerable amount, the time she asked me for acting lessons...."

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to tune out his fabricated story. It was usually Kit's voice I heard whenever I had to deal with Olaf, telling me he doesn't mean it, not really, not all the time, but this time I heard a lighter voice in the back of my mind, one that said he just likes getting under people's skin, doesn't he?, and I saw Beatrice, sitting across from me in a different restaurant, a diner, frowning as she played with the straw in her root beer float.

I opened my eyes. "Kit said you were one of the last to see Beatrice," I said, trying to keep us both on the same page.

At the mention of my sister, Olaf's fingers twitched against the side of the glass in his hand, but his expression didn't waver. "I was the last, as a matter of fact," he said. "Beatrice and I went to lunch on Sunday. She asked, by the way. I didn't make it a habit of hanging around her. I only said yes because she looked so desperate."

"What did you talk about?"

Olaf shrugged. "Things," he said.

"That's unhelpfully unspecific," I said.

"Well, so was she," Olaf said. "Trust me, you weren't missing anything good, except a woman being a real failure at the concept of guilt-tripping. You need leverage to do that, and she didn't have it." He took a large gulp of his drink. "She was trying to be noble, but she came off as just plain irritating."

I sighed hard. Olaf was being as obtuse as I imagined he'd be. "What else?" I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I myself felt.

Olaf hummed in thought. "She cried when she left, probably. Seems the type. Then I guess she went home? That's what I did. To my own home, thanks." He looked back at me. "I didn't follow her back to her apartment and murder her, Snicket. I hated Beatrice, sure, but I didn't hate her that much."

I considered believing him, and I told myself firmly that, given his track record over even just the past few minutes, I shouldn't believe him. Myself told me that, realistically, I didn't have any evidence except Olaf's natural personality, and that wouldn't really hold up anywhere. I told myself fine, I'd just have to figure out how to get him to tell the truth. Myself wished me good luck with that. I agreed that I'd need something short of a miracle to have a logical conversation with Olaf.

"Did she say anything else?" I asked. "Was she planning on meeting anyone else?"

Olaf took another sip of his drink. "Maybe. She had quite the rotating list of dinner dates. I wasn't the only one she had her eye on, if you know what I mean."

I knew what he wanted that to mean, and I knew what that actually meant, so I ignored it. "Did she look worried? Nervous?"

"I don't know."

"You ate lunch with her," I said, raising an eyebrow. "You must have looked at her at some point."

"Maybe I did," Olaf said loftily. "And maybe she looked a little scared, once or twice. I can't blame her. I just exude natural confidence, it's unsettling for others less sure of themselves."

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Olaf rested his chin on his hand and looked off into the distance. I counted out three minutes in my head before he said, "She bought me a roast beef sandwich."

I took in a deep breath and let it out a little faster than I had intended. Olaf did that to people. I stood up, pushing my chair back roughly. "Thank you for your time," I muttered.

Olaf drained the rest of his drink and dropped the empty glass onto the table. After wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he said, "Hey. You're going to have to talk to Bertrand, aren't you?"

I didn't want to tell Olaf more than I had to, but this seemed unavoidable. "Yes."

"Can I come with you?"

I frowned. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I tried. I didn't want to spend longer with Olaf than was absolutely necessary. I was also, frankly, surprised that he'd even want to join me, considering I didn't think he really liked me, or even liked Bertrand. I didn't think he truly liked anyone, although that was up for debate.

"Nope," Olaf said cheerfully.

"Why would you even want to?"

Olaf merely grinned again, and I tried not to shiver at the sight of it. "I think it'd be fun to watch. This breaks his noble heart, isn't that how it goes?"

That was not, in fact, how it went, in any story. I wanted to get rid of him. But he looked like he wasn't going anywhere else anytime soon, and there was probably no man alive more dangerously volatile than Olaf.

"Fine," I said.

Olaf stood up. "Oh, hey. You haven't seen Esmé, have you?"

"No," I said, not even bothering to point out that of course I hadn't seen her because I'd spent my first hour back in the city in his own pleasant company.

"Oh, well." Olaf shrugged. "She can find me later." Then he looked down at the table. "You're paying, right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and looking back and forth between me and the empty glasses littering the table.

I sighed, rummaged around in my pockets, and slammed the money down on the table.

Olaf's grin pulled to show all of his teeth. "Thanks, Snicket."

-

It is difficult to comfort the bereaved. Although you may try very hard not to say the wrong thing, you will invariably wind up doing it at some point, not through any insensitivity of your own, or over-sensitivity on behalf of the grieving, but because words are powerful, and memories are jogged at even the smallest, most seemingly inconsequential phrase. It is therefore necessary to bring with you a great deal of sympathy and an equal amount of patience and tissues. I didn't have the tissues, but I had the sympathy and patience.

Contrary to popular belief, I happened to enjoy Bertrand's company. He was the sort of person who was quietly kind, who seemed to make a room safer just by walking into it. The only thing we ever disagreed on was on the skill level of our chaperone, whom we had decided to just never speak of again.

Bertrand welcomed me into his apartment with a small, if strained, smile, and even did the same for Olaf, who sauntered in behind me and looked around the apartment with a critical eye. The sitting room was small but had comfortable couches, and I admired the wall-to-wall bookshelves. Despite Bertrand's grief, obvious in his shaking hands and the way he sometimes looked momentarily lost, running his hand through his short brown hair and frowning deeply, he still insisted on making us tea. He set the tray down on the coffee table and sat down next to me.

Bertrand smiled that tight smile again. "Kit told me you might be coming," he said. "Thank you."

"Don't you have any sugar?" Olaf asked, and he even looked under one of the light blue couch cushions to check.

Bertrand and I looked at Olaf, and then back to each other. "What can you tell me about Beatrice?" I asked. "When did you see her last?" I wished I had a better way to ask that, but I didn't.

"Sunday afternoon," Bertrand said. "I went—what?" He paused, because Olaf had sat up suddenly. "What is it?"

"I was the last one to see Beatrice," Olaf said, raising an eyebrow. "She took me to lunch."

"Well, after you went to lunch," Bertrand said, "I went over to her apartment to rehearse."

"Oh, sure, to rehearse," Olaf snickered. He leaned back against the couch.

Bertrand glared at him. "That's what it was," he insisted.

"What were you rehearsing?" I asked.

"Beatrice and I are in an upcoming play for our organization," Bertrand explained, still staring at Olaf, who was now poking the green couch pillows. "She likes—she liked going over the script as thoroughly as possible so that there weren't any mistakes." That made sense, as our plays were rarely just straightforward plays, and often included coded messages to our associates. "We went over it for a few hours and then I—I left. I came back here. I didn't hear from her after that." His voice cracked a little, and was almost a whisper by the end.

"Were you supposed to hear from her?"

Bertrand cleared his throat. "We had unconfirmed dinner plans," he said quietly.

I had a feeling what that meant, and I thought it would be kinder to not press it. Olaf, however, apparently didn't feel the same.

"I told you," he said, looking at me, "that I wasn't the only one she had her eye on."

"Beatrice wasn't that kind of person," Bertrand said quickly. "I'm sure she only went to lunch with you because she had a reason to."

Olaf grinned. "Did she tell you what we talked about?"

Bertrand blinked a few times. He swallowed, and then he took in a slow breath. "No," he said. "She didn't get the chance to."

Olaf rolled his eyes and pushed himself up off the couch. He walked leisurely around the room, peering into flower vases and music boxes and upending the occasional chess set. Bertrand frowned, his eyes carefully following Olaf.

"When you saw her," I asked, "did it seem like anything was wrong? Did she do or say anything specific?"

"She looked a little worried," Bertrand admitted, "but when I asked she said—" He paused, twisting his hands together in his lap. "She said it was nothing."

"Don't you have any Edgar Guest?" Olaf asked loudly, now pulling books out of the shelves haphazardly and flipping through them.

"No," Bertrand said, watching him with a disdainful look. "I find his poetry a little overly-sentimental, actually."

"So do I," I said.

"Well, there's no accounting for taste, I guess," Olaf muttered.

"Did you know anything she was working on?" I asked Bertrand. "Anything that might have put her in the path of someone that didn't like her?"

Bertrand shook his head. "Beatrice was careful about who she told things, even if they were close to her. I got the impression, however, that she saw Esmé quite frequently."

I knew very little about Esmé, but I knew enough to know that Beatrice probably hadn't been making social calls. "Can you think of any reason why?"

There was a crash in the corner of the room, and Bertrand and I both turned to see Olaf frozen by the window, a pile of books and an accompanying table knocked over at his feet.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Bertrand said loudly, looking incredulously at Olaf.

Olaf shrugged. "I'm just doing Snicket's job for him," he said. Then he stepped over the books and walked to the mantle, looking behind the photographs on it.

I sighed. I felt like a parent trying to keep track of a rambunctious child in a store full of breakable objects while I was trying to buy the most fragile one. Although Bertrand didn't have that much concrete information, he was still being more helpful than Olaf, and I wanted to listen to him.

Bertrand's gaze flicked between us. "If there's something you want to look through, you can just ask."

"He's too polite for that," Olaf said.

"On the contrary," I said, "I don't think Bertrand is hiding anything in this apartment." Honestly, I didn't. I have never known Bertrand to lie like Olaf, or to be the kind of person who kept more secrets than the usual amount one keeps. "But I would like to see Beatrice's."

-

Bertrand unlocked the door to Beatrice's apartment, and the three of us stepped inside.

Beatrice had done her apartment in shades of cream with red accents, although that didn't account for the red stain in the carpet by the door. I tried to ignore the feeling in my stomach and instead thought about how it must've happened. Someone came to the door. Beatrice opened the door. Someone shot Beatrice. Someone left. Kit and the Duchess of Winnipeg showed up, found Beatrice, and—what? Called it into headquarters. The higher ups must've moved the body. The police weren't involved, because the police are never involved, and they just would've complicated things.

I stared down at the stain on the floor. For being the remains of a murder, it wasn't very big. I told myself that she must not have been there for long.

I looked back up at Bertrand and Olaf. Bertrand was staring around the apartment, pale and lost again. Olaf, thankfully, hadn't started tearing through the place like he had with Bertrand's, but he looked at everything carefully, as if sizing it up. I wondered if he really did think he was doing my job for me.

The main room was long but not narrow, with a piano in one corner and the customary bookshelves settled on either side of the window on the far wall. There were two doors, one I assumed went to the kitchen, and the other to Beatrice's bedroom, the latter I hoped I wouldn't have to go into. Towards the middle of the room, a series of chairs sat around the grey and empty fireplace, and near the chairs, a white desk, piled with immaculately organized groups of papers.

The more I looked, the more I saw the small touches of Beatrice—the Neruda books on the shelves, the curl of her handwriting across the papers on her desk, the complete tea set sitting on the coffee table. An unfinished cross stitch of what looked like part of a message resting on a couch cushion, the picture of her and my sister and the Duchess of Winnipeg on the mantle, Sunday's newspaper folded up by the tea set. A slice of strawberry cake in the fridge. A Tito Puente record still in the record player. A new unwrapped box of tea on the kitchen counter. This is all that's left of her, Snicket, I told myself, and you did nothing about it.

Then I saw it. Hanging on the wall above the fireplace was a portrait, delicately painted, of Beatrice.

It wasn't as if I had been imagining that a twelve year old Beatrice had been killed, but that had been the last time I'd seen her, so somewhere, that was still the image of her in my head. When I looked at the portrait, I realized just how many years had gone by. She'd gotten taller, and her hair had grown longer, and her smile had turned sharper. She wore a purple sundress, and she stared out at the room with deep brown eyes that seemed to survey everything. I was struck suddenly by how much I had missed, and I felt like Beatrice was silently chiding me for it. It was a dreadful feeling.

I could hear her as if she was standing right behind me. I heard your apprenticeship starts soon.

It does, I had told her.

I also heard you picked Markson, she said, the smile clear in her voice. What are you getting into, Mr. Snicket?

Nothing much, I had lied, because I hadn't known, and it was a question we often asked each other.

She laughed. You'll need this. She handed me her tape measure, the one shaped like a small bat. Take good care of it, okay?

I never saw it again. I never saw Beatrice again.

Bertrand's voice brought me back to the apartment. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked.

I pulled myself away from the portrait and looked at Bertrand. "Anything that might tell me what happened," I said, "or who might have wanted her dead." I moved through the room, stopping by the desk again and rifling through the papers. There were letters from a few of our associates, but none that I would consider enemies, and nothing from anyone I didn't recognize.

"A lot of people probably want most of us dead," Bertrand said, a little numbly. He stared at me as I looked through Beatrice's desk. "Those were Beatrice's letters—she wouldn't have wanted you looking through them—"

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "I have to."

"But—"

"Something you don't want Snicket to see, Bertrand?" Olaf asked, and he emerged from the kitchen, which I hadn't even seen him enter, eating the slice of cake from the fridge.

Bertrand paled. "I—no, that's not it, it's just—"

"Afraid he'll find out something?" Olaf continued, a taunting smile on his face, and I had a bad feeling about what he was going to say next. "Like what happened when you told Beatrice you loved her? Because if I remember correctly, she didn't exactly return your sentiments, did she?" He took another bite of cake, his teeth scraping against the fork.

If there was even any color left in Bertrand's face from before, there certainly wasn't any now. He seemed to sway on the spot, and he grabbed the back of a nearby cream-colored chair for support. "I—"

"We all knew she didn't like you, that she was just being polite," Olaf said, waving the fork around. "Come on. What'd she say, when you told her?"

"That's none of your business," Bertrand said, his voice trembling. "You don't—it's not—"

"Oh really? Because Beatrice is dead, Bertrand," Olaf said, and the smile on his face twisted in a way I am fearful of describing fully. "And I think that makes you a little suspicious, don't you think?"

I looked at Bertrand, whose face was doing a very admirable job of staying carefully blank even as his eyes watered. "I—" he began, very shakily. "I can't be here." He walked quickly to the door. "I'll be in the hall."

Olaf snickered and jammed the rest of the cake in his mouth as the door shut behind Bertrand. "I'm so glad I came," he said, a little muffled from the cake.

I glared at Olaf. "I think you should leave," I said quietly. It seemed now that the drawbacks of Olaf being here outweighed the benefits of making sure he didn't do anything else. If all he was going to do anyway was insult Bertrand and me and then eat a dead woman's cake, I didn't think I had to watch him anymore.

"But then who would tell you how to do your job, Snicket?" he said, his voice light, his eyes dancing.

"I think you should leave," I repeated.

Olaf held my gaze for a long moment, still grinning, before he laughed again, dropped the plate and fork on top of the piano, and walked out. I heard his cheerful good-bye to Bertrand, and I pretended not to hear the answering sob.

I took the plate and fork back to the kitchen and washed them off. I put them back in their proper places in the cabinets with a little more force than was necessary. Hate is a very strong word, but sometimes it is the only word to describe how you feel about someone so vile and terrible, and in that moment, I hated Olaf more than I'd ever done before.

I stayed in the apartment a little longer, looking through the records, the cabinets, even inside the piano. There was nothing that gave any indication as to what Beatrice had been up to, who could've entered, or why they would've wanted her dead. Also, I felt uncomfortable being there with Bertrand just outside the door. With a sigh, I gave it up for the moment as a lost cause and went back into the hallway.

Bertrand, who had been leaning against the wall, jumped when I closed the door. His eyes were red. "What did you find?" he asked.

"Nothing so far," I said, shaking my head.

Bertrand closed his eyes. "I see."

I wished I had some words of consolation for Bertrand, since I still didn't have any tissues. But I still didn't know what to say, and I worried that anything I could say would just make it worse.

"I didn't kill her," Bertrand whispered.

"I didn't think you did," I said.

We stood in silence. Then Bertrand opened his eyes and dug through his pockets before he pulled out a small object. "Here," he said, and he handed me the key he'd used to unlock the door. "You'll probably need it. I don't think....well, I won't have much use for it now." He pressed his lips together tightly.

Something cold settled inside me at Bertrand's words. It is difficult to lose the people closest to you, particularly when you are not expecting it. It's like having a good book taken from you before you had the chance to finish it, and then the book was burned, and you realized with a slow, sinking feeling that you would never be able to find out how it ends. You can imagine, but you will never know for sure. A numbing grief settles in your chest in the space created by this loss, one that seems to cause as much pain as it causes you emptiness. I had cared for Beatrice, in my own way, but Bertrand had loved her, and it wasn't until that moment that I truly understood that space that had formed in our lives or what it meant.

I cleared my throat more than was necessary. "Thank you," I managed.

Bertrand smiled, or he tried to smile, or his face did something that was less of a smile and more of a sincere attempt to pull himself together. He sighed, and then he walked off down the hall, turned the corner, and disappeared.

I stood in the hallway for a long time, looking down at the key in my hand.

Later, I returned to my own apartment alone. It was about the same as I had left it—relatively clean except for the layer of dust starting to settle over the furniture and the papers I had pinned to the walls. My typewriter still sat in the corner. All my books were still there. Kit had restocked the refrigerator. I checked the condiment jars but found nothing important. I sat down and poured myself a drink but didn't taste it. I rolled the glass in my hands instead and watched the darkness settle outside through the lone window in my living room.

It wasn't the first night I had cried myself to sleep. But it was the first night that it was because of Beatrice.

I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.

-

I spent the next morning questioning the landlord of Beatrice's apartment building and the other residents of her floor. They recalled nothing out of the ordinary that night, because they weren't trained for that sort of thing, but one of them placed the gunshot at ten-thirty that night.

"Did you call the police?" I asked, hoping they hadn't.

They shrugged. "A gunshot's not unusual around here," they said.

Afterwards, I returned to her apartment to search it properly, now that I didn't have Olaf and Bertrand with me. The room was exactly the same. Same cream carpet, same red and white furnishings, same thick curtains, same stain. My eyes lingered on Beatrice's portrait above the fireplace for a moment, and then I went to the desk and sat down.

On the left side was a thick collection of papers, bound by a smooth white cover with typewritten words on the front. I flipped through it briefly. It was the rehearsal script, with a few of the props underlined but otherwise nothing that stood out about it. I set it back down.

Now that I could peruse her letters without interruption, I found that there was a little more information there than I'd assumed. There were quite a few letters from Bertrand, letters that I was a little embarrassed to read. I read them anyway, and only confirmed that Bertrand had been in love, but certainly in a way that didn't suggest he'd go so far as to murder Beatrice for spurning him, if she'd even done that anyway. I wondered what Beatrice had written back to him, and then I told myself, very firmly, that it didn't matter.

In one of the desk drawers, which I had a great deal of trouble opening with a nearby pen, considering my lock-picking skills hadn't gotten better over the years, I found a letter from Monty, where he'd written her in the Sebald Code about the location of the Virginian Wolfsnake. There were other letters from the Duchess of Winnipeg, written after the previous Duchess of Winnipeg died. There were notes from Josephine and my sister, locations of meeting places or drop offs, and I even found a note from Olivia, partially burned, outlining the details of something that had involved our Volunteer Feline Detectives. If they told me anything, it was that Beatrice had been at the center of a good number of fragmentary plots.

A notebook, bound on the side with a lock, rested in the center drawer. I bit my lip and steeled myself. I still felt sick breaking the diary open, but I did it. I had to know from her what had happened the day she'd died, and the only way to do that was to read it. I flipped through to the last entry.

January 8th

Today I asked Olaf to lunch, to talk about what I'd overheard at the Veritable French Diner yesterday afternoon. He looked surprised, but when I told him I'd pay, he agreed. What a charmer.

I tried to tell him he didn't have to do it, but he told me—in no uncertain terms, either—that he was going through with it anyway. I tried to appeal to his sense of nobility—or at least morality—although I am finding that the terms are somewhat similar—but he laughed at me and told me he wasn't the only one planning things like he was. I didn't fall for the bait, though. The evidence I had was against him, and that was what I wanted to talk about.

When I told him Kit would be so disappointed in him, he suddenly stopped laughing. His face became hard and cold, and he looked every bit the villain everyone believes he is. He told me that if I ever mentioned Kit's name again that he'd—well, it was a gruesome threat, to put it mildly. I left the restaurant shaking.

I'll have to tell Bertrand and Kit and Ramona, so we can figure out where to go from here. I don't think Kit will like it.

I feel so sorry for her—I know how much she cared about Olaf. I was starting to believe he cared about her, too. It can't have been easy for them—Esmé certainly didn't make it easy, I know that. I'll never forget the first time Kit told me about Esmé, since she'd become an apprentice after us and I didn't know her very well yet. "She's subtle about everything but her clothes," Kit said. From what I've seen of Esmé from interacting with her, and especially from following her the past few weeks, I have to agree.

Whatever happens, I've hidden it in my bedroom. It feels silly to say it, but I don't think I've ever been so frightened or worried in my whole life.

I leaned back in the chair. It had cleared up a few things, but now I had more questions. What did Beatrice have against Olaf, and had she managed to tell anyone else? Why was she following Esmé, and what did she find out? What had she hidden in her bedroom? I had never known Beatrice to be anything but in control of every situation she was in—what scared her?

Had Olaf gone through with his threat anyway? I didn't put it past Olaf to lie to me about what he'd done on Sunday. He could easily have followed Beatrice back to her apartment and then waited until Bertrand left. But by the time Beatrice wrote the entry, she hadn't seen Bertrand. How much time had passed between that entry, Bertrand's arrival and departure, and her death at 10:30? What had prevented her from putting it in?

"Lemony?"

I looked up and saw a woman frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide, her hand still on the doorknob. I hadn't seen her in quite some time, but I immediately recognized the tight curls of black hair and the distinctly Winnipeg facial structure.

"I didn't know you were in the city, R," I said. I was always uncomfortable using initials with my associates, but with the Duchess of Winnipeg, I never felt that comfortable calling her Ramona, no matter how many times she'd insisted over the years.

"I didn't know you were here either," Ramona said, a little breathlessly. She closed the door behind her and walked slowly toward me, taking off her coat. Then I saw her eyes fall on the diary in my hands, the letters open on the desk in front of me, and the sparse color in her cheeks drained away. "You're investigating it, then."

"Yes.”

"I'm glad it's you," Ramona said, smiling sadly. "I'm so glad to see you, Lemony."

I stood up in time to hug Ramona back as her arms tightened around my chest. Although I hadn't avoided Ramona, like I had avoided Beatrice, I still hadn't made it a point to interact with her, which I regretted now. It was nice to see her.

Ramona pulled back, sniffling. "I saw the light on from the street, and I thought maybe Bertrand was up here, but I—it's you, it's really you." She laughed a little and wiped at her eyes. "Have you found anything yet? Anything at all?"

"A few things," I said, looking down at the diary. "Do you know why Beatrice was tailing Esmé? Bertrand said she didn't tell anyone what she was doing, but did you maybe—"

"Beatrice didn't tell a lot of people a lot of things," Ramona said, shaking her head. "She was always very quiet about what she did, because she was careful, and she liked to cover her tracks. But she told me and Kit some things. She told us a little about Esmé."

"Like what?"

"Well, she said she was doing it on our organization's orders. Headquarters was suspicious of Esmé, which is not surprising at all, knowing Esmé. Oh, and then Kit told us she was following Olaf. Not on any orders or anything, she was just following him. She told us that at lunch the day before—" Ramona closed her eyes and took in a long breath. "Before."

"What happened on Saturday?”

She sighed. "Well, like I said, Kit and I had lunch with Beatrice. Then Beatrice left to go follow Esmé again. She said it looked like Esmé was going to meet Olaf."

"Where did my sister go?"

"What?"

"If Beatrice thought Esmé was meeting with Olaf," I said, "shouldn't Kit have gone with her, if she was following Olaf?"

"Oh, that's right!" Ramona said. "She meant to, they even meant to leave together, but outside the restaurant we ran into Dewey and he and Kit went somewhere, and then Beatrice—she went wherever Esmé was. I—she was supposed to tell me that night. She was supposed to check in, but she didn't, but I—I didn't think it was too unusual, she often got wrapped up in things to the point where she didn't communicate for a while." She swallowed and looked down, twisting her fingers together. "But when Kit and I didn't see her at all the next day, we got worried, and we went to her apartment that night to make sure she was—make sure she was okay. And, well." Ramona gave a watery chuckle. "She wasn't, was she," she whispered.

"She had lunch with Olaf on Sunday," I said. "Can you think of any reason why?"

Ramona frowned. "If Beatrice voluntarily went somewhere with him, she must have had a reason."

"I want you to read this." I held out the diary.

Ramona took it. I watched her eyes move quickly down the page. "So Esmé was with Olaf on Saturday!" she said after finishing the entry. "Beatrice must've overheard whatever they talked about. It sounds like she found out something dangerous. Olaf brags a lot, about a lot of things, he might have said something he didn't intend to and she overheard him."

"What could he have worried about her overhearing?"

"Well, even if he talks a lot, he can be kind of vague about it, can't he?" Ramona said, handing me back the diary. "You ask him one question and he winds up making it about his acting career or roast beef."

I nodded. I knew that all too well.

"I know he's up to something—when isn't he, really—but I don't know what. It sure sounds like something horrible, though, for him to threaten her. Kit might know."

I'd have to find Kit and ask her about that later. Now, I had another question to ask Ramona. It was something I hadn't asked Bertrand, considering he hadn't had the view of Beatrice's apartment that Ramona had. "When you and Kit got there, did you see anyone else? In the hallway, or outside, or even in the apartment? Anyone at all?"

Ramona bit her lip. "....I thought I saw Bertrand outside," she said slowly. "It looked like he was walking away from the building when Kit and I got there. But—but I couldn't tell for sure if it was him, Lemony, it was dark and his back was turned, it could've been anyone."

It was puzzling to think of why Bertrand would've still been at Beatrice's apartment, but I didn't think it was him, or that he'd be the type to lie to me about what had happened that night. I closed the diary and set it back down on the desk. I thought about what Bertrand had said the day before. A lot of people probably want most of us dead. I said it to Ramona.

"Probably." Ramona smiled grimly. "And there's even more who would actually go through with it if they thought one of us was enough of a threat."

I looked up at the portrait of Beatrice. We all knew, somewhere, the risks involved in what we did. We all knew what could happen to us, what had happened to some of us even before this. But it was still hard to think about it sometimes, that there were things at work in the world so opposed to us that they'd go as far as to remove an associate completely. I stared at the portrait, and the longer I stared the worse I felt, but I didn't look away.

Ramona followed my gaze and her smile turned soft. "I painted that for her," she said quietly. "Last summer. She—she kept complaining that she had to sit still for so long." Her smile wobbled dangerously. "She was always doing something, always out somewhere, always meeting people or watching them. She doesn't—she didn't like to be alone. She kept to herself sometimes, but she didn't like to be alone."

She sounded like she was going to cry, and I didn't like it. I had only seen Ramona cry once, and it was an experience I didn't want to relive. Something about Ramona crying always made me want to cry, because it just didn't seem like Ramona, headstrong and stubborn Ramona, the Ramona who teased everyone and had a laugh brighter than the sun, should ever have to cry. I tried to change the subject gently. "I didn't know you painted, R."

Ramona cleared her throat. "I am a woman of many talents, Lemony Snicket," she said, managing a smile and something like her usual lofty voice. "Stick around and you'll find that out."

I smiled.

"Aha!" Ramona exclaimed. "How long has it been since I've seen you smile? It looks good on you, Lemony. You know, we should really get together. We can play cards again, like we used to!"

My smile faltered. I liked seeing Ramona, but I hadn't expected her to say that. I didn't know if I was capable of doing that, of spending any more time than I had to with my associates. "Or I could just give you all my pens right now and save us the trouble," I said.

Ramona just shook her head. "Come on, Lemony," she said, still smiling. "You never talk to me anymore. Or anyone!"

"I'm not very good company," I said.

Her smile turned a little sad again. "Doesn't Kit ever tell you that you think too much?"

I turned away from her and studied the carpet, as if that would make me feel less embarrassed. "Sometimes," I muttered.

"Well, you really do," Ramona said, and then she put her coat on. "There's not a lot of us left, Lemony." Her eyes darted back to the portrait and then to me. "We should stick together."

I shrugged awkwardly. I knew Ramona had a point, but I still couldn't bring myself to agree with her. It would just cause her more trouble than she needed.

Ramona's sigh sounded faintly exasperated, but she didn't press it anymore. "Are you at least going to come to the play next week?" she asked instead, buttoning her coat.

"The play? Oh, right." I remembered the script on the desk and what Bertrand had said yesterday.

"It's been a bit of an afterthought for everyone the past few days," Ramona said. "We haven't rehearsed since Saturday. We're planning one for tomorrow, though." Her smile was thin now. "We've got some casting problems to work out now."

"You're still going to do it?"

Ramona held her head high even as her mouth trembled. "The show must go on, Lemony Snicket," she said. "I mean—I don't think it'll be the same without her. But we have to do it. She would've wanted us to do it. We have information to give out. I guess you know Bertrand's in it, but even Olaf is. Even if he never shows up to rehearsal on time." She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, I don't know why he's still in it. The information we give out is usually about his friends, if you can even call them that."

I frowned. "He doesn't notice what you're saying?"

"The messages aren't in the script, they're in the actions," Ramona explained. "We pick up different props for different plans. Beatrice came up with that. In case the script is changed or compromised, or we get new information too quickly to change the script, we can still convey what we need to with the props."

"That's clever," I said with a smile.

"Very clever," Ramona agreed. Then her expression turned serious. "About the play—there's something I think you should look into—"

The door slammed open and cut her off. Ramona and I turned to see Olaf, Bertrand, and Kit entering the apartment, already in the middle of a conversation.

"I don't see why you had to come with us," Bertrand was saying, striding into the room as if determined to get away from Olaf, who was close behind him. "I don't even know why you want to!"

"He just likes to know everything that's going on," Kit said irritably.

Olaf gaped at them, affronted. "So do you two!"

"What's going on here?" Ramona asked, looking between everyone.

"I'd like to know that myself," I said. I didn't mind seeing Bertrand, and I was happy to see my sister, but the fact that Olaf was with them made me uneasy.

"At least Bertrand and I have a reason to be here!" Kit said, slamming the door behind her. "You didn't care about Beatrice!"

"Alright, you've got me there," Olaf conceded, crossing his arms over his chest and surveying my sister. "But I think you all are a little too close to home here. You've got all these emotions getting in the way of figuring out what happened. I think I, as a somewhat impartial third party, should take over!"

"You'd never get anything done!" Bertrand exclaimed.

Olaf gasped dramatically, like he'd done yesterday. "What lack of confidence! I'm sure I could uncover anything Snicket could, and probably even more!"

"Which brings us to why we're here in the first place." Bertrand turned to me. "Have you found out anything new since yesterday, Snicket?"

Ramona and I looked at each other. It would've been different if Olaf hadn't been there—we could easily have discussed Beatrice's diary entry with Kit and Bertrand. But with Olaf in the room, I was wary to say anything too important. We came to a decision.

"Nope," I said.

"Not a thing," Ramona said.

"There," Kit said, whirling around and facing Olaf, while Bertrand sighed next to them, all the fight seeming to drain out of him. "There's nothing to find. Are you happy? You can stop playing this stupid game of yours and leave!"

"Game?" Olaf asked innocently. "And what would that be, Kit?"

"Where you bother people and talk in circles until you get them to do what you want just so you'll leave them alone!"

"You didn't think it was so stupid when we were kids, Kit," Olaf said, suddenly leering at her in a way that made me nervous. "You thought it was clever."

"I've grown up, thanks," Kit replied shortly. "Get out."

"Mm, no," Olaf said. "I don't think I will." He threw himself down into one of the armchairs, crossing his legs and twisting his head to look about the room. "You know, Beatrice had a lot of nice stuff. What's going to happen to it?"

I frowned at Olaf. There was something he was looking for, something he didn't want anyone else to know about. I remembered what Beatrice had written. Whatever happens, I've hidden it in my bedroom.

"I don't know," Bertrand said, and this time he glanced at Ramona.

I remembered that almost all of the Winnipeg line had been involved in our organization in some way or another, and that Ramona would most likely be the one to know what would happen to an associate's personal possessions after their death, considering what had happened to her mother.

Ramona blinked rapidly. "Oh, well—our organization will most likely repossess it? It's not like she had a will or anything, I don't think."

"Great!" Olaf said. The expressions on everyone's faces, including my own, tried to tell him that that was not great, but Olaf had never been one to listen or read the atmosphere. "So we can just take stuff, right?" He picked up one of the nearby flower vases and brought it up to his eye, staring inside it, just as he'd done before at Bertrand's.

"Put that down, Olaf," I said.

He turned, looking at me now, and smiled a tight smile. "Beatrice had something of mine," he said. "Or something of Esmé's. Either way, you know. Now I'd like it back."

"I didn't know you were Esmé's personal assistant now," Kit muttered.

Ramona, Bertrand, and I all looked at each other with varying degrees of worry. I had the feeling it was Kit and Olaf's first time in a room with each other since the fight that had ended their relationship. It certainly explained the way they were going at each other. I didn't know whether or not I should stop them or let them continue—I had a feeling they might have continued even if I did try to stop them, anyway. Relationship problems tend to unintentionally override the importance of everything else, even a murder investigation.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Olaf shot back, dropping the vase back down onto the table.

Kit raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're pretty bad at following people, Kit. Did you think I didn't notice you, trailing behind me lately?" He stared straight at her. "Still don't trust me, do you?"

My sister looked desperate for a split second. "That's—" Kit began, but then she stopped, as if realizing they weren't alone. She schooled her expression back into something reminiscent of the way I usually saw her, calm and collected. She probably fooled everyone else in the room, but I saw the way her shoulders tensed. "Of course I don't," she said, now glaring down at Olaf. "Not with the people you associate with."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we associate with the same people?" Olaf gestured to the room. "Aren't we all associating right now?"

"Don't be so literal," Kit snapped. "At least the people I started associating with were better than Esmé!"

"Oh, so it's alright for you to see new people and get away with it, but not me?"

"Dewey does not regularly engage in suspicious activity," Kit said, struggling to keep her voice level.

"And Esmé does?" Olaf asked, his eyebrow raising.

"You can't honestly think she doesn't."

"See, this is your problem, Kit," Olaf said, and he pushed himself up out of his chair with a force that moved it back at least an inch. "This has always been your problem! If something or someone doesn't fit into your narrow view of the world, you immediately suspect it!"

"Go on, then," Kit said. She still stood her ground, with her jaw clenched and her arms crossed tight over her chest. "Prove me wrong, Olaf. When was the last time you saw Esmé, and what was she doing?"

For a moment, it was as if something had broken open in Olaf's face, a realization of something he hadn't considered. His eyes went wide.

I suddenly had a thought. It was a wild thought. Realistically, it made no sense. But also realistically, reality is sometimes fairly unpredictable. Life tends to be a little absurd at the worst of times. It was improbable. It couldn't be. But for a second, for that single second, it was a thought that made a little bit of sense.

But then the moment was over, and Olaf was grinning again, a twisted grimace. He walked slowly over to my sister until he was too close to her. "That is none of your damn business," he hissed.

A heavy silence hung in the room. Kit glared back at Olaf and looked like she could tear the world apart. Ramona looked like she wanted to hug Kit and punch Olaf at the same time. Bertrand, still in the corner, looked concerned. And Beatrice's portrait, hanging on the wall, looked down at all of us.

I figured now was a good time to speak up. "I think," I said, "that we should all leave. If I find anything else, I'll let you all know."

That seemed to bring everyone back to the gravity of the situation. Bertrand cleared his throat and left the room first, nodding at me as he left. Ramona waved a little as she approached the door, and I waved back. Olaf stared at Kit for a moment longer before he too walked out. The second the door shut behind him, Kit sighed, her shoulders sagging. She sat down in the chair Olaf had just vacated, let out an impatient noise when she realized what chair it was, and sat down on the couch instead.

I walked over and sat down next to her. "Are you alright?" I asked.

"Am I alright," Kit repeated, smiling hollowly. "I don't know. I guess I don't know anything."

The more I lived in this world, the more I was miserably certain that I was not the only Snicket sibling plagued by a sense of horrifying doubt. But it was still strange, almost frightening, to hear my sister so uncertain.

Kit sighed again, more rushed than before, as if she was trying to shake herself out of her previous conversation. She turned to me. "You look tired," she said.

I shrugged. "So do you."

"Don't sass your sister," Kit said, but the corner of her mouth pulled up a little bit. "Did you really not find anything new yet? Anything at all?"

I thought about the diary. "Beatrice had lunch with Olaf on Sunday," I said. "It sounded like she had something against him and was trying to talk him out of it. She hid whatever that was here, in her apartment."

Kit looked around the room. "That must be why Olaf wanted to know what would happen to her things. And Beatrice could've hidden it anywhere, with all the different ways to hide information. You don't know what it is?"

"No."

She stood up and walked around slowly, running her fingers over the mantle, the tables, the unfinished cross stitch. "Have you looked everywhere?"

I cleared my throat and glanced briefly in the direction of the bedroom door. "I have it on good authority that it's probably in there," I said, "but I—"

Kit almost laughed. "My brother, the gentleman," she said, and she crossed to the other side of the room and pushed open the door to the only room I hadn't entered.

I remained in the sitting room while Kit searched the bedroom. I heard her opening drawers, flipping through books, removing box lids, switching lamps on and off, running her hands over the carpet, and properly picking locks before snapping them shut again. Meanwhile, I tried not to look at the portrait on the wall, irrationally afraid that I would find Beatrice's painted eyes upon me.

A few minutes later, Kit emerged from the bedroom and sat back down next to me, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Well, whatever it is," she said, "Beatrice hid it well. I didn't find anything suspicious."

I sighed. Then I realized I had to ask my sister a question I didn't think she wanted to hear. "Kit," I began, "can I ask why you were following Olaf?"

"You just did," Kit replied automatically, like she always did, but her shoulders had tensed again. She ran a hand through her hair. "I just—I wanted to know what he was up to."

"What was he up to?"

"Not much. He spends a lot of time with Esmé, but there was nothing I could find to tie them specifically to any plots. They probably just hide it well, though."

I didn't want to ask the next question either, but I had to. "What did Dewey want, when he talked to you?"

Kit's mouth twisted. "....nothing. It was nothing."

"Nothing?" It was hard to believe my sister would have deserted even a self-positioned post over just nothing.

"He just—" Kit fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, pulling the hem tight around her fingers. "He just wanted to talk. About me. He asked how I was doing. If I was okay."

I didn't say anything. Dewey Denouement was better than Olaf, but I was still a little surprised that at that moment my sister had prioritized him over following a potentially dangerous associate.

"Don't give me that look," Kit said darkly.

I blinked. "What look?"

"I know what you're thinking. You think I haven't thought the same thing?"

"What?"

Kit clenched her jaw tight again. "That if I hadn't gone," she said, her voice low, "I would've been able to find out something to prevent this whole thing from happening. And then Beatrice—" She closed her eyes.

I frowned at my sister. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Forget about it," she said, shaking her head. "It happened, and I can't—I shouldn't—just forget about it. It's not going to happen again, anyway. I'm not that stupid."

My eyes found their way up to the portrait on the wall again. I thought about Olaf, and the look on his face when Kit had mentioned Esmé, and the thought I'd had in that moment. I wanted to ask Kit about it, but I also didn't. I knew what her reaction would be, and I knew I wouldn't like it. I knew she wouldn't like it. But there are many things in this world that we don't like and have to go through with anyway.

"Kit," I said, "do you think everything adds up here?"

Kit frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Someone's lying," I said. "Or everyone is. Or covering up for someone else. Or they just don't realize it."

"That sounds like almost every situation we've ever been in."

"There's things that just don't feel right—Olaf's reactions, what Bertrand told me—and why hasn't anyone seen Esmé?"

"What are you getting at?"

I took in a breath. "I wonder," I said, "if Beatrice was really here that night."

Kit's face did exactly what I thought it would. Her mouth pulled into a sad frown, her eyebrows furrowing. As we got older, she tended to look that way often around me.

"Hey," she said, very gently, "I know you—"

"I'm just saying," I said quickly. "I'm just thinking out loud. Stranger things have happened."

"But this—there's no way around it, Beatrice—Beatrice is dead. I know it's hard, I know, but—"

"Fine," I said, shaking my head. "Forget it, Kit."

"L—"

"I said, forget it." It came out harder than I wanted it to. I walked away from her, frowning down at the floor. "I'll think about it myself."

Kit was silent for a few moments. "I hate it when you do this," she said softly.

"Do what?" I asked, turning back around to face her. I was angry with my sister and I let it get away with me. "Get in over my head because I want to know? What else am I supposed to do? What else was I trained to do?"

Kit didn't reply. She just stared at me, with that expression I was sadly accustomed to. We looked at each other for what felt like a long time, until my anger faded away and I felt horrible about it and Kit once again looked as tired as I felt.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Forget about it," I said again.

Kit stood up. She walked over to me. "Anything else you need me to do?"

I shook my head.

"Are you sure?"

I shook my head again.

She stared at me a little longer before she said anything else. "I'll see you later," Kit said, and she left.

I stood there and glared at the floor. Kit thought I was wrong, which was understandable, as I had been wrong before on multiple occasions, but I didn't want to be wrong this time. She'd been right when she'd said that something was going on in our organization, something more than the usual things we all got into. It didn't seem that far-fetched to think that might apply here as well.

There was one way to make sure. Just in case.

-

Despite not talking to him for months, I managed to track down Hector fairly easily. When your associates know the kind of food you favor, it is not difficult to find you, especially when it is around dinner time and you're supposed to be eating. I found Hector in a Mexican restaurant. He sat in a back booth, away from the light from the windows and the overhead lamps, eating a quesadilla and perusing the newspaper, if you could call The Daily Punctilio a newspaper, which I suppose you could in the sense that it was made of paper and had words constructed into sentences that may or may not be news.

I slid into the seat across from him. "Hello, Hector."

Hector jumped, nearly dropping the quesadilla. He did drop a section of the newspaper, though, which was probably for the best. "Snicket! I heard a rumor you were back, but I—"

"I am," I said. "For now, anyway. I need a favor."

"Of course," Hector said. "What is it?"

"It's about Beatrice."

Hector blinked in surprise. "But she's—"

I shook my head quickly. "I know, just hear me out on this. I need you to tap the phone in her apartment."

"You need me to what?"

"You heard me."

Hector stared at me, the quesadilla dangling in his hand. "Why?"

"I just need to make sure," I said.

"Of what?"

"I don't know." I did know, but I didn't want him to have the same reaction Kit had. I didn't like being vague about it, but I didn't have any choice.

"That's pretty specific," Hector commented, frowning.

"Just trust me, Hector. It's a precaution."

Hector took a few more bites of his quesadilla and chewed thoughtfully. "Alright, Snicket. I'll go there tonight, okay?"

I smiled. "Thank you."

-

I didn't have a reason to be in Beatrice's apartment later that night, but I was there anyway. Hector was downstairs, all the equipment set up to tap the phone, ready in case anything happened. Nothing would probably happen. I didn't have to be there.

But I wanted to be there.

I told myself that I would be looking for what Beatrice had hidden, what Olaf wanted and what Kit and I hadn't yet found. It didn't hurt to look again. It was probably wise to look again, in fact.

I didn't mean for it to happen, but when I stepped into the apartment and turned on the lights I found myself looking at her portrait again. The longer I stared at it, the more I heard her.

I'm going to miss this when you're not here, she'd said, stirring the straw in her root beer float. Whatever will I do, Mr. Snicket?

I'm sure you'll think of something, I told her. I said that there were diners in most towns that probably served a variety of carbonated drinks with ice cream in them.

She smiled at me, the smile that would've made me do anything, the smile that had me there in that apartment. You won't be there, she said.

I had said that maybe I could arrange something. It shouldn't be too hard to see each other. It shouldn't be too hard to sneak away from our chaperones, who never knew everything anyway.

I didn't. I hadn't. I couldn't. I turned away from the portrait and stared at the records by the record player until the face of Tito Puente was burned into my mind and Beatrice's wasn't.

I reminded myself I had a job to do. I reminded myself that several times. Myself reminded me that that didn't mean it was going to be easy.

I didn't want to be in Beatrice's bedroom. That was a line I did not, under any circumstances, want to cross, and why I'd had Kit search it instead of going in there myself. But Kit wasn't here now to check it again, and I had to find what it was. I still didn't know what it was, but I had to look for it anyway.

Beatrice's bedroom was styled similarly to the rest of the apartment, and in general, like most people's bedrooms. The closet doors were the kind that slid against each other when you pushed them. There was a white vanity and dresser against one wall. The bed was on the other side of the room. There were books in here as well, piled on bedside tables. Everything looked clean and neat.

I tried to make the search as quick but thorough as possible. There was nothing under the bed. The dresser drawers were filled alternately with more books and clothes, and I used the books to prod through the clothes for anything that stood out, anything that clunked or crinkled.

Nothing. I still found nothing. I looked around the room again, thinking it would be helpful if I knew what exactly it was Beatrice had hidden. I thought back to what I'd seen Olaf look through—behind books, behind picture frames, inside vases. It couldn't be very big, then.

I opened the jewelry boxes on the vanity, I looked inside the shoes in the closet, behind all the books, inside the books, inside anything I could find. And I still hadn't found it. The most notable thing was the small key I'd found in one of the jewelry boxes, but there wasn't anything I could find that had a matching lock. I replaced the books and the shoes and the box lids and left the bedroom, thinking I could read through the entry in her diary again and try to see if she'd left any other clues.

"Well, well, well."

I was doing an awful lot of spinning around when people walked into a room that day, and I did it again, still gripping the handle of the bedroom door. Only instead of Ramona being in the main doorway, like she'd been earlier, it was Olaf, lounging against the door frame, that same smile on his face. I was getting sick of that smile.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, although I had a good idea why.

"Just thought I'd drop by," he said.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be able to get rid of him. A similar sentence hadn't worked yesterday, and it didn't look like it was going to work now.

"Nope," Olaf said. "And neither do you, it looks like, so you can get off your high horse, Snicket."

I frowned. "I'm supposed to be here," I told him. It was true. More or less.

Olaf eyed the bedroom door behind me, my hand still on the doorknob. His grin became too wide. "And you guys all think I'm creepy," he laughed, walking forward leisurely, his hands in his pockets. "Isn't this a little much, even for you?"

I jerked my hand away from the doorknob and glared at Olaf, my shoulders tensing. Olaf stumbled a little as he came towards me, and I tried to brace myself, because an intoxicated Olaf was worse than just an Olaf drunk on his own self-confidence and a smaller amount of alcohol.

"You'd think you'd be more careful," Olaf said. His smile pulled even more. You think you'd learn, I heard. I hate it when you do this. "You always get in too deep, don't you? That's what your sister always said, anyway."

"We're not talking about my sister," I said.

"Mm, I guess we aren't," Olaf said, shrugging. "We're talking about someone else." His eyes flicked to the portrait on the wall and then back to me. "I'll give her this, she was pretty. You thought that too, didn't you?"

I didn't reply. I didn't look at the portrait. He just likes getting under people's skin, doesn't he? I heard it anyway, and then I hated that I heard it, because it just proved Olaf right. And it wasn't that I didn't know I loved Beatrice, but to hear him bring it up made it seem twisted and wrong.

"You think that now, I guess. What, you think she's going to come out of the wall and profess her love for you? What dream are you in, Snicket?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I tried to make it sound like I didn't care, but I couldn't.

"I mean, what happened to the last girl you liked?" Olaf said, completely ignoring me and looking up at the ceiling. "What was it again? Oh, I know I know this one, it's right on the tip of my tongue...."

I grit my teeth together and looked anywhere but at Olaf. I tried to focus on the face of Tito Puente again but I couldn't see him from this side of the room. I didn't want Olaf to go on but I couldn't find the words to stop him. They all seemed to stick in my throat, and it hurt to breathe around them. It hurt to breathe at all.

"That's right!" Olaf exclaimed, rocking back on his heels. "You killed her father and she ran away from you! Well, good thing most of us are orphans, that first thing's already taken care of. But the running away thing, well, I'm sure Beatrice would do that if she saw you now."

I clenched my hands into fists so he wouldn't notice they were shaking. "Get out."

"I'm just telling it like it is!"

"You don't know anything," I told him fiercely. "I want you to get out."

"Come on, Snicket," he said, and I knew he was goading me, but I let him do it anyway, I let him get away with it, I let him get to me. "Your sister isn't here to protect you. You think you can stop me from doing what I want?"

"Yes," I said.

"How?"

I thought about the usual answers, how good and noble people would naturally triumph over the wickedness in the world, even if it took time. How there were people out there already working against him. How I should be confident and secure in the fact that justice would get him eventually. How I didn't have to do anything specific, just enough to make sure it happened, how I didn't have to ask why or how but just know instead that I was doing my job.

But in that moment, I hated Olaf and everything he stood for, everything he stood against, everything he'd done and might have done and would go on to do. I knew he was vile and wicked and a liar and probably a murderer, and that the world would be better off without him, everything would be better if he just wasn't there.

Doing my job had become a phrase that could mean too many things. But that was only a distant thought in my head then. I didn't care. All I cared about was that Olaf was wrong and if he said one more thing I would show him how wrong he was.

Something like that must've shown on my face, because Olaf smiled approvingly.

"See, this is what I almost like about you, Snicket," he said, nodding slowly. "You get it. You'd do it again."

I felt all the color drain out of my face. All the fight and all the breath rushed out of me like a punch to the gut. It was with a slow, dawning horror that I really understood, probably for the first time, that my life and everyone's lives had spun so far out of control in our quest to even just do one good thing, even the smallest good thing. This was what we'd become. Or, at least, what I had. That was bad enough.

"No I wouldn't," I whispered, and I sounded like a petulant child and I hated that too.

Olaf leaned in close. I could smell the liquor on his breath. "I don't think you're noble, Snicket," he smiled. "I think you're wicked. I think all of us are, or we will be." He didn't sound bitter. If anything, he sounded satisfied. He took a step back. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and then he walked out, shutting the door with a loud snap behind him.

I stared at the door. People do difficult things for more or less noble reasons, I reminded myself, breathing heavily, my hands still shaking. People do difficult things for more or less noble reasons. People do difficult things for more or less noble reasons. People do difficult things—

I grabbed whatever was closest and threw it at the door. Sometimes, when one is angry or frustrated, it is helpful to throw things, like pillows or expensive dining ware. Other times, it just makes you feel worse. I looked at Beatrice's diary, splayed open by the door, the pages crinkled from being thrown, the lock twisted from where I'd broken it earlier, and I tried not to cry. It didn't work for too long. I was tired. I'd been tired for a long time.

A while later, I walked over and picked up the diary. As I smoothed the pages, something fell out from between them and fluttered towards the floor. It was a folded red business card, a little worn and faded. My throat closed up again as I read the words inside.

I am sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends. I only wanted to talk to you. You have always looked like an interesting person, and I very much enjoyed your oral report on the history of the sonnet. If you would care to spend afternoon recess together....

I'm not ashamed to say it. I cried again. I hated everything I'd done and I hated myself for doing it.

Not for the first time—and probably not for the last—I wished more than anything that Beatrice was alive.

I slumped down into one of the chairs by the fireplace and stared up at Beatrice's portrait until my eyes blurred and I fell asleep.

-

It was some time later when I woke up, because someone had turned on a nearby lamp. I rubbed my eyes at the sudden change, sitting up in the chair, and looked up to see a gun very close to my face. I followed the line of the gun up to the hand curled around it, and then the arm after that, and then I looked up into the unmistakable and angry face of—

Beatrice.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was still there, standing over me, her dark brown, almost black hair curling in waves down her shoulders, her mouth a thin line, her gun still pointed at me. I dug my nails into my palms, just to make sure, and the honest relief unfurling in my chest only increased when the pain confirmed that I wasn't dreaming.

"You're alive," I whispered.

"Who are you." She didn't say it as a question. She said it as a demand, in the kind of cold voice that would've made me afraid if I hadn't been an associate. "Where's Bertrand."

"I don't know," I said. "I'm Lemony Snicket."

Beatrice's eyes grew wide. She took a step back, lowering her gun, and gaped at me, all the anger in her expression falling away. "Lemony? What—what are you doing here?"

I thought about how to answer that, what with the murder victim standing in front of me and looking incredibly alive. "Well," I said, clearing my throat, "I think there's going to be some debate about that now. I thought I was investigating a murder."

"Whose?"

There was no graceful way to say it. "Yours."

Beatrice paled. She grabbed behind her for one of the nearby chairs and sunk slowly into it, gripping it tight. "What? What do you mean, mine?"

"I mean," I said, "someone was killed here Sunday night. We thought it was you."

"I didn't hear anything about this." Beatrice frowned. "I would've come back right away, why—?"

"Kit and Bertrand kept it quiet," I explained, "because they thought someone from our organization had done it."

Beatrice sighed deeply. It looked like both of us were thinking the same thing—that if it had been someone from our organization, that the schism perhaps went deeper than we had all thought. And if Beatrice was alive—

"I wonder who it was," she said quietly, turning her head and looking towards the door. The red stain still stood out against the carpet. "Who was here. Who did it."

"I guess I'll have to find that out now," I said.

I watched her carefully. Not to disparage the Duchess of Winnipeg's artistry, but the portrait hadn't done Beatrice full justice. Her hair curled a little more around the edges, and she was a little taller than I was, and I hadn't seen her smile yet but I was sure it would be sharper and the kind of smile that would stop me in my tracks. She wore a long red coat buttoned up to her chin, and her deep brown eyes stared around the room as if cataloging everything while she thought.

I leaned forward. "Can I get you anything?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I'll get it myself," she said, and she stood up slowly and walked into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a glass of water and a raised eyebrow. "Did you eat my cake, Mr. Snicket?"

"No." A long chill ran down my spine when she said my name, and I had to clear my throat a few times in order to keep going. "Olaf did."

Beatrice's eyes flashed. She suddenly looked as angry as she had when I'd woken up. "Olaf was here? When?"

"Yesterday and today."

"Did he take anything?"

"I made sure he didn't."

"Good," Beatrice said fiercely, and she sat back down. She took a long drink before she spoke again, fixing me with a sharp stare that made me a little nervous. "How did you get wrapped up in this?" she asked, a hint of amazement in her voice. "I haven't seen you in nine years and here you are, investigating my murder?"

I swallowed. "It just worked out that way."

Beatrice raised an eyebrow again. She didn't comment on it, but she didn't look away from me, either.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

She took another sip. "I guess you'll have to."

"Where were you?"

Beatrice leaned back in her chair, still considering me with her dark eyes. Her fingertips tapped against the side of the glass. "I went away," she said, "to think something over."

"The information you had about Olaf."

Her eyes narrowed. "Something like that, yes. I needed time to think about it, to figure out what I wanted to do. It just took longer than I thought it would."

"Why was Bertrand supposed to be here?"

"I had asked him to watch the apartment for me while I was away."

I thought about what she'd hidden in her bedroom, the thing I couldn't find. I wanted to ask her what it was, but the look on her face told me I probably wouldn't get very far.

"Why were you following Esmé?" I asked instead.

"I was told to follow her," Beatrice said. "She and Olaf are planning something, and I was supposed to find out what it is. I did."

I wanted to be irritated with Beatrice since she obviously wasn't telling me everything, but I couldn't blame her. I had shown up in her life, in her apartment, after nine years, investigating her death that wound up not being her death at all. I wasn't sure if I would trust me either.

Beatrice took another sip. "What do you know about Esmé?"

"Not much," I said. "I know she's considered a threat to the organization."

"She is," Beatrice said. "Very much so. Sometimes I think she's worse than Olaf. What's she been doing?"

"Actually," I said, "no one's been able to find her."

Beatrice leaned forward, looking concerned. "You don't know where she is?"

"No."

She set her glass down on the coffee table. "I have to go find her," she said, getting up quickly and moving towards the door. "Come on, you're coming too."

I stood up and grabbed her wrist before she could get too far. "No," I said.

Beatrice stopped. She looked back at my hand and then up at me. "No?" she echoed.

"Neither of us are going," I said, "because you're not leaving this apartment."

She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Someone's tried to kill you," I said, "I don't think it'd be safe for you to—"

"The fact that we live dangerous lives is nothing new to me," Beatrice said. "I'm going after her. You don't have to come if you don't want to, that's fine."

"I can't let that happen," I said firmly. "What if something happened to you this time? You should just stay here and we'll talk tomorrow, and—"

"So, what," Beatrice said, wrenching her hand away from me, "you just show up in my life after nine years and tell me what to do? That's what you're doing now?"

I stared at her and hoped I didn't look too desperate. As much as I'd wanted Beatrice to be alive, as much as I had missed her, as relieved as I was to find out she was still here, now that she was in front of me, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to tell her everything, and I didn't want to say anything at all. I wanted to let her look for Esmé and I wanted to go with her and I never wanted to see her leave again and I didn't want anything to ever happen to her. I wanted to go everywhere with her and I never wanted to move again. I thought about what Olaf had said, and I thought about all the things I'd done, and I didn't want to drag Beatrice down with me by getting too personal, by getting too close, no matter how much I wanted to.

"I guess so," I said quietly.

Beatrice looked disappointed—and then she just looked sad. "You know," she said, "I really missed you."

I felt my stomach drop several feet. "I'll see you tomorrow," was all I said, and I walked out.

-

I didn't leave the building. Instead, I went down into the basement to Hector.

"I haven't heard anything yet," Hector said, looking up as I walked in. "The night's still young, though—"

"She's alive," I said. "Beatrice is alive."

"What?" Hector gasped. "She's—she's alive?"

"She's alive," I said again.

The phone on the table in front of Hector clicked a few times, like someone was dialing a number. Beatrice was calling someone. I walked over and grabbed the receiver and brought it to my ear, and Hector stood up beside me to listen.

"Hello?"

"Bertrand?"

"....Beatrice? Is that—"

"We need to talk."

"I'll come over."

"No, just—I'll meet you downstairs."

"What? No, I'll come up, I'll—"

"No. Pull up outside, we can talk in your car."

"....alright. I'll be right there."

I was a little angry at Beatrice for calling Bertrand, but I wasn't completely surprised. I didn't think anything I said could really stop her.

Hector and I looked at each other. "If she's alive," he said, "then who—"

"I don't know," I said. "We can think about that later. Come on."

We went back upstairs, passing through the lobby and out into the street. It was hard to see between the darkness and the flickering streetlamps, but I spotted a nearby group of trashcans. Hector and I crouched down behind them.

Not long after, a car pulled up to the curb. I saw Bertrand in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. A moment later, Beatrice rushed out of the building and got into the passenger seat. Hector and I couldn't hear them, but we watched them have what looked like a somewhat intense conversation for a few minutes. Afterward, Beatrice got out of the car, and Bertrand drove away.

Beatrice looked around before she took off in the opposite direction, walking quickly down the street. I could hear her heels clicking even after she had disappeared into the night fog.

"What now?" Hector asked.

"You follow Beatrice," I said. "I've got something else to do."

-

I followed Bertrand back to his apartment.

Ramona had been right—it was Bertrand she saw that night, leaving Beatrice's apartment. I was going to find out why. I knocked loudly on the door to Bertrand's apartment and waited until he opened it.

"Snicket?" He looked shocked to see me.

"You were at Beatrice's apartment Sunday night, weren't you," I said, getting straight to it.

Bertrand swallowed. He stared at me for a few moments before he said, "Yes. I was."

"What happened that night?"

"Why don't you come in," he said with a sigh.

We sat down in the sitting room. Bertrand didn't offer to make tea this time. He looked everywhere but at me, as if nervous.

"What happened?" I asked again.

"I did go over to Beatrice's to rehearse," Bertrand began. "That was my honest intention. But when I got there, before I could even open the door, she opened it and almost ran into me. She looked frightened, and I'd—I'd never seen Beatrice genuinely frightened before. I asked her what was wrong, but all she told me was that something had come up and she had to leave. Then she asked me to stay in her apartment until she came back, because there was something in it that I had to keep safe. She wouldn't tell me what it was. I told her I would, and she thanked me and ran off.

"I stayed there for a few hours. It was dark before anything happened. I was in the kitchen, and I heard the front door open. I thought it was Beatrice, but she didn't say anything. Everything was quiet. Then I heard the gunshot, and I ran to the front door and I saw—well, I thought I saw Beatrice. I thought it was her."

"No one but you knew that Beatrice had left," I said. "So why did you think it was Beatrice that was killed?"

"I—I thought she'd come back," Bertrand said slowly. "She didn't say how long she'd be gone, so I didn't know when to expect her. I—I was in shock. It...." His voice trailed off as he looked away. "It looked....so much like Beatrice...."

"Why did you leave right away?"

"I—I had to make sure. I went to try and find her. But she didn't tell me where she'd gone, so I called all her usual places but she wasn't there, so I—I assumed it really had been her. Trust me, Snicket," he said, shaking his head, "I was as surprised as you were to find out she was alive."

"You didn't see anyone else? You didn't see who had done it?"

"No, I didn't. They were gone by the time I'd reached the front room."

I stared at Bertrand until he met my eyes. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Olaf was there. And I—" He paused. "I didn't know if I could trust you," he said. "I'm sorry. I really am."

His words stung. It wasn't unexpected, but it still hurt to hear him say that. I cast around for something else to ask Bertrand. I remembered what he'd said the first day, and figured now was the time to press it.

"Did you have unconfirmed dinner plans?"

Bertrand sighed. "We'd talked about it on Saturday. I often asked Beatrice to dinner, and we did go out a few times. But it wasn't—a usual thing or anything. I care a great deal for Beatrice, it's true. And I did tell her that. But she didn't—she said she couldn't think about a relationship right now. And I respected that."

I sighed and told myself not to feel too good about that. I thought of the conversation Hector and I had seen in Bertrand's car and found myself with another question. "Did she tell you what it was this time? What she hid in her apartment?"

"No. She still didn't tell me."

I got up. "Thank you," I said, and walked towards the door.

"What are you going to do now?" Bertrand asked, watching me leave.

"Figure out what really happened," I said. Then I paused. I dug around in my pockets for the key Bertrand had given me the other day, the one to Beatrice's apartment. "Here," I said, holding it out to him. "You should take it back."

Bertrand looked at it and then back at me. "I think you should keep it," he said. "You might still have more use for it than me."

-

When I returned to Beatrice's apartment in the morning, I knocked. It didn't feel right to use the key anymore.

Beatrice looked a little surprised when she opened the door, but then she smiled tightly. "Come in."

I walked inside. The stain was gone from the carpet, but other than that, everything was almost exactly the same. But it felt lived-in now, Beatrice's presence filling up her apartment once again. The cross stitch was gone from the couch. The most recent newspaper sat on the coffee table. The new box of tea had been opened and sat brewing in the tea set. The curtains were open, and a bright sunlight spread through the room. A record spun in the record player, not Tito Puente but something softer, a quiet jazz number I couldn't place.

"I was just fixing this," she said, and she walked over to her desk and sat down. I saw her pick up the diary.

I frowned. "I'm sorry," I said. "I really am."

"It's fine," Beatrice said, bending over the lock with her screwdriver, but she didn't sound fine. "Nothing I can't fix."

I watched her for a few moments. "Where did you go last night?"

Beatrice twisted the screwdriver with a little more force than necessary. "I did what I told you," she said. "I went to look for Esmé."

"Did you find her?"

"No. I didn't." She turned the screwdriver again, her brow furrowed. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Where did you go, after you followed Bertrand?"

I cleared my throat. "I checked in with some of our associates. Almost everyone's accounted for."

"So you don't know who was killed here."

"No. Not yet."

I hadn't slept much last night, from contacting people I hadn't contacted in years and thinking through what I'd said to Beatrice over and over again and regretting everything about it. There was something I wanted to say to her now and I didn't know if I could.

I sat down in one of the chairs and thought it over until I couldn't think it over anymore. "Beatrice," I said quietly.

Her head shot up, the screwdriver skidding across the lock with a short screech. Her eyes were wide. It was like she was shocked to hear her own name, or to hear me say it. I felt something similar.

"I'm sorry about last night," I said. "I shouldn't have said what I did. You know what you're doing and I shouldn't have interfered. I was just—I was worried about you."

"I gathered as much," she said. "I do know what I'm doing, though. You don't have to worry. In fact, I'd rather you didn't."

"It's just, if something happened to you this time—something I could prevent, because I'm here—I wouldn't like it."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Beatrice said shortly. "And you weren't doing this on orders or anything. You don't have to make sure I'm okay. You can go back to whatever you were doing before this." She sounded bitter.

I frowned and tried not to think about what I'd been doing before I'd gotten that phone call from Kit. "I'd like to stick around, though."

"Why?"

"I want to see where this is going," I said. "It's not every day you get to investigate a fake murder."

She did a good job at almost completely hiding the disappointment in her face. "I see," she said.

"But there's something else, too."

"Oh?"

I took in a breath. "I did you a disservice by not speaking to you for as long as I did," I said. "I would very much like to work with you again." I really did. It was probably a bad idea, but I wanted to.

A small smile pulled at the corner of Beatrice's mouth. "You really did, you know."

"I'm sorry for that, too."

"You're lucky I'm so forgiving," Beatrice said, "and that I missed you as much as I did. Because I missed you a considerable amount, Mr. Snicket."

I looked at Beatrice, and I saw the intelligent, determined girl I'd fallen in love with when we were kids, and the intelligent, determined woman I still loved as an adult, and I let myself smile. "So did I, Beatrice."

Beatrice smiled back, the full smile I'd been thinking about, and it was sharp and bright and in that moment I knew it would still make me do anything.

"I guess that makes us associates again," she said. "Partners, even."

"It certainly does."

She turned back to her diary and finished fixing the lock. Then she stood and walked over to me, holding out her hand. "Well, then. We'd better get to work, Mr. Snicket."

-

We went to lunch, just the two of us. The restaurant was honestly too nice for the state of my suit, but Beatrice didn't care. It was a dark, quiet place, and we sat in the back like we'd been trained to do in any public setting, even if I preferred to sit next to the exits instead. Beatrice and I both ordered sandwiches.

"What kind of restaurant," I said mildly, as the waiter left, "doesn't even serve root beer?"

Beatrice stifled her laugh in the sleeves of her sweater. "Next time," she said, "we'll get root beer floats. I promise."

I tried not to get too hung up on the phrase next time, but it didn't work, and it was all I thought about until our sandwiches arrived. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the food was sitting in front of me, which is often the case.

Beatrice took a bite of her sandwich. "So, I have an idea," she said, "as to where we can start. I need to find Esmé, and you need to find who was in my apartment and who pulled the trigger. I think I know who might be able to give us a lead."

"Who?"

"I don't think you're going to like it," Beatrice said, smiling a little.

"Try me," I said.

"If there's anyone who knows more than they should and will give out that information without thinking," Beatrice began, and I had a horrible feeling of foreboding before she continued, "it's -- "

"Geraldine," I muttered.

"Geraldine Julienne," Beatrice confirmed, still smiling. "You still don't like her?"

"I don't so much dislike her," I said, "as I think she just doesn't understand when to keep her mouth shut. You can't tell me you honestly enjoy her company."

"No, not particularly," Beatrice admitted. "But we both need somewhere to go from here, and at least she'll be able to give us something."

"Let's just hope she hasn't told anyone else," I said. We ate in silence for a few moments until I spoke again. "What sort of information do you give out in your plays?" It was something I had wondered for a while, and I finally had the opportunity to ask. I just didn't know if she'd give me a straight answer.

Beatrice frowned, and she looked closed off again like she had last night, and I tried not to let it sting too hard, because it wasn't like I'd told her everything about myself, either.

"Anything deemed important," she finally said. "Anything that could help foil the plot of an enemy. Sometimes it's concrete information, sometimes it's just something small."

"What you know about Olaf—will you be putting that in?"

"Yes."

"If it's so important, why wait to give it out during a play?" I said, picking at the remains of my sandwich. "Why not act on it at once?"

"I'm not the only one working on things like this. Every Thursday, in fact, around the city, there's a different play from our organization, and a certain group of people attend each performance, take in their information, and compare it to their own. You don't know what another associate knows. I don't want to hinder someone else, especially if I wind up being wrong. I mean, I don't think I'm wrong." Beatrice shook her head. "I can't see how I am, not about this, but I need to make sure. I'd rather wait. It's important, but you can't rush something like this."

I certainly couldn't fault her for that. I thought of something else to ask her, and I didn't think she'd like that either. "About Sunday," I said. "Does anyone else have a key to your apartment, besides Bertrand?"

"Ramona," Beatrice said. "That's all."

"Could either of them have given it to anyone else? Bertrand gave his key to me."

"That's because you all thought I was dead," Beatrice said. "But Ramona, she wouldn't give it to anyone else. I know that for a fact."

"Would anyone want to break in?"

"Maybe." She shrugged and stared down at the table.

I frowned at her, although I felt bad frowning at Beatrice. "Is there anyone specifically who might want to?" I swallowed. "Who might want to kill you, Beatrice?" I asked softly.

Beatrice looked away, her fingers pulling at her sleeves. "We all do dangerous things that people don't like," she said. "It could have been anyone."

"Do you have anyone in mind?" I had someone in mind, but I wanted to see what she'd say. I wanted to see if she'd tell me what she was hiding, and why she was hiding it.

She shook her head and didn't say anything else. I frowned down at my plate and didn't say anything either.

-

Geraldine Julienne worked for The Daily Punctilio and was largely responsible for the numerous falsities printed within it. There had been quite a few occasions where the locations of our headquarters had almost been revealed due to her foolishness, but if there was one good thing about her, it was that she usually happened to be in the right place at the right time. She just didn't see the whole picture.

Geraldine was thrilled to see us, which I thought was surprising, considering I've never made it a secret that I found her difficult to deal with. Her office at The Daily Punctilio was small and neat, with a single typewriter, a whole pile of blank papers, and nothing on the walls but a single framed picture of an outlandish hat. I thought was the exact antithesis of a journalist's office. Beatrice and I sat down in the chairs in front of Geraldine's desk, and Beatrice asked if she'd seen anything of Esmé the past few days.

"Oh, I wish," Geraldine laughed. "I don't see her much to begin with, although I really wish I did, she's so talented! I mean, an actress and a financial adviser! But speaking of that, she actually hasn't turned in her most recent article. I mean, I'm perfectly willing to try to write her column myself, even if I know absolutely nothing about money. I'd do it for her, though!"

"Have you heard from her at all?" Beatrice asked. "Any phone calls or telegrams?"

Geraldine hummed in thought. "I don't think so. She has this man deliver her articles, she's so busy, you know! What was his name again? Oh, I'm so bad at names—Earl? Eric? Emory? Oscar, maybe?"

"Ernest?" Beatrice said, genuinely shocked.

"That's it!" Geraldine exclaimed, looking delighted. "Next time I see him I'll finally be able to say hello to him properly! How nice that'll be."

"What was her article about?"

"Local wealthy organizations," Geraldine said, as if she were discussing the weather. It still sent a chill down my spine. I didn't like the idea of Esmé being any more involved in our organization than she needed to be, and apparently, neither did Beatrice. She frowned, and I didn't like the look of a frown on Beatrice's face.

"Thank you, Geraldine," she said politely, and then she stood up and turned to me. "We should get going, Mr. Snicket."

I had something I wanted to ask Geraldine myself. "I'll be a minute," I told her. I waited until she left the office before I looked back at Geraldine.

She blinked up at me excitedly. I'd never seen anyone's eyelids move that fast before, and I never wanted to again. "Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Snicket?"

"I hope so," I said, and I really did. "Did you hear from Esmé on Sunday?"

"On Sunday? Actually, I really saw her that day!" Geraldine said. "We weren't together or anything, but I went shopping Sunday afternoon because I always go shopping Sunday afternoon because I'm always hoping I'm going to find one of those marvelous outfits that Esmé wears, and instead of finding an outfit, I found Esmé herself! I was going to go over and talk to her, when I realized that I should really be brushing up on my reporting skills, and I decided to just follow her instead!"

There is a word for lucky things like this happening. In fact, there are many words, some of them kinder than others, and the one I preferred for this moment was serendipitous.

"I mean, how many times do you get the opportunity to see as master of fashion at work? I was already planning the headlines—Stunning Financial Adviser Buys New Purse!"

"Was that all?"

"Mr. Snicket," Geraldine said, smiling, "of course it wasn't! You don't go out and buy just a purse, especially if you're Esmé! No, she bought a whole outfit—oh, what do you think of Local Actress Buys Entirely New Outfit?"

"It's charming," I said, and Geraldine beamed at me. "What was the outfit?"

"Oh, it was this long red coat, which I thought was honestly a little understated, given her past fashion choices, and some heels, then she put on this wig that just looked fantastic on her, it was longer than her usual length and not quite as dark as her hair and it curved a little on the ends—"

I stopped listening to her. I turned towards the door, where I could just see Beatrice through the frosted glass. I knew it was Beatrice because I knew she was there. But from behind, she looked like anyone. She looked like anyone in a long red coat, anyone in heels, anyone with long dark hair that curved on the end.

It was what I'd considered all along, but I still didn't like it, and I especially didn't like that Beatrice clearly wasn't telling me everything she knew about Esmé. I didn't want to tell her what I thought until she told me what had happened that night, and I wasn't even sure when that would happen, considering she seemed to be adamant about keeping it from me.

I don't think I've ever been so frightened or worried in my whole life, I remembered, and I frowned harder.

I stood up and turned briefly back to Geraldine. "Thank you," I said.

"Oh, well," Geraldine called, even as I walked away from her, "it was nice to see you two! I can see the headline now—Actress and Detective Visit Newspaper Reporter!"

"I'm not a detective at all," I said, like I had done a long time ago. "Please don't report this," I said, which was a more recent saying I was getting accustomed to using. I pulled open the door.

-

I didn't want to ask Beatrice about Esmé, not yet. I didn't get much of a chance to anyway, considering the moment we left Geraldine's office, we began to look for Ernest. This was harder than it sounded, considering I think even Kit occasionally struggled a little to tell the Denouement triplets apart, and one often found themselves in a situation where they thought they'd been talking to Frank only to find out it'd been Dewey all along. If Ernest knew something, though, then it was worth the hassle to find him.

"It's discouraging," Beatrice said, as we walked through the city, "to think that Ernest isn't as trustworthy as we thought he was."

"It is," I agreed. "I wonder how his brothers feel." I thought about Frank, and then Dewey, and then I thought about Kit, and then I tried to figure out where all of us would wind up, one day, with all the trouble we were in, and I didn't like the answer I came up with.

Looking for Ernest meant examining the number of places in the city where our organization had at least some semblance of control. We went to the pier first, where we had the luck to run into Widdershins. Although he was supposed to have seen him, he hadn't seen Ernest at all for a few days now. We told Widdershins to get in touch if he heard anything. We checked the bar where I'd first found Olaf the other day, but Olivia hadn't seen Ernest either. She wasn't particularly concerned, however.

"He comes in sometimes," she said, wiping down a glass. "Do you need him for anything in particular?"

Beatrice and I exchanged a glance. "We're just worried about him," Beatrice wound up saying. "Could you let us know if he does show up?"

"Sure," Olivia said. "Whatever you want.”

No one seemed to be able to tell us where Ernest's apartment was, otherwise we would have checked there as well. We eventually expanded our search to any of the Denouement triplets, but it didn't help. I kept quiet for the most part and let Beatrice do the talking, and I just listened and watched her instead. I watched her and I wondered. I wondered about her and Esmé and the growing knot in my stomach. We found very little in our search, and only succeeded in tiring ourselves out.

I accompanied Beatrice to the theater that afternoon for the rehearsal Ramona had mentioned yesterday. I figured Beatrice must have told Ramona that she was alive, because when we entered the theater, Ramona herself ran towards us, delight shining on her face, and pulled both of us into the kind of hug I'd forgotten existed.

"Don't tell me if this gets awkward," she said, holding on tight, "because I am not, under any circumstances, letting go of you two ever again."

"Oh, well, I guess I didn't need to breathe anyway," Beatrice said, her voice coming from somewhere inside Ramona's hair.

"Lungs are not a necessity after all," I commented into Ramona's shoulder, and when Beatrice and Ramona both laughed, it felt for a moment like we were back in the diner we'd frequented so often as children. It was a comforting feeling, amid everything.

Ramona did eventually let go, and she stepped back to smile at us for a moment. "You two are really impossible," she said, still laughing as she walked back up to the stage.

Bertrand smiled at me when I saw him, which I thought was kind of him, considering our last conversation. Then he beamed at Beatrice. "I'm so glad to see you," he said quietly. "That you're alright."

Beatrice gave him a small smile in return. "I'm glad you're alright, too."

It seemed, then, that Olaf was the last to know that Beatrice was alive. I heard him before I saw him, as he was whistling some tune backstage, and the noise grew louder as he approached. When he emerged onto the stage, he saw Beatrice almost immediately and froze, his eyes wide, his lips mid-whistle.

Beatrice watched him carefully, but she still smiled politely. "Hello, Olaf."

Olaf stared back at her for a moment with a peculiarly blank look on his face—and then his expression changed, and he was back to that perpetual grin he wore so often lately, only it looked more strained than I'd seen before.

"Beatrice!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide and walking towards her. "Well, would you look at that! Miracles really do happen, don't they?"

"It looks like they do," Beatrice said. Behind her, Bertrand looked concerned, and Ramona had paused where she was pulling some of the props out from the back, but neither of them intervened. We all watched Beatrice and Olaf, but they said nothing else to each other.

Then Olaf's eyes found mine for a second, and I expected him to give me a look I wouldn't care for, but he just smiled at me, and it pulled in a way I didn't like. I told Beatrice I would wait for her in the back and made my way to the section of seats by the far wall of the theater. I found my sister there, leaning back in a seat, her arms crossed over her chest. I sat down next to her and watched her survey our associates as they began their rehearsal.

"You were right," Kit said quietly, her eyes fixed on Beatrice.

"It was due to happen, I guess," I said. "I wind up being right at least once a year."

Kit rolled her eyes. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

I didn't say anything. Instead, I looked towards the stage, watching Beatrice as she flipped through her script. I found myself glowering at her, and I didn't like it.

"Have you found out anything new?" Kit asked.

I wasn't in the mood to tell Kit what I thought about Esmé, or to talk with her about the Denouements, because I wasn't sure what her reaction would be to either of them. I shook my head.

"Beatrice didn't tell you anything?"

"No." At least I could answer that somewhat honestly.

Kit looked back at Beatrice, and took her time before she said anything else. "Have you told her?"

I sighed. "No, Kit."

"If you did—"

"I am not," I said, louder and angrier than I intended, "telling her what happened just to—to wring a confession out of her." I looked away from Beatrice, and away from my sister, and away from everything else until I glared down at my shoes instead. I wasn't truly angry, though. I was more worried than anything else.

I could hear the frown in Kit's voice. "That's not what I meant, L, and you know it. Why are you so riled up?"

"I don't know," I muttered. I said it again, as if that would help me figure out what I didn't know, and it didn't. I was still thinking about Esmé. I was still thinking hard, and I didn't like what I came up with. I didn't like what I had to do. I didn't like going behind people's backs.

I stood up. "Kit," I said, "keep an eye on things. I'll be back later."

Kit raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"I need to check something."

-

I went to the Veritable French Diner.

It was a small restaurant, but it had wide, great windows that let in light through sheer white curtains, and each round table had a dark blue tablecloth draped over it with a small bouquet of flowers in the middle. If you sat at the right table and got the right waiter before he was transferred to another restaurant, which I did, there was the chance you might find out something.

"Snicket!" Larry exclaimed when he arrived at my table. "I didn't realize this was a sad occasion?" he offered, almost hesitantly.

I looked around us. It was late afternoon, so there were more people than I would have liked in the room, but not too many that I couldn't say it. "The world is quiet here," I murmured, and Larry smiled. "Why don't you take a seat, Larry. You're not that busy."

He sat down across from me. "What brings you back to the city?"

"A whole mess of trouble," I said. "Did you see Esmé and Olaf here on Saturday?"

Larry nodded. "I did. They often come in, as a matter of fact."

"Did you hear anything they talked about?"

"No, I didn't get a chance to. An associate came in and took over my section for me, including their table. But it looked like they were having a real passionate conversation. They looked—well, they looked happy."

I tapped my fingers on the tablecloth. I didn't want to think about what could make Olaf and Esmé happy. "They came in for lunch, didn't they?"

"Yes.”

"So they were given the usual lunch special complete with—" I paused and looked at Larry meaningfully. "The item."

Larry frowned. "Actually," he said, "I didn't see one given to them, but there was one on their table."

The words sunk in, and I still didn't believe them. "Are you saying," I said, leaning forward, "that Olaf and Esmé brought one with them?"

"They must have," Larry said. "That's the only other way they could've had one."

I sat back slowly. I didn't like to think about that. I didn't like to think about that at all, or what it meant for Olaf and Esmé, or what it meant about what Beatrice had hidden in her apartment. I didn't like it, because it complicated things again, and things were already complicated enough.

"Thank you, Larry," I said, and I stood up. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer."

"Oh, that's fine," Larry said, waving a hand as he got up as well. "We're all pretty busy lately, aren't we?"

"We are," I said solemnly.

I went back to the theater. The rehearsal was still in progress, and I sat back down next to Kit, who looked at me with concern.

"You look terrible," she whispered. "What did you do, L?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'll find out later."

Kit sighed. She looked like she wanted to ask more questions, but she didn't.

Almost an hour went by before she spoke again. "Look," she said. "About what I said earlier. You and Beatrice have really missed each other. If both of you are keeping secrets, you're just going to hurt each other more."

"I think that's what they call an occupational hazard," I said.

"Oh, please, L," Kit snapped. I turned to her, wide-eyed. She'd never spoken to me like that before. "Not everyone gets another opportunity to fix their wrongdoings."

Kit didn't look at Olaf, but I did. He walked around the stage, shouting his lines with unnecessary volume. I wondered if he knew Kit was here.

"If you two pass up a chance to be happy just because you don't want to admit you both made mistakes—and I'm sure both of you have, otherwise we wouldn't even be having this conversation—then I don't know what to tell you, L. There's not a lot of us left," Kit said, and her voice, which had been hard and sharp, suddenly softened. "We can't afford to do things like this to each other."

I sighed. "You're right," I said, because she was, even if I didn't want her to be. You can think that it's easier, and sometimes better for all involved, if you keep everything secret from one another, but it just winds up creating problem upon problem until you are left with nothing but yourself and your lies and an unbearable loneliness, because you've either driven everyone away or they've died with their own secrets. It was a prospect that looked considerably likely for me, and I didn't like it. I didn't want it to happen to Beatrice either. I just didn't know how easy it'd be.

"Of course I'm right," Kit muttered. "I'm your older sister, that means I'm always right. Well—" She smiled a little. "Almost always."

I smiled back at her. We both looked somewhat happy, something that hadn't happened in a long time, and we watched the rest of the rehearsal in silence.

It was cold and dark outside by the time Beatrice and I left the theater. I wished I had gloves. Beatrice tucked her scarf around her neck and we walked quietly through the city streets. In the warmer months, there were people constantly on the streets at night, but the January chill had chased away everyone who didn't need to be there.

Beatrice sighed, and her breath curled in the cold air. "Where did you go?" she asked.

"What?"

"During rehearsal," she said. "Where did you go?"

It was for the sake of honesty that I told her the truth. "I went to talk to Larry," I said, and I even kept eye contact with her.

"Ah," Beatrice said, and she turned away. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. "Do you—what did I ever do to you, Mr. Snicket?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?”

"You don't trust me anymore," she said, and she didn't ask it as a question. It was a sad statement that hung in the air between us.

"No," I said, shaking my head quickly. "I do trust you, Beatrice. But I worry about you."

I could see the muscles of her jaw clenching. "I told you not to," she said, and she walked a little faster, a little away from me.

"It's not as easy as that," I said, catching up with her.

Beatrice shook her head. She didn't say anything until we'd walked a few more blocks. "Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

"I don't know," I said. It was too quiet after that.

I went up with her to her apartment, just because. Beatrice took longer than I thought was necessary to find her keys, and she looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn't. I didn't either.

"I'll see you tomorrow, I guess," she finally said, once she'd unearthed them from her purse.

I nodded and hoped I didn't look too miserable. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I was only a few feet down the hallway when I heard Beatrice gasp. I turned around immediately and saw her frozen in her doorway, her eyes wide, her hand still on the doorknob. I ran back to her.

I didn't have to ask what was wrong. I saw it right away. There are a few words for what an apartment looks like when it has been torn apart by someone, and my personal favorite is ransacked, although the nice word didn't make Beatrice's apartment look any better as we stood there and stared at it. The furniture pillows had been thrown to the floor, the portrait on the wall had been tilted as if someone was looking for a secret compartment, the records had been tossed carelessly aside on the floor, although thankfully none of them were broken. The desk papers were crumpled and torn, the desk drawers themselves dangling precariously. The coffee and side tables had been flipped over, scattering pages of the newspaper and shattering the tea set. The saddest sight was the books, pulled out of the bookcases and thrown to the floor, the pages bent and ruffled. At least everything was still intact, however, instead of engulfed in flames.

"Is anything missing?" I asked.

Beatrice looked around the room. She walked forward carefully, scrutinizing everything, putting it all back in place, but she kept her back to me. I watched her flip through the papers on her desk, test the lock on her diary, replace the desk drawers, rearrange the pillows, fix the angle of her portrait. Then she moved towards the bookcases. "Why don't you check the kitchen," she said as she picked up the books from the floor. "You should know my apartment as well as I do by now."

I knew what she was doing, but I agreed anyway. I went to the kitchen but I didn't check anything—not that much had been rifled through. Instead, I eased the door open slightly until there was a space small enough to look through, and I saw Beatrice go to her bedroom. She pulled open one of the bedside table drawers and fiddled with something inside. I heard her sigh of relief and I shut the door. I waited an appropriate amount of time before I walked back into the living room.

Beatrice was waiting by the piano, reorganizing the sheet music, as far away from the bedroom door as possible. "Nothing's gone," she said.

"I didn't find anything either," I said, then I walked over to her desk and picked up the phone. I didn't dial a number. I listened carefully. Then I pressed the switchhook a few times in succession. "Hector?"

It took a moment for him to answer. "Snicket?"

"Something's happened," I said. I didn't look at Beatrice, even when she came over to stand next to me, looking concerned. "Have you seen anyone around here today?"

"As a matter of fact," Hector said, "I did see—well, one of the Denouement triplets. Maybe Ernest? I caught a glimpse of him outside."

"Did he have anything with him?"

"No, I don't think so. What happened?"

"There's been a break-in," I said. "But everything's fine. We'll talk later." I hung up, and I finally turned back to Beatrice. She looked back at me, and I could tell she was trying not to appear too scared. I couldn't even get angry with her. I was too anxious to feel anything else.

"Beatrice," I said, "I want you to tell me what happened Sunday night."

She blinked furiously. "I—I already did, I—"

"Esmé was here that night," I said. "And I think you know that, or you suspect it. I think you have something she wants. I think you're not telling me everything and I don't know why, but if we're going to go any further then you need to tell me, Beatrice."

She swallowed. Her eyes flicked back and forth between mine. Then she walked back to her bedroom, and she opened the drawer again. I saw her unlock a long, thin box from inside with a key from around her neck that she'd had hidden under her sweater, and from the box she pulled out a long, thin rod with a little gear on the end. She slid that end into a small hole in the bottom of the drawer, and the false bottom pulled up. She took out the item inside and replaced the board.

"This is what Esmé wants," Beatrice said, staring down at what she held in her hands. "I stole it from her."

I stared at the sugar bowl. Beatrice walked back into the living room with it and sat down on the couch, and I sat beside her.

"I followed Esmé and Olaf to the Veritable French Diner on Saturday," she began. "I disguised myself as a waiter so they wouldn't recognize me. I knew Esmé had a sugar bowl—it was never collected, and she never turned it in, so I knew it had to be important. I knew it had to have something special on it. And from what I overheard during their lunch, I knew I had to steal it."

She lifted the lid of the sugar bowl, and we both looked down at the small tape recorder inside.

"What did they say?" I asked.

Beatrice shook her head. "They were planning a lot of things," she said. "And it wasn't anything more than what they've already done, or what we think they've already done, but the way they talked about it this time, it—it was worse than usual. They made it sound like they'd do it all and more to get their way. I didn't like it." She took in a deep breath before continuing.

"I switched the sugar bowls, and I didn't think Esmé noticed, which was probably my first mistake. I hid it in my bedroom. I went to lunch with Olaf on Sunday because I—I thought I could convince him to back off. I thought he'd be easier to talk to than Esmé." She smiled bitterly. "I try to be such an optimist sometimes. But he wouldn't. I came back home and was going to call Bertrand when Esmé called me. She realized I had the sugar bowl, and she—she threatened me." Beatrice closed her eyes. "I'd never been threatened like that, not even from Olaf just an hour before. What she said, it—it genuinely frightened me. I was scared of what Esmé was capable of, what Olaf had planned with her, what they might do. I'd never felt like that before, and I didn't like it. I didn't know what to do, so I—I ran. It was stupid, and foolish, and I regret doing it, but—" She looked up at me. "Have you ever been threatened before, Mr. Snicket?"

I thought back to the highest floor of a medical clinic and the broken window and the man I'd seen there. Then I thought about the circumstances around the last time I'd seen him. "Yes," I said quietly. "I have."

"Then you know it's not very pleasant."

"It's not."

"You sometimes do very foolish things when you're threatened. They don't often make sense. I had to leave. I ran into Bertrand as I was leaving and told him to watch the apartment, to make sure no one got in to try and take the sugar bowl. So I went away, and I thought things over, and I was going to come back anyway—I figured I'd been a coward long enough—when someone almost found me. It looked like Dewey, but it could have been any of them. I suppose it probably was Ernest. Then I knew I had to come back. And then—well. You know the rest."

"Esmé came to your apartment to look for the sugar bowl," I said. "She must've known you'd left, she might have been following you. She disguised herself as you in case anyone saw her. She didn't see Bertrand, because he wasn't in the main room. And then someone shot her, because they thought she was you."

"You asked me," Beatrice said softly, "if anyone would've wanted to kill me. Esmé wanted to. She told me so herself. She hated that I saw right through her. And—" She swallowed. "Olaf wanted to."

"If you thought it was him," I said, "why did you say anything to him at the theater?"

"I'd already tried to talk to him once, and that's how this whole horrible mess started," Beatrice said. "And I—it's just a thought. I don't know for sure. He would never have killed Esmé, for one thing. They use each other too much for one to get rid of the other."

"But he didn't know it was her," I pointed out. "He thought it was you. If you were out of the way—" I shuddered at the thought. "If you were out of the way, no one else would've known their plans. He could've continued with them."

"But he couldn't have gone to my apartment," Beatrice said, her eyes widening. "He couldn't have—Esmé must've told him she was coming here, they couldn't have acted separately, they're not that uncoordinated. He wouldn't have come here if Esmé was already taking care of it. But that leaves us with Ernest, but he doesn't necessarily have a motive.”

"He may not have a motive that we can think of," I said, "but he did break into your apartment, and we can't find him, and he did try to find you when everyone else thought you were dead. That probably was Ernest you saw. He wouldn't have looked for you if he believed you to be dead."

"True," Beatrice said. "We'll have to start looking for him harder." She sighed long and hard, put the sugar bowl down on the table, and slouched back against the couch cushions. "Tomorrow, though. I don't think I've ever been so emotionally exhausted in my life, Mr. Snicket."

I smiled softly at her. "Can I get you anything?"

"You can make us some tea," Beatrice said, rubbing her eyes. "And then you can stay."

I felt the smile leave my face. "I can't make any promises," I said quietly. "And your tea set was broken, anyway."

"There's another one in the kitchen. Go make the tea, Mr. Snicket."

I made the tea. I picked something with chamomile and let it steep while I helped Beatrice put the rest of her apartment back together. Afterwards, we went back to the couch with our tea. Drinking tea alone can often still make one feel better about things, but it works even more when you're drinking it with someone else. Beatrice and I sat and sipped at our tea until we felt marginally better about our situations.

"That false bottom was very clever," I said.

Beatrice smiled, her face going faintly pink. "Thank you," she said. "I made it myself."

"Do you like to do things like that?" I asked. "Invent things?"

"Sometimes. It's more of a hobby than anything else. What I like the most," she said, "is music."

I glanced over at the piano. "Do you play often?"

"Yes," Beatrice said. "I find it very relaxing. But what about you?”

"What about me?"

Beatrice laughed a little. "I haven't seen you in nine years, Mr. Snicket. I feel like I barely know anything about you sometimes."

I frowned. "Is that why?" I asked. "Why you didn't tell me about Esmé earlier? You don't trust me?" I sounded hurt, but I couldn't help it. It'd been a fairly emotionally exhausting twenty-four hours for me too, and I had a feeling it wasn't quite over yet.

The smile faded from her face. "No," she said. "That wasn't why."

"Then what was?"

She looked down at her teacup in her hands, and then she smiled a grim, pained smile. "We hadn't seen each other in nine years, Mr. Snicket. I didn't—I didn't want to just be that frightened girl who didn't know what to do, because I'm not. But I was so scared, and I—we'd always told each other to just get scared later." She laughed a little bit. "I didn't want you to think any less of me because I couldn't, because I didn't want to admit to myself what had happened."

"I find telling myself to get scared later works less and less as I get older," I said. "But I would never think any less of you, Beatrice, not at all. Not for anything."

Beatrice looked up at me. Her smile changed to the one I liked the best, the one in the portrait, the one she'd given me that morning. "Thank you. I suppose I just got used to doing things by myself."

"You don't have to do everything alone," I said. "You can count on some people."

She sat up, still smiling. "Just some people?" she asked. "No one in particular?"

I cleared my throat. "Oh, well," I said, suddenly self-conscious, "not really."

"Mr. Snicket," she said gently, "you don't have to do everything alone, either. All this time, we could've helped each other."

"I don't know," I said, quicker than I wanted to. "I don't know if I'm much help at all."

Beatrice frowned softly. "What do you mean?"

I gripped the handle of my teacup tighter to try and disguise the way my hands had started trembling, but it didn't work. I set the cup down on the coffee table, but that just left my hands exposed. It was one thing for Beatrice to admit she was scared. It was another for me to admit what I'd been trying to run from.

"Lemony," Beatrice said, resting her hands on top of mine, "what happened in Stain'd-by-the-Sea?"

I swallowed with considerable difficulty. I felt like I had to pull every word out of me, and each one left a large hole somewhere inside. "You read the reports," I said. "You know what happened."

"All I know is that a villain was killed on a train," Beatrice said. "But you don't see it that way, do you."

I stood up, pulling away from Beatrice. I felt her eyes on me as I walked slowly around the room, trying to say out loud the only question that mattered, even if I had asked it too late.

"Beatrice," I said, "is it more beastly to be a murderer or let one go free?"

Beatrice was silent for a while, and I didn't like it. "Lemony," she said softly, "I don't know if it's as black and white as that."

I clenched my hands into fists. "There is no moral grey area," I said, "for murder."

"Maybe there is," Beatrice said. "You were—"

"I was twelve, Beatrice!" I shouted, finally turning to face her, and I tried with everything I had not to look away. I had never really yelled at anyone before, but I couldn't stop myself now. "I was a child! I pushed a man to his death, and I'm supposed to feel proud of that? That I did something good, something right?"

Beatrice stood up, her eyes hard and blazing. "It doesn't matter if it was good or right, Lemony, you did what you had to do! You knew what Hangfire had done, what he was capable of! No one else was going to stop him, that's why you got involved in the first place!"

"I shouldn't have been there, in the first place!" I shot back. "I should never have been in that town! I gave up everything to—"

"To save something important!"

"No, to become what I was trying to stop!"

"No, listen to me!" Beatrice said, and she stormed over to me, her eyes flicking back and forth between mine. "If you hadn't done it, everyone on that train would've died, and you know it! There was no other option, there was nothing else you could've done!"

"I could've done something! I could have—"

"What? You could have what? Talked to him? Do you really think he would've listened to you?"

"You tried to talk to Olaf!" I reminded her.

Beatrice took a step back, her eyes wide. She stared at me for a long moment. "I think," she said quietly, "that there is a point at which you can reason with someone and a point at which you have to do something. You'd tried to reason with him already, and you couldn't. I try to reason with Olaf, now, because he was a volunteer, he still is a volunteer. I want to believe the best in him, because the schism has done so much damage already. I have to believe, because I don't want to hurt him."

"Then you would do the same?" I asked, watching her carefully and feeling a cold sadness sinking through my chest. "You'd do it, if you had to?"

Beatrice clenched her jaw tight. "I don't know," she whispered. "Maybe I would." She swallowed. "And if I did do it—if I was saving someone else, if I was saving this organization, not even just as an organization, but as my friends, my family—then it wouldn't matter if it was right or wrong, what it meant to do it, whether it was beastly or not. I would be doing what I needed to do."

I wanted to admire the way her voice barely shook as she said that, but all I could see was the way her hands trembled. We were too young to be making these decisions, and we'd always be too young.

I sat back down slowly. "It's hard," I said, which didn't exactly encompass the scope of the situation or our lives, but was the only thing I could think to say. "It's hard, and I'm tired, Beatrice."

She sighed, the kind of world-weary sigh I often heard from all of us when we thought no one else was watching. "I know."

"The older I get, the worse I feel about it all. What we've all done. What I've become in trying to do what I thought was—" I didn't know if I wanted to say right. I moved on. "I don't even know what I wanted anymore."

Beatrice looked at me sadly. She sat down beside me and took my hands in hers again, and I held onto them tighter than I'd ever held onto anything before.

There are things no one tells you about becoming a volunteer, especially when you don't exactly volunteer to be a volunteer to begin with. They don't tell you the things you'll be doing. You suspect the things you'll be doing, and you think you can do them, but you never really think you'll be doing them. And then you do them, and you realize everything is much more complicated than you thought it was, that in order to try and do one thing you have to give up something else.

Then you get older, and your associates get older, and you all find yourselves thinking things like this, and sometimes the only thing you can do is sit in silence with them and think about the things you've done, the things you're trying to do, and what they all mean. You don't necessarily figure out any answers, because there are no real answers. You just think about everything and feel the certain misery reserved for the people who try to do their best. That's what Beatrice and I did, for a long time.

"Lemony," Beatrice said, a while later, "we're still here. We've still got the chance to try and change things, to try and do them differently. We can still be the people we hoped we'd be."

I looked at Beatrice, at her face softly illuminated by the nearby lamps, at the way her eyes held mine. I squeezed her hands. "We can try," I said. "But I don't know if it's enough."

"It's enough," she said, and I let myself believe her.

-

In the morning, we didn't talk about the night before, but that was fine. We didn't have to talk about it. We'd said everything we needed to. That didn't mean we felt much better about any of it, but we'd come to terms about it.

Instead, Beatrice and I made breakfast and talked about books. I found out Beatrice made a mean fried egg, much better than any other eggs I'd ever had in my life, and we discussed for quite a while whether or not a story written by an Irishman about people at a party really had a plot or not, and what that said about what kind of story it was. Then we compared the plays of an American playwright and wondered what social commentary she'd been going for in one of her earlier plays about a boarding school and a later play about a hotel. It was calm and quiet and just what the two of us needed. It was late morning when we realized how much time had passed.

Beatrice sighed. "We should get going," she said. "Before Ernest manages to slip away from us."

I set down my fork. I hadn't forgotten about Ernest, but he hadn't been at the forefront of my mind, and now I felt that familiar sinking anxiety that appeared every time I had to do something considerably dangerous. "What are we going to do when we find him?" I asked.

"We'll take him to headquarters," Beatrice said. "They can deal with him there."

We set the dishes in the sink and put our coats on. It felt like we were gearing up for a final battle, although we really weren't. I turned to Beatrice, watching her slide her hair out from under the collar of her coat, how her eyes were alight with a bright, glistening with a fire that I'd seen so often when we were children. It was nice to see it now. It was nice to be here, with her. I thought about all the times I'd left the city, and all the times I'd come back. They were very few. I thought about Beatrice, her hands in mine. I thought about all my miserable worries and how she'd made them seem smaller.

She turned to me. "Well," she said, smiling a little, "it looks like this is it, Mr. Snicket."

"It looks like it is," I agreed. "Once we find Ernest, we should be in the clear."

"Hopefully," she said. "And then what?" Her smile grew. "What do you usually do when an assignment is over?"

I thought about what I'd been doing last time, and then I tried not to. "Leave," I said. "But not this time."

"What makes this time different?"

"You," I said. "I'm staying. Here. With you."

Beatrice blinked a few times. Her face flushed as she stared at me. "Are you really?" she asked, a little breathlessly.

"If you want me to," I said, because I thought it would be polite to give her a way out if she wanted it, just in case.

"I do," she said quickly. "I meant it, what I said last night. Do you?"

"More than anything," I said. I moved closer to her and took her hands. I had run from her for nine years. I couldn't do it anymore. "I'd rather never be away from you again, Beatrice. I want to stay here and make tea for you until we grow too old to hold teacups, I want to listen to every record you have until I know them all and know all of you. I want everything we've missed the past nine years, I want to figure out where our lives are going and go wherever that is with you."

It can be hard to admit the feelings you have for people, as you never know what is going to happen, and sometimes the best you can hope for is just to tell them anyway and hope that they feel the same way, and if they don't at least you've done something, and can wallow in a little less misery than you would've if you'd never said anything at all.

But Beatrice's smile went bright and delighted as I talked, and she tangled her fingers into mine. "I'd like that," she said softly. "I'd like that a lot. I thought about that, things like that, all these years. But I didn't know if I'd see you again, so I didn't think it could really happen. But now you're here, and I'm so glad that you are, that we could have the chance to try again."

Our faces were so close together now, I could count every single faint freckle on her nose, and then every individual eyelash as she came even closer. There was just Beatrice and I, in this moment, nine years of waiting no longer between us.

And then the phone rang.

Beatrice and I stepped back from each other. Her cheeks were still red and I was sure she could hear my heart beating in my chest. We stared at each other for a few more seconds before realizing that the phone was in fact still ringing. Beatrice cleared her throat and picked up the receiver, tilting it so we could both listen. "Hello?"

"He was just here," came Olivia's voice, hushed and quiet. "In the bar. He came in, looked around, and then left, just a moment ago. If you move now you might be able to catch him."

Beatrice frowned. "We're on our way," she said, and hung up. She turned to me, and her mouth curled slowly back up into a sharp grin. "Are you ready, Mr. Snicket?"

"I'm ready," I said, because I was. We stopped briefly to ask Hector if he'd come up to the apartment to stay there while we were gone, on the off chance that someone tried to get in after us. Then we high-tailed it to Bayberry. Beatrice and I got there in time to see the back of Ernest Denouement a block ahead of us, weaving in and out of the small crowd of people moving through the city. We sped up to keep an eye on him. He walked at a furious pace, a suitcase swinging from his hand.

I've said before that the key to following someone is to follow someone who doesn't expect to be followed, but that doesn't always work out to be the case. Ernest was the kind of man who looked like he knew he was going to be followed and was going out of his way to make sure no one could do it. He loitered in doorways and alleyways, plucked the hats off of strangers, and at one point even doubled back through the same shopping district. Beatrice and I had a hard time keeping an eye on him as we employed similar tactics in following him. We'd all had the same training, after all.

"What do you think he's got?" Beatrice asked quietly as we sidestepped around a group of people walking just as quickly as we were but in the opposite direction. "Where do you think he's going?"

"I don't know," I said. I didn't like not knowing. There was no way he could have the sugar bowl, since it was still in Beatrice's apartment. The suitcase looked like it had a weight to it, as it swung heavily in Ernest's hand, so it had to contain something. Another sugar bowl? Another piece of evidence? The required belongings to successfully skip town, leave the country?

"What do you know about Ernest?" I whispered. "Besides the fact that he isn't as trustworthy as we thought he was."

"Very little," Beatrice admitted. "I've rarely ever seen him. What about you?"

"I met him once," I said. "At least, I'm assuming it was him. He was with my sister and Olaf. I got the impression that he was good at hiding things."

Ernest made the mistake of looking behind him just as Beatrice and I made the mistake of making eye contact with him. The three of us froze for a good five seconds before Ernest turned tail and ran down the street, pushing people aside in his wake.

We ran after him.

He tried to lose us down more alleyways, in more disguises, but Beatrice and I, racing behind him hand in hand, were too quick for him. We'd already chased him this far. We weren't going to let him go now.

He brought us to a modest apartment building. Ernest tore open the door and rushed inside. Beatrice and I hung back for a moment to make him think he'd lost us before moving silently inside. The lobby was dark but clean, and deserted. I could hear Ernest already slamming his way up the stairs.

I followed Ernest first, as my shoes were softer than Beatrice's on the staircase. When he disappeared into a room on the third floor, I leaned over the railing and motioned for Beatrice to come up.

We surveyed the door Ernest had entered from the end of the hallway. I gestured to Beatrice to ask if we should just kick the door down, and she gestured back that, with her heels and my shoes and the sturdiness of the door, it probably would take a few unnecessarily noisy kicks. I gestured to ask again if she had any sort of weapon on her, to which she pulled her gun out of her handbag. I felt reassured but also nervous. I was worried about it going off, accidentally or on purpose. Beatrice caught the look on my face and shook her head. It was what we did. We didn't have the time to worry.

The two of us inched down the hallway, and that was when we noticed the door was in fact already cracked open. Light slid out from the opening into a thin, almost imperceptible white line across the floor. No wonder we'd missed it. I pushed on the door, just a bit, and held my breath as the opening widened and Beatrice and I peered through.

One often expects sinister people to have a sinister look about them, but this isn't always the case. It was not the case with Ernest Denouement. He didn't look suspicious at all. He looked just like his brothers, which is to say he had a narrow face and dark eyebrows and a look about him that made him appear to always be searching for something. I had seen the look on Dewey quite a few times. But it could also have been because Ernest was digging through the suitcase.

The rest of the room was almost carefully bare. There was a table, on which Ernest had set the suitcase. There was a chair. There was one window. There was another door on the left wall, closed and with just the faintest bit of light coming out from the bottom. I looked back at Ernest and noticed what he'd been taking out of the suitcase—tight rolls of bandages.

I wanted to watch a little longer, to see what Ernest would do, but he was a man on a mission as he searched through the suitcase. I didn't think it would be wise to linger any more than we already had. We had a job to do, at the end of the day. I opened the door the rest of the way.

"Ernest," I said.

Ernest's head jerked up, and he stared at us with cold eyes. He dropped the bandages in his hands. "Well," he said. "It looks like this is it." He was surprisingly collected for a man cornered in a small apartment.

"You tried to kill me," Beatrice said behind me, her frown clear in her voice. "You killed Esmé instead. You broke into my apartment. I wouldn't have expected that from you, Ernest. I don't know you well, but I held you in a very high regard, just like your brothers. I considered you an associate."

Ernest shrugged, although his mouth seemed to tighten when Beatrice mentioned his family. "I was following orders. You would've done the same, I think."

"Whose?" I asked.

He shook his head. "It'll take more than that to get me to talk, Snicket. And by that time, I don't think you'll care."

I frowned myself. I didn't like it. I didn't like any of it. He didn't act like a man at the end of his rope. He acted like a man playing a part. All of us did that. I just didn't have a good feeling about Ernest doing it.

"That's enough," Beatrice said. "You're coming with us."

And he came with us with a very minimal amount of fuss. I remained in the room while Beatrice took Ernest aside and secured his hands so he was less likely to get away. I was staring at the door at the end of the room and the thin sliver of light underneath it when Beatrice came back in.

She took my hand. "We've done what we can," she said. "We've done more than we were supposed to, even. Both of us. Someone else can look into it now."

I knew she was right. I looked at my hand in hers and also knew that I'd had enough, and so had she. It was time to go.

We took Ernest and his suitcase to headquarters. I was thinking about how fractured all of our allegiances were becoming, and so, it seemed, was Beatrice, so we didn't take him to the one in the city, instead making the longer trip to one of our other headquarters stationed in a different city. It was lengthy, but I hoped it'd be worth it.

We went back into the city to Beatrice's apartment. It was only when we were inside that Beatrice checked her watch, and she let out a small shriek as she looked at the time. I jumped, as that was rarely a noise that preceded something good.

"Oh, I almost forgot!"

"What?"

"It's Thursday," Beatrice said, pulling off her coat and running to her bedroom. "We have to go to the theater, there's a play tonight, we have to meet Ramona there—"

I remembered, and I looked at the clock on the wall. If we hurried, we could just about make it in time.

She came back out quicker than I thought she would, wearing a long red dress, her hair up and away from her face. She looked at me and smiled expectantly.

"Am I dressed for the theater?" I asked, feeling considerably self-conscious in my brown suit and coat next to Beatrice.

Beatrice looked at me thoughtfully. "Well, your suit could be nicer, but you're wearing a tie, so you should be fine." She walked over to me and I linked my arm in hers.

We took a taxi to the theater on the other side of the city. We rode in a companionable silence, watching the setting sun wash the city in a pale orange. I held Beatrice's hand in mine the whole ride there.

When we got out of the taxi, I saw Ramona standing outside the theater, waving in our direction, her program clutched in her hand. The white lights seemed to make her smile even brighter than it usually was. "Everyone else is already inside," she said when we reached her, "but I thought the three of us could sit together."

Beatrice, Ramona, and I sat towards the front of the theater. It was clean and well-kept, with deep red curtains and dark blue seats. It was a fairly good play—our organization didn't just perform these plays for the codes inside them, but also for our own enjoyment and for the public that attended them as well. The codes themselves were difficult, to the point that an untrained civilian wouldn't notice them, but a volunteer could crack them with a bit of thought. The most pertinent piece of news we received from the play was that one of our buildings in another city had been compromised and was no longer safe to use—thankfully not the one Beatrice and I had taken Ernest to, but we still looked at each other in worry. If it had happened once, it could happen again. I hoped Ernest would be taken care of before then.

That being the only truly concerning moment of the night, a great success as far as outings for our organization went, I watched Beatrice the rest of the time, and the way her eyes shone in the darkness, the way she decoded everything immediately in the commonplace book on her lap. It was nice to sit there between Beatrice and Ramona. It was nice to see Ramona mouthing along the words of the play as she took her notes, to see Beatrice so focused, to sit there and feel almost safe between good friends. If this was what it meant to be involved, to know when to stop in an assignment, I was starting to think that maybe I wouldn't mind.

After the play, the three of us walked outside. It was as dark as it had been in the theater, but much more well-lit, and a good deal colder.

"Well, I'm hungry," Beatrice said, putting her commonplace book back into her bag. "Mr. Snicket, would you escort a nice lady to the nearest restaurant?"

"I'd be delighted," I said. Next to us, Ramona hid her smile behind her gloves. I thought it would be polite to ask her to join us anyway, so I did.

But Ramona shook her head. "No, that's alright, I've got plans with Olivia. You two lovebirds will just have to soldier on without me!"

Beatrice laughed, and I felt my ears go red. Ramona hugged both of us briefly, which I was thankful for given our last adventure in hugging Ramona, and dashed off in the opposite direction.

Beatrice and I walked fairly leisurely for someone who had said she was hungry, but she didn't seem to be in that big of a hurry. She had her arm linked through mine again and smiled until I couldn't help but smile too.

Suddenly, Beatrice stopped. "Look!" she exclaimed, pointing ahead of us.

I guess I had known somewhere what part of the city we were in, but I'd forgotten that we were as close as we were to that building. It was a relief, almost, to see it after all this time. "It's still there," I said quietly.

"Of course it is," Beatrice laughed. "Come on," she said, and I let her take my hand and pull me across the street and into the diner we'd gone into so often as children.

It was exactly the same. The booths were still a stunning if slightly faded red, and the smooth black and white tables were still slightly sticky around the corners. The cream walls looked brighter than I remembered, but that was probably because of the night outside and the bright white lights illuminating every corner of the diner inside. The excessively chrome jukebox still stood by the door, and Beatrice paused to flip through the options before she deposited a few coins and pressed one of the buttons.

We sat down in the booth we'd always used, the one in the back where you could see the rest of the diner perfectly, including the exit. We ordered root beer floats and listened to the soft opening guitar of the song Beatrice had picked.

"You know, there's a cover of this song," I said, "where a singer sings it with his daughter."

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "I know. I'm surprised this jukebox had the original. I like it a lot better."

I smiled. "So do I."

It was a little strange to be in that diner as adults. Although I wished we would, I hadn't ever thought we'd do it again. There was something comforting about being back there, looking across the table at Beatrice, alive and vibrant. It made me almost certain things would finally work out for once.

The waiter brought us our drinks. Beatrice stirred the straw in her float idly. "I went out to dinner with Bertrand once," she said, "and he ordered a chocolate ice cream soda. I told him that's considered a crime against humanity and didn't talk to him for a whole week."

"I have nothing against other forms of ice cream soda," I said, "but I do think root beer is the best."

"I agree," Beatrice said. She took a sip and I watched the grin spread over her face. "They're perfect.

I looked down at my own root beer float. I had something I wanted to ask her, not about the investigation but about her, but I didn't want it to seem callous or inconsiderate or like I was asking her to pick a favorite, because that is not really how anything works.

"How do you feel about Bertrand?" I wound up asking, which definitely wasn't how I wanted to word it but was how it came out regardless.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, but she answered me anyway. "Bertrand is my co-star," she began, "in the theater, and sometimes in things we do for our organization. I care for him a great deal. He's very kind and sweet, and very reliable. I like his company. But I—I don't love him. I've always had other things on my mind." Her eyes met mine.

I took an unnecessarily large sip of my root beer float. "Did you really?" I asked, because I wasn't quite sure what else to say.

"I did," she said. "I do."

I stood up and walked to the jukebox. I browsed through the song selection so I didn't think about how my heart was pounding in my chest. I selected one of the songs and looked at Beatrice, waiting for her reaction when the upbeat guitar started.

Beatrice laughed. "That's sweet of you," she said. "I like this one too. Better than his cover of the other song."

"I think this one is my favorite of his songs," I said, sitting back down. "I like to think it's relevant."

"That's because you worry too much," Beatrice said, and she smiled so fondly at me. "I hope it's not all relevant, though. I'd hate to think this is it for us and our relationship."

"I'd hate that too," I said. "Let's hope it isn't."

"You know, I think we have some unfinished business, Mr. Snicket," Beatrice said, and her smile was impossibly grand under the lights of the diner.

"Do we?"

She laughed. "You," she continued, as she reached across the table and took my hands in hers, "are honestly one of a kind."

My heart skipped.

Beatrice leaned forward, but I met her halfway, and nine years after I had done it, Beatrice and I kissed in the back of that diner.

-

A badly-written story sometimes involves characters coming to the height of their happiness, or to a somewhat satisfying end of their plot line, at a crucial moment that looks like the end of their narrative, only for the whole thing to continue and for their happiness to be suddenly stripped away from them in a contrived moment used only to maintain drama at the expense of the story.

This is, of course, assuming that the characters are supposed to end up happy or satisfied. Regretfully, very few of us end up happy, and even less of us are truly ever satisfied with what happens to us.

So it was with a feeling of certain trepidation as to what else was to come that Beatrice and I found out Olaf wasn't at rehearsal when we arrived at the theater Friday afternoon. When Kit didn't show up either, my nervousness increased. My sister had still been following him, as far as I knew. I didn't like the thought that something could have happened that might involve her.

"I know I said we should let someone else handle it now," Beatrice began, later that night when we had dinner, "and I did ask Ramona to check out that apartment Ernest was in, so I suppose all our bases are covered, but I'm genuinely concerned about why Olaf would've disappeared so suddenly. He's not one to miss something theatrical. Where do you think he is?"

I thought about it. Although Olaf had been my first suspect, and I still suspected he'd some something, the evidence had pointed to Ernest. But it felt now like we'd missed something, something important, and I didn't like that feeling. I never have, and I never will.

"I don't know," I said. "We can find Kit and ask her if she knows anything."

"Don't you think we do an awful lot of finding people and talking to them just to find other people?" Beatrice asked, smiling. "I think next time, we should get an assignment with a little less legwork."

I liked it when she said things like next time. It felt like nothing could touch us if we thought that far ahead, if we thought about our lives together and where we'd be going from here.

"Next time," I said, and it came out as a promise that settled between us. I didn't mind. I fully intended to keep my promises to Beatrice this time.

-

We went looking for Kit the next day after breakfast. Given that it was usually rather hard to locate my sister, Beatrice and I found her easily. She and Dewey Denouement were sitting outside a cafe, talking quietly and seriously with each other and sitting side by side, when Beatrice and I approached.

Dewey glanced at Beatrice and me with a certain nervousness, which I felt bad about, given that we'd technically arrested his brother yesterday, but he smiled a little bit all the same. Then he stood up, murmured something to Kit, and walked away quickly down the street.

I kept my face carefully blank, although any expression I made would've been somewhat hypocritical, given that I was holding Beatrice's hand. Kit still frowned at me when we sat down across from her.

"Don't give me that look," Kit said carefully.

"What look?" I asked.

Kit shook her head. "Fine," she said. "Look. I was asking Dewey about Ernest and he said that while Ernest's crossing to the other side of the schism didn't necessarily surprise him, and that Ernest's been hanging around Olaf for longer than I honestly want to think about, that Ernest was with Dewey Sunday night."

It felt as if the world had suddenly shifted, and that everything was falling out from under me in a dizzying, horrifying way.

Beatrice blinked quickly. "He was what?"

"All three of them were at the library that night," Kit said, frowning down at the table. "They were reshelving books until about ten-thirty. Dewey said that neither Frank nor Ernest left his sight the whole time."

Something cold and hard was sinking in my chest. The gunshot that night had been fired at ten-thirty, I knew that for a fact. There was no way Dewey could be lying, not to Kit, not about his brothers. There was no question that Ernest had been the one to break into Beatrice's apartment, but if he had an alibi for Sunday night, then something was terribly wrong.

"Then who?" Beatrice said. "Who—?"

All three of us looked at each other. I saw the barely-contained desperation on my sister's face. All this time, we'd been right. We just didn't want to believe it.

"I still can't find him," Kit whispered. "And if he was responsible for what happened to Esmé, then he's crueler than I ever thought he'd be."

"Then we need to find him," I said. "And we need to find him now."

"We'll split up," Kit said. She divided up the city between us, and was even kind enough to let Beatrice and I look together. Before we went our separate ways, her eyes found mine, and I didn't like the look on her face. My sister should never look so miserable.

"What's going to happen if we can't find him?" she whispered.

It was then that I remembered the sugar bowl, still locked in Beatrice's apartment, and all the secrets it held. I thought about what would happen if Beatrice couldn't get those secrets out, if we couldn't find Olaf to stop him before he carried them out. I didn't like what I came up with.

"We'll find him," I said.

We didn't find him.

The three of us scoured the city, but we still came up completely empty. The day wore on, and so did out patience as he looked for a man determined not to be found.

"There has to be some way to draw him out," Kit said when we met back up at the cafe, running a hand through her hair. "We can't let him get away from us."

Beatrice's eyes widened. "Our play," she said quietly. "On Thursday. We'll change the date to Tuesday. He'd have to show up for that, there's no way he'd miss the actual performance."

"That could work," Kit said. "He does love an audience. But how do we let him know?"

"We'll send a telegram," I said, thinking fast. "To headquarters, the one that was compromised. If Olaf's gone over to the other side as much as we fear he has, then there's a good chance it'll get to him, even if he's not there. It's our only option."

It probably wasn't. But it was the only thing we had going for us.

-

Monday, a telegram was delivered to Beatrice's apartment, with a postmark that had been smudged a great deal more than we wanted it to be, after a day spent in exhausting rehearsal. It was probably the shortest and most cryptic telegram either of us had ever seen, and in our line of work we had seen a regrettably good amount of short and cryptic telegrams.

I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW NIGHT

O

Beatrice set the telegram down on her desk. "We've got him," she said.

-

Tuesday went by quicker than any of us thought it would. Beatrice and I spent the day going over what we would do with Olaf, where we would take him, who would be involved. We'd get through the play and handle him afterwards, take him to one of the headquarters we knew for certain was safe. We made sure Bertrand and Ramona were ready to do their parts. We made sure Kit was already at the theater, staking it out. We ate a late lunch and listened to Beatrice's records, and she whistled different tunes from them while eating crackers to see if I could identify them. I was horrible at it, and she told me as much.

"You're horrible at this," she laughed through her mouthful of crackers. "Tomorrow we're going to go through every single record I own until you know them all."

"Are you telling me I'm going to acquire a newfound appreciation for Tito Puente?"

"Are you telling me you don't already have one? That's practically illegal, Mr. Snicket."

It was too peaceful, and neither of us wanted it to end. I told her as much.

"I don't want this to end," I said, which was probably one of the most honestly romantic things I've ever said.

It made Beatrice's face turn red, and she bit her lips around a smile and looked away. "We'll have all the time in the world," she said.

We went to the theater. Beatrice disappeared to get ready, so I wandered the building, making sure everything and everyone was where they were supposed to be, wondering if Olaf had miraculously arrived early and on time for once. He hadn't. But we still had time.

I spent some of it with Ramona in the meantime, as she was already ready and had been for a while. We sat at a table in her room and entertained ourselves the way we always had—by playing cards.

"I only have one pen on me," I said, watching Ramona shuffle the cards.

She pouted. "Oh, fine. We'll play for your handkerchiefs instead."

Our card games passed in companionable silence for some time, and Ramona made off with several of my handkerchiefs with a series of well-timed card hands. When she was shuffling the cards for another game, I thought of something.

"Did you find anything in that apartment Ernest was in?" I asked.

Ramona frowned, her hands stilling around the cards. She set them down. "Well," she said, reaching into the bag she had hanging over the back of her chair, "I'm actually not sure." She pulled out a plastic bag with a small item inside.

It was a scrap of a bandage, half of it stained a deep, imposing red. I took the bag from her and stared down at it. "Someone else was there," I said.

"And they were injured," Ramona said quietly. "Do you think it was Olaf?"

"It's a possibility," I admitted. "But I don't know." I had a feeling it wasn't Olaf, but I didn't know who else it could've been.

"I don't like thinking about who else it could be, honestly."

"Neither do I."

Ramona sighed. "After tonight, everything should get cleared up, right?" She took back the bag and slid it away. "It'll all work out, and we can all go out for celebratory drinks afterward. Well, celebratory root beer floats." She smiled pleasantly and went back to shuffling the cards. "I think we have just enough time for one more game."

"I'm running out of handkerchiefs," I said, inspecting my pockets.

"That's just too bad, Lemony Snicket!"

By the end of the card game, I was, in fact, another handkerchief lighter. I hadn't regularly played cards in nine years, and I'd paid for it, but I didn't mind.

Ramona sat and folded her purloined handkerchiefs neatly. "You've really got to up your game," she said. "Nine years and you haven't improved! I'll steal your heart away one of these days if you're not careful."

I laughed. "You'd have to take that up with Beatrice."

Ramona's whole face smiled at that, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Go be cute somewhere else," she said, standing up. "I need to fix my hair before curtain." She shooed me out of her dressing room and shut the door when I was back in the hallway.

I took my time walking back to Beatrice's room. I couldn't help it. I was thinking about that bandage, about Ernest. I was thinking about who else could've been there. I thought about someone else, someone I hadn't considered before, and then I put them out of my mind. There were more pressing matters right now. We had to get Olaf. Then we could figure out what to consider next.

Beatrice was still getting ready when I entered her dressing room. I leaned against the wall by the door and watched her zip up the back of her dress with steadier hands than I would've had. I'd already said something many, many times, but I thought I'd say it again. "Good luck tonight."

"Same to you," Beatrice smiled, straightening her dress. "Have you seen him yet?"

I shook my head. "He said he'd be here, and as much as I don't like taking him at his word, this is the kind of thing he wouldn't miss."

"Here's hoping," she said. Then she turned slightly, showing off the entirety of her dress, which was shiny and silver and framed her perfectly. "What do you think?"

I walked over to her slowly. Despite my worries and doubts, everything was still here, including Beatrice. Especially Beatrice. "You look beautiful," I told her. "You really do."

"Don't you dare mess up my makeup," Beatrice muttered, but she kissed me anyway, her arms curling around my shoulders, my hands at her waist.

"Good luck," I said again when she stepped back.

Beatrice leaned her hip against her dressing table and grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. She looked too exasperated and fond to say anything else, so I said it again, just to hear her laugh, loud and bright.

I left her room and started to make my way back to the front of the theater when I heard a voice.

"Snicket?"

I turned to see Bertrand standing in the hall behind me by an open door. "Bertrand," I said. I walked over to him. "What is it?"

Bertrand looked at me, but he didn't seem angry or upset or anything that wouldn't bode well for either of us. Instead, he put a hand on my shoulder. "I wish you two happiness," he said with a genuine smile.

I gave him a smile of my own. "So do I. Good luck tonight, Bertrand."

"Thanks, Snicket."

We parted ways, and I returned to the lobby, which had accumulated a large number of theatergoers in my absence. After struggling through the crowd, I found my sister leaning against the far wall.

"Have you seen him?" I asked when I reached her.

"No," Kit said quietly, her eyes scanning the room. "Not yet."

The crowd in the lobby lingered for a while longer. Kit and I stood at the edge and watched. I saw Hector, and then Olivia, and I saw Dewey, wearing a tie that was a little too loud for the theater but looked nice regardless. He waved at us before turning to talk to Josephine and Ike. Everyone else, all the regular patrons, were a blur. I wondered what it was like, to be able to go to the theater and not worry about codes or associates or whether or not something was going to work out. After tonight, maybe we'd be able to do that.

It wasn't long before the lobby started to empty, everyone going into the theater, and soon it was just me and Kit, looking in opposite directions and thinking. We'd have to go into the theater soon, but neither of us moved. I had the feeling Kit was waiting to ask me something, the same thing she'd asked me on the phone that first day, and I couldn't avoid it this time.

Kit sighed. "Hey," she said. "What really happened? You never told me. You just said it was fine."

"There's not much else to tell," I said. "I went there. I didn't see her. I never do. But the headstone is still there. I looked at it for a long time." I didn't think I'd ever be able to erase it from my memory. Years from now, I'd probably still see the carved letters of Armstrong Feint when I closed my eyes, and feel the same drop in my stomach when I remembered the casket buried beneath it was empty.

"Lemony," my sister said, and it was the use of my name that made me look up at her. It had been years since I'd heard her say it. Kit looked sad and tired, but she smiled. "It's enough."

I looked at Kit and let her words sink in. I thought about Beatrice, and I thought about Armstrong Feint, and I thought about the fleeting memory of Ellington Feint's curved eyebrows, and for one, single second, I really believed my sister was right, or that she could be right, or that I could be right, whatever that even meant. I really believed it was all enough, everything we'd done, everything that had led us to this night.

"Come on," I said, and I even smiled a little this time. "We should get inside."

-

Kit and I sat in the front row. She rolled and unrolled her program in her hands, her eyes fixed on the curtain. I looked around the room and marked the positions of our associates. Everyone was in place. I turned back. The lights went down.

The play began.

It would be just like Olaf to keep us all in suspense, to wait until the last moment to make an unnecessarily grand entrance. I knew the play by heart now from having gone over it so many times, and I knew when his first appearance was. The minutes ticked by and finally, half an hour into the play, Ramona said her line and turned to where Olaf was supposed to enter from stage right.

But he didn't.

A sharp, cold tension settled in my stomach. Next to me, Kit clutched her program in still hands.

Ramona shot a glance at Beatrice and said her line again. Again, nothing happened. No grand entrance, no bad acting. No Olaf.

I saw Olivia take a step forward from her position by the left wall, and Dewey exchange a glance with Hector. The rest of the audience looked, for the time being, blissfully unaware that there was anything wrong. Each second that went by without Olaf's appearance felt like a hand tightening around my throat. Where was he?

Something squeaked in the back of the theater. Kit and I turned, and in the small sliver of light created by the door opening, we saw the man standing by the back row, a familiar man in a particular tie we'd already seen earlier. I almost stopped breathing.

"That's impossible," Kit whispered. "He's already here, he's—" She started to look where we both knew Dewey was stationed in the corner, and then she stopped. "He wouldn't," she hissed. "Ernest wouldn't."

I looked at Ernest a second longer before turning back to Kit. We hadn't counted on this, on Olaf not showing, on Ernest, of all people, being the one to arrive, when he was supposed to be safely out of the way. I felt that dizzying sensation like the world was falling out from under me again and swallowed hard. I could already hear it in my head, like I had when I was a child. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Each thought was a drop of horror into my stomach. "We've got to get Beatrice out of here," I said. "Before Ernest does anything." I looked back at the stage, my mind racing. How was I going to get Beatrice out of the theater? What could I do? What could I say?

"I'm going to do something," was what I said. "Can you stay here and handle it?"

Kit nodded. "Yes."

"I'll need your handcuffs."

She frowned, but she pulled out the handcuffs I knew she had stashed in the bottom of her handbag. My sister was always prepared.

"I don't know what's going to happen."

"We rarely ever do," Kit said.

I smiled. I got up, reminded myself to get scared later, and ran onstage.

It is a generally accepted truth that life is often fairly absurd. I am sure that, for instance, I will once again attend or at least hear about a play in which people are convinced the antics of my associates and enemies are actually part of the play itself. Whether that means people are gullible, or that they just often see and hear the things they want to when when it goes against obvious facts, I don't know.

I gave Beatrice a significant look before I strode towards her with as much determination and confidence as I could muster. "Beatrice," I said, "I arrest you for the murder of Esmé." I brandished the handcuffs for effect.

I saw Bertrand pale in disbelief, the way Ramona's hands flew to her mouth, the surprise masked quickly by a firm resignation on Beatrice's face.

She nodded at me. "Alright," she said. "Alright."

"Magnificent!" I heard someone shout from the audience. "I didn't even see that one coming!"

"There's no one named Esmé even in this play!" Another exclaimed. "What a twist!"

I tightened the handcuffs around Beatrice's wrists. It was the only thing I could think of to get her off the stage, and it seemed to be working. I led her to the side of the stage. "Well," I said, "that'll be all." I pulled the curtain closed.

That, of all things, was what truly upset the audience. "Wait a moment!" One of them called, as the curtain slid together in front of us and sectioned my associates and I away from the audience. "I paid good money for this play!"

"But what happens after the arrest?" Someone else shouted.

"Let's take this into the lobby," another voice said, one I recognized as my sister's.

I unlocked the handcuffs and shoved them in my pocket. "We don't have much time, Beatrice."

"Beatrice," Bertrand called out, he and Ramona rushing towards us, "what—"

"I'll tell you everything later!" Beatrice said.

I took her hand and we started running, leaving behind the confused audience and our concerned friends.

"What happened?" she asked, as we moved quickly through the back halls of the theater. "He didn't—"

"Kit and I didn't see Olaf anywhere," I said. I pulled her through a door and down a short flight of steps into another hallway. "But Ernest showed up. Something's gone wrong."

Beatrice exhaled shakily. "We should've known," she said, "we should've known—"

"We know now," I said. "We've got to get out of here. Our associates will handle things."

When we were outside, the cold wind biting at our faces, I looked back just for a moment through the glass front of the theater to see my sister standing in the lobby, easily controlling the crowd that had gathered around her as they demanded answers.

That was the last time I saw Kit.

-

Beatrice and I raced back to her apartment, taking the back streets to avoid being seen. As we ran, we heard the piercing whine of a fire engine not too far away, and we immediately stopped. We'd been trained to do that.

"That sounded close," Beatrice said, breathing hard. "But we don't—"

"We don't have time," I said. "They'll have to deal with it without us."

We made it back to her apartment safely. Beatrice turned to me the minute we were inside. "What now?" she asked.

"Now," I said, "I'm going to find Olaf." I didn't know where he'd be, but I had a good idea about where to start. It was a place I should've checked much, much earlier. I'd checked everyone else's, after all, but it just hadn't occurred to me to check the most obvious place, and I tried not to feel too bad about it.

Beatrice took a step towards me. "I'm coming with you," she said.

I almost did let her come with me. But I didn't. "No," I said.

"It didn't work the last time you told me that," she said, frowning, "and it's not going to work now."

"Beatrice, please," I said. "Please, don't risk it this time. Just stay here, don't go anywhere, don't open the door for anyone. It'll be safer than you out there." Although her apartment hadn't been safe before, and realistically, nowhere was safe, at least it was somewhere no one would find her, at least for a little bit. It certainly wouldn't take me that long to find Olaf, if he was as nearby as I thought he was and as he said he'd be. I didn't know what would happen when I caught up with Olaf, and it was better if Beatrice wasn't there, even if I wanted her to be. I wasn't going to let anything happen to her this time around, regardless of what I had to do to ensure that.

Beatrice looked like she wanted to argue. It was a look she wore often, but this time, she closed her eyes and sighed. "Alright," she said. "Alright. I'll stay here. But you'll be back," she said, opening her eyes. It was not a question.

I smiled. "I'll be back." I kissed her, and I meant for it to be brief, but Beatrice grabbed my shoulders and held on.

She stepped back a few moments later. "You'll be back," she said, and she let me go.

-

Breaking into someone's apartment is not exactly legal or ethical, but it can be incredibly beneficial. There are things you can learn about a person only from careful examination of their belongings. These are the things they do not tell people, and perhaps the things they don't even tell themselves. It was for these reasons that I went to pick the lock on Olaf's apartment. If he was there, then that would be that. If he wasn't, then I could at least figure out where to find him.

Olaf's apartment wasn't so much an apartment as it was the tiniest room with the smallest door on the topmost floor of the apartment building two streets over from Beatrice's. I was in luck that the door was so beaten and the lock so rusted, so I didn't have to worry about trying to pick it open. All it took was a few meetings between my shoulder and the door jamb.

I stepped into the apartment and lit a match from my pocket. The single window on the far wall was bolted shut, and the room had a musty, shadowy feel. Dirty and patched clothes were strewn haphazardly about the sagging couch and chairs that had been jammed into the small space—if you stepped over them delicately, it looked like you would reach the kitchen, which from what I could see was the only thing untouched in the apartment. I looked past the coffee table, piled high with newspapers and drama magazines and ashtrays and his incomplete tea set, until my eyes fell upon the desk situated between a chair and another door. The mirror sitting atop it was the only clean thing in the apartment. Between the stage makeup and the empty wine bottles were a few photographs. One of them was face-down on the desk, and I picked it up.

The glass was cracked slightly, but the picture inside was still perfectly clear. I looked down at my sister's face. There are very few pictures of my siblings and me, but I believe there are more pictures of Kit than any of Jacques or me, mostly because Olaf once went through a period of photographing her like he was either trying to keep track of her or never forget her, much to my concern. Something twisted inside me at the thought that even after everything, Olaf kept her picture, even if he had hidden it.

I set it back down. I lit another match.

The second frame was empty. I wondered briefly what could have been inside, what Olaf had felt was either so unimportant he threw away or perhaps so important he took it with him, but then I saw the third photograph. It didn't have a frame. It was a photo of Esmé, her face close to the camera, smiling her wicked smile. Beside it was a folded piece of paper, slightly crumpled. I unfolded it. I brought the match closer and found Esmé's quick handwriting scrawled across the page.

I still can't believe Beatrice stole it! Can you believe her? All that planning we did, and she just waltzes in and takes it right out from under me! I'm going to give her a piece of my mind, I swear. I'm going to make her regret she ever underestimated me. I'm going to wipe that smile off her pretty little face tonight.

Call me when you get back in, darling, and we'll celebrate.

A chill ran down my spine. Olaf hadn't initially known, then, that Esmé had been to Beatrice's apartment, because Esmé hadn't been able to get ahold of him. But now he knew Beatrice was alive, and he knew what had happened to Esmé, and all this time he'd been waiting for just the right moment, just the right dramatic moment where he could get Beatrice alone and finish the job Esmé had started.

I dropped the letter back onto the desk and ran out of the apartment.

-

I took the steps up to Beatrice's apartment two at a time, my heart pounding in my chest. I told Beatrice to stay there because she'd be safe, she'd be alright, and I was still wrong. I was wrong again, and if I had to lose one more person to my already extensive list of mistakes, I didn't know if I could take it. I almost went to look for Hector for backup before I remembered he wasn't here anymore. He was still at the theater. It was down to just the three of us, then.

I reached Beatrice's apartment and unlocked the door, flinging it open. "Beatrice?" I called, looking around. "Beatrice?"

It was a scene I never wanted to see.

Beatrice stood by the piano, her gun held steady in her hand and pointed straight at Olaf, who almost lounged as he stood by the couch, his own gun fixed on her. I watched them, breathless and afraid.

Olaf noticed me first. "Why, Lemony Snicket!" he exclaimed, and he pointed his gun at me now. "I should have known you would've shown your face at some point tonight."

"You're just in time, Mr. Snicket," Beatrice said quietly, casting me a quick glance. "Olaf was just about to tell me everything."

Olaf smiled wide. "Well, I've never denied an audience the pleasure of watching me do what I do best," he said, and he schooled his features into a tortured look that seemed strange and out of place on his face. "I did it, officers," he said, in a high, mocking voice, like this was just another play, like we were still in school, like he could still get out of it if he wanted to. "It was me! It was all me! Take me away so I can repent for my deeds against society!" Then he dropped the expression and grinned that horrible grin of his. "Is that how you thought this would go, Beatrice?" he hissed at her. "Is that what you wanted?"

Beatrice's frown deepened, but she didn't say anything. I saw her hand move slightly around her gun, still pointed at Olaf.

"But anyway, I was here that night," Olaf said, that grin still on his face, but it was harder now, scornful. "And I shot Esmé. Of course, I didn't know it was Esmé at the time. I don't go around shooting my friends, thank you very much." He put an amount of emphasis on friends that made me shiver. "Thanks to some quick thinking from Ernest and my associate across the hall—" I thought of the one tenant who'd been able to give me the time of the gunshot, the one who'd said a gunshot's not unusual around here. "—they were able to get Esmé to a safe place to recover. Which she's been doing with no small amount of complaining, I'll have you know.

"I'll admit," he continued, fixing his dark eyes on Beatrice, "that you almost pulled one over on me, Beatrice, by being alive. But that doesn't matter now. Esmé is alive, and she and I are going to make it out of this city alive. And if you give me the sugar bowl, I'll be the nice, compromising man I am at heart, and I'll consider letting both of you walk out of this relatively alive. A gunshot isn't too hard to recover from. That's only fair, I think. And that's providing I don't miss."

Olaf fired. The bullet passed right through the space between Beatrice and I, striking the door behind me and staying there. He made the point that with the proper lighting, he was perfectly capable of killing both of us when he wanted to. He was not going to miss.

I remembered the bandage Ramona had found, the closed door in the apartment Ernest was in, then the inexplicably small patch of blood that had been on Beatrice's carpet before, and it dawned on me that no one had ever mentioned the body, what had happened to it or where it'd been taken. It was because very few people had seen it, and the ones who had really seen it had dealt with it before anyone else could.

We hadn't had the time to notice it wasn't Beatrice. I cursed myself for not following up on that, for getting too wrapped up in too much else to think of the most obvious thing, for forgetting to ask the simplest question that even Olaf had asked—where was Esmé? And we'd paid for it.

"And maybe I wouldn't even stop there," Olaf said, almost casually. "You two aren't my only problems, although you're probably the most troublesome. I'll just go through and kill every volunteer, like your precious duchess, your dear sister, even Bertrand, so none of you ever get in my way again. I didn't say everything on the sugar bowl. I'm not that stupid. And I think you'll understand tonight that I'm capable of much worse things."

"Olaf," Beatrice said, her voice surprisingly calm for someone who had just been threatened multiple times, "I told you before, there's still a chance, you can still come back to our side! You did so much good work before, there's no reason to throw it all away! If you come with us, we can protect you, we can all use the sugar bowl for—"

Olaf actually laughed, his loud, wheezing laugh. "Oh, Beatrice! You always get it wrong, don't you? Just like Snicket over there. You're in no place to make a kind of bargain like that. You weren't before, and you aren't now!"

Beatrice swallowed. Her eyes hardened, all their softness falling away. She looked cold and determined, even with the fear I could see making her shoulders tremble. I knew that look. "I'll pull this trigger if you don't," she said, her voice low.

Olaf grinned at her. "I don't think you have the guts," he said, starting to laugh again. "You'd never do it."

"I'd rather not, honestly," Beatrice said. "But I will if I have to. Think about your associates, Olaf, think about Kit—"

The mirth vanished from Olaf's face in an instant, replaced with a vicious fury. He fired again, and this time it just barely missed Beatrice's shoulder.

"I'm not playing around anymore, Beatrice," Olaf whispered. "I told you that before. I'll do it. Give me the sugar bowl or I'll kill you where you stand."

Beatrice took a small step forward.

I didn't dare say anything out loud. There were things I wanted to say, a million things, probably, but I couldn't get any of them out.

"I want to give you one more chance," Beatrice said. "Please."

Olaf shook his head slowly, a leer pulling across his face. It was the same twisted look he'd given me when he goaded me before. I saw his hand tighten on his gun, and then I had a horrifying feeling about what was going to happen the second before it did.

It happened in an instant. Beatrice pulled the trigger, and the shot rang out, and the bullet went through Olaf's left shoulder. There was a moment of silence where he stared at Beatrice, white-faced and wide-eyed, before his knees hit the floor, his right hand scrambling over the bullet hole that was dripping blood down his shirt. He inhaled, a rough, rasping noise that caught at the end. Then he fell forward, and all the breath fell out of him too.

Beatrice lowered her arm. She took in a long, deep breath and then turned around and looked at me, her face still set.

She was right. There was a point at which you could talk and another at which you had to act. I had done that with Hangfire. She had done that with Olaf. This was what our lives were.

It was what my life was, but I didn't want it to be Beatrice's.

I stepped in front of Beatrice and took the gun from her hand. "You weren't here tonight," I told her. "You and I lost track of each other once we left the theater. Olaf and I were here alone. You came back in an hour and found him."

I didn't know if it was the right thing to do, or the wrong thing to do, or if that was even going to matter in the long run. But I figured it might be what I had to do.

I said before that people do difficult things for more or less noble reasons, but it wasn't as clear as that. People do things—not noble or wicked things, just things—for reasons. It probably didn't matter which side we were on, whether or not what we did was right, or wrong, or too much, or not enough. Sometimes it was just what you had to do. Maybe it wasn't what you wanted to do. But it was what you had to do. We all had our parts to play, and these had to be ours.

"No," Beatrice said firmly. "This—I did this—you can't, I'm not going to let you—"

"I'm not going to let you become a murderer," I said.

"You couldn't let Hangfire go free," Beatrice reminded me, "and I couldn't let Olaf go free. I had to, and I don't regret it—"

"You don't now," I said, "but you're going to wake up one day, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, and suddenly realize you do."

"I don't need you to protect me," Beatrice said desperately, "I don't want you to protect me, I just want—I just want you, here, with me, doing what we can, and I don't care where that takes me, just as long as it's with you, and—"

I put the gun in my pocket and took her face in my hands, her skin smooth against my shaking fingertips. "I'm not going to let what happened to me happen to you," I said, "and nothing is going to change that."

"You'll have to go away," Beatrice whispered.

"I will," I said, and I wanted to ask her to wait for me, or to come with me, to run away where nothing could touch us, where we could go and figure out what everything really means, but I couldn't ask that of her. I loved Beatrice more than anything, but I couldn't. I stared at her and took in everything—her deep brown eyes, the pieces of hair that curled by her chin, the way she looked at me with all the love I ever wanted. Take a good look, I told myself, because this is all you're going to get. I started to take a step back. "Maybe it's for the best," I said instead.

"Wait," Beatrice said, and she pulled away first and ran to her bedroom. I saw her fumble with the drawer in the bedside table and pull out the sugar bowl and bring it over to me. "Take it."

I frowned. "No, you—"

"Take it," she insisted, pushing the sugar bowl into my hands. "Hide it for me. We'll need it later."

"No one else is going to know what happened," I said.

"Not until you come back. And you are coming back, you're going to meet me at our diner in a month when this is all over, after I've handled Esmé, and we're going to fix everything. And in the meantime, I'll know the truth," Beatrice said fiercely, her eyes flicking back and forth between mine. "I'll know."

I put the sugar bowl in my other pocket and took her hands in mine. I wish you did, I thought. I wish you could. I wish you could know every truth, every mistake, everything I've tried and failed to do, everything I will go on to try and do.

I wish you understood why I couldn't, why I wouldn't meet you at the diner in a month, why this couldn't happen. Because you and I, Beatrice, we wouldn't work out, not in the end. I will wish, on long, dark, cold nights, where the only thing keeping me warm is the memory of your smile, that we did work out, but we will not.

"You'll know," I said, and if she heard the fear in my voice she didn't comment on it. I leaned forward, very slowly, and kissed her on the cheek.

Beatrice's mouth trembled. "You're one of a kind, Mr. Snicket," she whispered.

I tried to smile. "Good-bye, Beatrice."

-

I made sure that Beatrice slipped unseen out the back alley before I exited the building by the front entrance. It was past midnight now. I walked quickly through the streets, doing my best to avoid the streetlamps, the sugar bowl clunking occasionally in my pocket. I could hear the sirens again, this time a little fainter, and I wondered vaguely where they were. When I reached the end of the street, I heard a familiar rustle, and then an equally familiar cough. I paused, looked at the nearby bushes, and waited.

A few moments later, Jacques Snicket stepped into the street. My brother and I looked at each other for a long time. It felt like too many years since I had seen Jacques, since I could look him in the eye. But he didn't look disappointed, or upset, or anything I'd imagined he'd be when we finally caught up with each other. Instead, he looked as tired as I felt, just like Kit always did.

I pulled out the sugar bowl. "I need you to hide this," I told Jacques, pressing the bowl into his hands. "And I mean hide it."

Jacques looked startled for a moment, and then he looked down at the sugar bowl and his expression turned to one of resignation. "I shouldn't," he said.

This was no time to get angry at Jacques, so I tried not to. "Please," I said.

Jacques sighed. "Alright," he said, and he slid it into his pocket. "What's on it?"

"Information about Olaf and Esmé we might need later. I don't know what's going to happen until then, so we need to hide it."

He looked at me. "I heard the gunshot."

"Olaf's dead," I said quickly. "I did it."

Jacques smiled a little. "I don't think you did."

It was nice that he still had such faith in me, even if I'd done it before and was clearly capable of doing it again, or of at least taking the blame for it.

"I have to leave," I said.

"I can get you out on the Prospero in the morning."

"No." I shook my head. "No one from V.F.D. can know where I'm going. I—" I bit my lip. "I don't know when I'll be back," I said, and it was at this point that my voice broke. I turned away from Jacques, but it is very hard to hide things from your siblings, and I know he saw my shoulders start to shake.

Jacques hugged me. I hugged him back. When we let go, he looked me square in the face. "It'll all work out," he said.

No it won't, I wanted to say. I'm just being a coward, because I would rather run to protect everyone than do it for real, than own up to my mistakes, I wanted to say. I hope we see each other again, I wanted to say. I didn't say any of it, and I never saw my brother again.

I started walking.

-

It wasn't long until I found myself at the phone booth again, the one where Kit had first told me about Beatrice. That felt like a lifetime ago.

I dialed a phone number. Even though it was late, it only rang twice before someone picked up. "Bellerophon Taxi Service and Mobile Library."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I need a favor."

I heard the smile in his voice. "Anything, Snicket," Pip said.

"I need you to hide me."

-

The month that followed was not the best for our organization. During the play, the fire-starting side had burned down the city's headquarters, and some of the associates in there at the time did not survive. In the scuffle that ensued, Ernest was able to successfully get Esmé out of the city and to a location where she could continue to recover from Olaf's gunshot and carry out her nefarious plans from afar. Because of this, Beatrice was not able to handle Esmé as she had planned. Her last hope for saving the situation was the sugar bowl.

The sugar bowl containing the information against Olaf and Esmé that I'd given to Jacques to keep safe until we needed it was lost that night, when Jacques went back to headquarters as it burned to see what he could do. My brother was unable to tell Beatrice what had happened to the sugar bowl, and Beatrice still believed that I had it.

Between the theater, the fire, Olaf's death, the loss of the sugar bowl, Esmé's assumed death and actual disappearance, and my disappearance, which had been preceded by a string of actions that were going to be hard to justify without the sugar bowl, no one could really be sure what happened that night. Even Beatrice found she wasn't sure, and she had been there in person. Everything that happened afterward made it too unclear, and when I didn't show up at the diner a month later to discuss the contents of the sugar bowl, which no one could even find anymore, she had to assume the worst. I let her.

The fire-starting side, assuming I had already caused them enough trouble, even though I think the trouble I have caused spreads to everyone, even beyond the schism divides, took the opportunity to covertly carry out the crimes mentioned in the sugar bowl and blame me for them.

I let them do it. I couldn't do anything to stop them anyway, without the sugar bowl. And the more reasons I had to stay hidden, to prevent myself from interfering in the lives of people better off without me, the better. I let it ruin my relationships with everyone, my siblings, my friends, even with the Bellerophons, even after they'd found a place for me to hide, because I didn't want them involved anymore.

I think it goes without saying, then, that I never saw Beatrice again.

-

It took me longer than I wanted to find out what became of Esmé. By the time I'd found her again and had figured out what else she had planned in the intervening years, it was too late. On late nights, I wonder if I could have done more to stop her, to stop the newspaper headline that officially pronounced Beatrice Baudelaire dead. I'm still not sure. I'll probably never be sure. And if I couldn't stop what came afterward, then the least I could do was write it down.

There was a city, and there was a fire, and there were three children.

I went to work again.

-

notes:

we did it cats!!!! we made it!!! we climbed this whole mountain!!!!

so this fanfic is based off a 1944 noir movie called Laura. I changed some things around in order to fit the asoue-verse, but the premise is the same -- detective falls in love with seemingly dead woman -- which I always thought was a weird and interesting concept. so definitely check the movie out!! it's got YOUNG VINCENT PRICE in it and you can find it streaming on TCM's website sometimes OR watch it on archive.org!!

by the way, this is the song that beatrice plays in the diner, and this is the song lemony plays.

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ninety Five

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 13th, 2000

Remy resisted the urge to bang his head against the desk in boredom. His professor hated him, he knew all of this, and he couldn’t wait to get out of here so he could just chill in his dorm room, or maybe eat. He needed a break.

“Mister Picani?” the professor cut through his thoughts.

“Hm?” Remy asked, looking back to the front.

“Do you have the answer?” the professor asked impatiently.

“Depends on the question,” Remy replied.

The kids laughed, and the professor’s lips thinned into a line. “See me after class,” he said.

Remy sighed as the professor moved on. Bored and now in trouble, too.

Great.

  January 20th, 2004

Remy did his best to give a stern glance to himself in the mirror, but only wound up wincing as he saw what he looked like. He was wearing a nice suit, complete with one of Emile’s non-cartoon-themed ties. He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do today, but this look wasn’t cutting it.

“How you doing, Rem?” Emile asked from the edge of the bedroom.

“I feel like a monkey in a suit,” Remy said, gripping the ceramic counter and snarling at his reflection. “I don’t want to go into the school looking like this.”

“You know, you don’t have to impress your old business professor,” Emile pointed out. “Just because he asked you to answer some questions from the up-and-coming business students doesn’t mean that you have to deal with,” Emile gestured vaguely to Remy’s reflection. “This.”

Remy undid the tie and sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But can I really go in there with a blouse and slacks and expect to be taken seriously?”

Emile shrugged. “If you walk in there with confidence, probably,” he said. “Besides, most of the business students already look at you like you’re a celebrity. You’ve got this.”

Remy sighed and nodded, pulling the tie out of his collar. “You know what? You’re right. I’ll save the suits for weddings,” he said decisively. He stripped as he exited the bathroom, and was in nothing but his briefs by the time he went to the closet. He pulled out a pair of slacks that made him feel more cute than sophisticated, and pulled out that wild diagonal light-blue-and-purple blouse with all the ruffles. “Now this... this I can get behind.”

Emile snickered as Remy slid the blouse down his arms. “What?” Remy asked with an embarrassed blush.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Emile rushed to assure. “I just find it funny that your business professor is going to have to walk you into a classroom full of eager students, you dressed up in a blouse and those slacks that make your butt look fabulous, and admit that he failed to teach you and you still became successful.”

Remy absorbed that information, before offering Emile a shy grin. “Okay, you’re right, that’s kinda funny,” he admitted.

Emile grinned. “See? You’re gonna kill it, Rem. I know you, and I know enough about that class from you ranting to me about it when we were freshmen.”

“If you say so...” Remy said with a little shrug. “I don’t know about killing it, but I’m definitely going to make that professor red in the face, and that makes it all worth it.”

Emile kissed Remy’s cheek and helped him with the last button on the blouse, before leaving Remy to pull up the slacks. “Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

Remy nodded, and the two of them went downstairs, Emile cooking up the eggs while Remy made the toast, because Remy didn’t want to get any grease splatter on his nice blouse. They ate in the kitchen standing up, just like old times in their apartment, and Remy hummed. “You’re getting better at eggs, Emile, I gotta admit,” he said with a little grin.

“Thank you, I do try,” he said. “It’s not fair to make you make all the meals we have, after all, not with your job.”

Remy shrugged. “I don’t mind most days, but I see your point,” he allowed.

They went to the car and Remy fidgeted only a little. He was admittedly, worried. He was an out and proud gay man at the shop, but now? He wasn’t going to the shop, he was going to a college classroom full of freshmen, who weren’t as open and exposed to things like the LGBT community if they didn’t go looking for that. And it was a little scary, thinking that today, he was gonna have to show to these freshmen what gay and successful looked like. Whether he wanted to be or not, he was going to be making an impression on these kids.

“Hey, you’re gonna do great, Rem,” Emile reassured.

“I know,” Remy groaned. “It just...it sucks that I have to make an impression on these kids, while barely being more than a kid myself.”

“Yeah,” Emile agreed. “I think if this becomes a regular thing, you’ll cringe at your first presentation eventually, but you’d get it done. You’re freaking amazing, Remy. I have no doubt that you’ll make a good impression. And if you have to make an impression, I’d prefer a good one to a bad one.”

Remy nodded, swallowing. They went to the college campus, and Remy’s ears were roaring as his heart pounded. It looked the same as ever, but it felt different to Remy, returning as not a student, not a ride, not a boyfriend, but a guest lecturer. “Oh, God,” he breathed.

Emile smiled, walking with him to the business building. “I’ve gotta get to my classes, but I’ll see you soon, okay?” Emile promised. “I love you.”

“Love you,” Remy said, getting a quick kiss from Emile before walking inside the business building.

He felt somewhat self conscious, dressed the way he was, but he walked down the hall until he saw his old professor, shaking his hand. “Good to see you again, Professor Fleming.”

“You too, Remy,” his old professor said. “You were one of my worst students, but also one of my favorites. I knew you could do something like this if only you applied yourself.”

“I guess you were right,” Remy said with a long-suffering sigh.

“What was that? Didn’t quite hear you,” Professor Fleming said with a smug grin.

“You heard me,” Remy grumbled.

“Nice to hear it, too,” he said. “Shall we go in? This will be all my business class students who are taking one hundred one level. I made sure you wouldn’t have to do this more than once over the course of the week.”

That made the whole prospect slightly more terrifying, but Remy nevertheless nodded. “Sure. May as well give it a shot.”

Professor Fleming walked in, and Remy followed behind him. The whole class quieted when they saw Remy, slouching against the professor’s desk in a bright blouse and dress pants. Remy could feel a slight heat building up in his ears. “Class, this is Remy Picani, the local store owner of Sleep Easy. Behave yourselves when you ask questions,” the professor said, giving the class a stern glance, before moving to sit in a seat in the front row of the classroom.

“Okay...right,” Remy said. “You all by now know my name, and most of you will probably forget it over the duration of the lecture. That’s okay, so long as you remember that I make a mean cuppa joe.” Ripples of laughter went through the class. Remy smiled, relaxing into a more natural pose. “Now, I want to make one thing abundantly clear: I am the exception, not the rule, okay? College isn’t for everyone, and that’s fine. But if you think you can drop out of college, start out on your own from nothing and become a successful business owner? Think again. I only got the property I did through my fiancé’s trust fund. And I only knew what I did about business because I read through all the books that were on the recommended reading list before I even went to college. So don’t look at me, go, ‘If he can do it, why can’t I?’ and try to follow in my footsteps. Not least because of the fact that I value my position as the only small business café on Main Street.” More laughter. “But go on, fire away some questions. I don’t have a structure for these sorts of things, this is actually my first lecture. We’ll go about this process together.”

A hand went up and Remy pointed to the girl. “Exactly how much math goes into running a business?” she asked.

“More than I’d like,” Remy said, laughing. “No, but. In all seriousness, it’s a lot of math. Not only to keep track of sales versus costs, but also number of people each day, reviews, and cash flow. There’s... so much math. It’s exciting, in a daunting kind of way. Like, I had the sort of mind that could have been an accountant. I would have been bored to tears, but I could do those sorts of equations. And make no mistake: you have to be good with those sorts of things in order to get through the other side of business that no one talks about.”

Another hand, and Remy pointed at the guy. “What inspired you to start the business?”

“A string of bad luck and upper management not taking me seriously as potentially becoming one of them,” Remy replied. “They didn’t want me running a shop, even though I knew everything that went into it. So I made my own.”

Another. “Why are you wearing a blouse?”

Remy turned red as murmurs went through the classroom. The professor coughed. “Let’s stick to the business side of things, please,” he said.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll answer,” he said. “I feel more comfortable and confident in this blouse than I do wearing suits. And since I’m my own boss, I can do that sort of thing.”

The questions he answered were mostly business focused, but there was the occasional jab at his dress or his sexuality. It was no secret that he and Emile had their kiss published in the paper.

One hand went up, and Remy inwardly cringed, as he could see the silver cross dangling from her neck. “Yes?” he asked her.

“Is there anyone you don’t allow in your shop?” she asked.

Remy relaxed a little. “Sure. People who are mean to the staff don’t exactly get welcomed in my shop. And then there are the loiterers, who I have to shoo off from time to time. And of course, there’s the homophobes...”

“You don’t allow people who disagree with being gay in your store?” she asked. “Isn’t that bad for business?”

“It’s a college town, I manage,” Remy said with a weak smile.

“But you’re shutting them out for their religious beliefs,” the girl protested. “That’s discrimination.”

“Actually, it’s not. Because you can choose to be accepting of gay people. You can’t choose being gay. There’s a difference,” Remy pointed out. “So I don’t let homophobes who are blatantly homophobic in my shop. Of course, hanging up queer art around the place from local artists probably doesn’t endear my shop to them any.”

“But—”

“Kid, what’s your name?” Remy interrupted.

“Shirley. And I’m not a kid,” she huffed.

Remy shrugged. “Your mental development is years of difference from mine, so to me, you’re a kid. Look. You’re in college now. You’ll find that a lot of people around you will do things you don’t agree with. A lot of people will be things you were taught were bad. And they’re not. You don’t have to join in, you don’t have to be that if you don’t want to be. But your personal opinions shouldn’t dictate anybody else’s experience. I don’t allow homophobes in my shop because I’m gay. I don’t feel safe around them, and like I said, it’s a college town. I manage. But I really don’t want you walking away from this thinking you should discard everything I say because I’m a ‘sinner.’ I may be gay, but I’m also a business man. And those two may have overlap in some places, but by and large they don’t. So don’t dismiss me right off the bat. Sound good?”

The girl sank in her seat and shrugged. “Shirley, see me after the class, all right?” Professor Fleming said. “Thank you for being understanding, Remy, I’m sorry about that.”

“Hey, I’m always trying to educate when I get the chance,” Remy joked.

The rest of the lecture went off without a hitch, and when Emile came over to drop Remy off the keys to the car, Remy felt bold enough to kiss Emile’s cheek. Professor Fleming smiled. “Would you be willing to do this again next semester?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” Remy agreed.

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 15

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: OMG we are about halfway through the story. I have like two(ish) weeks of chapters finished, but then things get fuzzy. And now I’m back to work so idk how much time I will have for writing, but I’m trying, babies!!! When you’re finished reading, I’m bringing back a petition for Breonna Taylor. The lack of justice she’s been served is ASTOUNDING. Please sign if you haven’t already. If you have, find a petition for one of the MANY other cases which have yet to be closed. ENJOY THE CHAPTER. XX

Miraculously, Melody had been out for a run the day that Harry brought her birthday gift home. Bea let him hide it safely in her closet, beneath a giant heap of sweaters. He gave Melody extra kisses to make up for the disaster of New Year’s Eve and what he’d said to her the day after, and within a week he thought that he’d begun to wear her down.

The freedom that he felt with the end of his physical therapy was dulled by the constant ache of loss every time he thought about boxing. He needed something to occupy his time. He was getting sick of staring at the television and, despite Melody’s many recommendations, he couldn’t train his brain to focus long enough to read a book.

“What are you up to?” Bea asked as he left the bedroom. She had built herself into a fort on the couch, surrounded by loose papers and books, her laptop perched on her legs. She was working on an important essay and Harry had barely seen her move for three days.

He paused to crouch down and tie his shoe, struggling with fingers that were somehow still sore from the punch he’d thrown at Brute’s. He needed to start toughening himself up again, that was for sure. His entire body was softer than he remembered it ever being.

“For a run.”

“Oh, really? Get that athlete’s body back? Preparing for a summer at the beach?”

Harry chuckled. The more he spoke to Bea the more relaxed he found her, the more teasing she became. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was starting to like her.

“No beaches for me yet. It would just be nice not to get winded walkin’ up to the apartment.”

“Fair enough. Take an extra block for me, huh? I don’t think I’ve moved more than twenty feet all weekend.”

Harry raised a brow. Bea was scanning a sheet of messy handwritten notes and she didn’t glance up until the silence and stillness lasted for a few moments.

“What?”

“Beats moving exactly zero feet in five months, yeah?”

Bea’s eyes widened. She inhaled enough to shift the papers around her. There was a brief moment of tension and then she spluttered out a thin laugh.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” There was a pause and then she snorted again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together to hold back a grin. He tugged the collar of his hoodie down and turned to leave.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. "I’ll take an extra block.”

Bea was still trying to stifle her laughter as Harry exited the apartment and trotted down the stairs, out into the blistering January cold.

***

Harry pushed himself so hard that his muscles started to feel like they would congeal. His lungs burned. But just like when he’d been walking, every time his body told him to quit, he pushed for another block. He pushed until he was hunched over at a stop light, dry-heaving and slightly dizzy. It was then that his phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, swallowing around his nausea.

“Hey, love,” he said as he answered, out of breath. “‘M kinda on a run right now. Can I call yeh back?”

“I, uh...” Melody sounded off. Her voice was muted and in the silence that followed, as she hesitated, he could hear her breathing. Even through the phone, the air shook.

“Mel?” Harry felt his racing heart drop down into his stomach. The feeling of sickness there thickened. He straightened up, dragging his arm across his forehead to keep sweat from dripping down his face, and began to cross the street when the light changed, his steps slow. “Wha’s wrong?”

Her next breath rattled, and he waited through the growing pause before she spoke again. “Please, don’t say I’m crazy.”

“What?” he asked. He barely reached the next sidewalk before the light changed again. The cab beside him honked angrily, but he didn’t turn his head. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“I...” He heard her mumble something away from the phone and then her apprehensive breaths returned. “I think I saw Colton.”

Harry stopped moving. “You what?”

Melody groaned on the other end of the line. “I don’t know for sure,” she said. She paused for another breath and when she next spoke, the words seemed to pour out of her. “I just stopped for groceries. I was coming out of the store and there was a guy across the street and he was staring at me. And then I turned around for a second and he was gone. I don’t know where he went. And it looked like Colton. I swear it looked just like him.”

Almost subconsciously, Harry’s eyes roamed the street, the line of shops in front of him and the sidewalk behind him, the space across the intersection. Like Colton might be here. “Mel, where are you?”

She sighed. Harry knew—could almost hear the way—her teeth were working at her lips. “I, um, went back in the store. I can’t get myself to go outside.”

“Don’,” Harry said. “Do not go outside. ‘M comin’ to get yeh. What store?”

She mumbled where she was to him and he nodded though she couldn’t see him, mapping out the fastest route through the city in his mind. Traffic wasn’t crazy, but he knew he could make it there faster on foot than by taxi. He turned around and began back the way he’d come.

“Okay, love,” he said, picking up into a run when he reached the other side of the street. “‘M on my way. Please, don’ move.”

***

“Mel.”

Melody looked up and saw Harry walking toward her, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked around the entrance of the grocery store once before he reached her, scanning the faces.

“Yeh okay?”

She looked at him for a moment, at the intensity in his gaze, and then had to look away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to fuck up your—”

“Shut up,” he said, cutting her off. He leaned down to place himself back in her line of sight. “Stop. Are you okay?”

Melody tipped her head back against the wall she was leaning against, taking a deep breath. She did feel calmer now that he was here, but her insides were still heavy with panic. “No.”

“C’mere.” He held his arms out. Barely a beat passed before she stepped forward, planting her face right into the chest of his hoodie. The material was damp, but she didn’t feel any desire to pull away. Harry’s arms folded around her, one hand tangling in the ends of her hair. Melody didn’t move for a long minute.

“Oh, God,” she mumbled eventually, barely pulling her head back enough to look up at him. “Am I going crazy? Did I just imagine him standing there?”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Where was he?”

Melody took a reluctant step back, out of Harry’s hold, and pointed out through the large glass windows at the front of the store. “Right there.”

Harry followed her finger to a spot across the street, the corner of the sidewalk. “And he just watched yeh?” he asked, scanning the street, looking for a familiar face. “Nothin’ else?”

He was met with silence. When he turned back around, Melody was staring at his chest, her eyes unfocused. He cocked his head. “Melody.”

She gnawed on her lip for a moment and then shrugged. “I thought he waved.”

Harry stared at her. He watched the way her eyes darted along his torso, purposefully avoiding his face, and then reached up to tug at a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She sighed as his thumb traced her jaw.

“Harry, I’m terrified.”

He nodded, taking her by the shoulder to pull her back to him. “I know. I know, love.” This time she clung to him, her fingers tight around the back of his hoodie. He pressed his lips against the top of her head.

All Harry could think of was the time he said she didn’t have to worry about Colton. He wouldn’ come here, love. Had he lied to her?

“This is the first time yeh’ve seen him, right?” he asked.

Melody lifted her face, pressing her chin against his chest. “You don’t think I was imagining it?”

“I don’ know.” Harry tilted his head and stroked her cheek. “I don’ know what to think. But he’s not gonna do anythin’ to yeh, understand? I wouldn’ let him.”

Melody’s frown deepened. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, either.”

A woman with a loaded shopping cart squeezed past them, nearly catching Harry’s ankle. He stepped forward, out of the way, and glanced down at the bags of food Melody had bought. “Let’s get a cab, okay?”

Melody pressed her lips together, eyes wandering away from his face and out the windows. Harry watched her zone out, her fingers loosening in his sweatshirt.

“Melody, look at me,” he whispered, turning her face by the chin. He pressed a slow kiss to her lips when she met his eyes again, and then pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “We’re okay. Nothing is happenin’ to either of us.”

“You can’t promise—”

“I can,” he said. “I promise. I promise I won’t let anythin’ happen to you. And I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

Melody drew her lip into her mouth, letting out a long breath.

“Understand?” Harry asked. She nodded. “Okay, grab your stuff.” He loosened his hold on her and nodded toward her groceries. “Give me some bags and let’s get out of here.”

***

Harry had never seen Melody so jumpy. She seemed to stiffen every time one of his footsteps sounded behind her, echoing up the stairwell until they reached the third floor of her building. She tried the doorknob but found it locked, and fished in her pocket for her keys. When the door was unlocked and they were inside, Harry placed all of the bags he’d been carrying on the counter. He watched Melody lock the door again. She’d been doing that for a while, since she’d started having those nightmares of Colton standing in the apartment, but this time she tried to pull on the door, testing the lock.

“Mel.”

She tensed, swiveling her neck to find him watching her. He raised a brow, but her gaze fell as she stepped away from the door, trailing across the kitchen toward him and setting down the bags she’d been carrying. Harry glanced into the living room, but Bea had earbuds in and seemed to be in her own world.

Melody pulled all of the items out of the first bag in silence, placing them on the counter, folding the fabric up in her hands. Harry sighed, stepping behind her, winding his arms around her waist and resting his chin on the top of her head. He expected to feel the tight bunch of her muscles beneath her skin, but even as he pressed his chest to her back, she seemed to relax.

“Love, what do yeh wanna do?” he whispered. She fell still in his arms. “Wanna call the cops?”

“No,” she said decisively, shaking her head. “What are they supposed to do? I’m not even positive it was him.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Bea beat him to it.

“Cops? What cops?” she asked, setting her laptop off to the side. Her eyes bounced back and forth between the two of them. “Why are we talking about the police?”

Melody was silent. Harry gave her a quick squeeze before he stepped off to the side, keeping a hand on her waist. “Melody thinks she saw Colton.”

“What?” Bea’s eyes widened. She tilted her head toward them, as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

“I’m fine,” Melody assured her. “I’m okay. I’m not even sure it was him.”

Bea looked dubious. Harry felt the same way.

“‘M sure I could convince one of ‘em to watch the place,” he said. “Yeh know, post across the street or somethin’. Would that make yeh feel safer?”

“No.” Melody shook her head without a moment’s pause. “The police don’t make me feel safe, Harry. You make me feel safe.”

“I do?”

Bea snorted. Harry shot her a withering look as she plugged her earbuds back in, but she merely shrugged at him before she returned to her work.

“Yes,” Melody said.

Harry tilted his head forward, pressing his lips to her hair and gathering her up in his arms again. She leaned into him, her cheek pressed to his chest.

“I meant it, Mel,” Harry said. “‘M not gonna let anythin’ happen to yeh.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He drew his fingers through her hair, sighing agains the top of her head. “‘M gonna shower,” he said after a few moments. “Yeh wanna put this food away and then join me?”

Melody glanced at the couch, where Bea had retreated into her own world again, scribbling away in a notebook. Harry shook his head. “No, nothin’ like that, love. Just to shower.”

Melody looked up at him and nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll see yeh in there,” he whispered, pressing a final kiss to her forehead before wandering off toward the bathroom. Melody watched him go, the door shutting between them, and then stared down at the groceries she’d unpacked. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the scene from her nightmare like it was an actual memory. Colton looming in the doorway to her bedroom, Harry peacefully asleep beside her, her body frozen. And in this version, Colton waved.

Melody gathered up everything cold from the countertop and stuffed it into the fridge, unconcerned with placement. She left everything else to be put away later.

The air in the bathroom was steamy when she stepped inside. She’d barely kicked the door shut behind her before she was peeling out of her clothes, tripping on the bath mat. And when she drew back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub, she sighed in relief. The water wasn’t nearly as hot as she would usually like it, but Harry’s hands were warm as he pulled her beneath the stream, stroking her skin, washing away her anxiety like it was nothing more than a film coating her body.

“Yeh feel okay?”

Melody blinked her eyes open, wiping water from her face. Harry was watching her with furrowed brows, his hair dripping past his ears. The concern in his face as she nodded could have made her melt. He reached a hand up, cupping her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.

“Sure?” he checked again.

“Yes.”

His thumb traced her cheek bone and then he stepped forward, holding her again. He’d never held her so much. She all but sank into his chest.

“Got yeh, love,” he whispered. His hands floated up and down her sides for a few moments before he squeezed her hips. Then he pulled away, reaching for his shampoo, and Melody wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt such a complete sense of calm, but she allowed herself to relax back into the water without another word.

Chapter 16

[steve0discusses]

The Fullmetal Alchemist Live Action Movie Part 7: More Philosopher Stones than their PC Farm Can Possibly Render

So last we left off, a bunch of weird stuff was happening. Mustang just set Envy on fire, Lust and Gluttony kind of walked up from stage left, and Ed and Hawkeye just broke out of bougie jail and barged through a chain link fence on some Jeep. Good thing Mustang is here to explain it all to us:

(FYI I am so bad at spelling homunculus. I don’t even know which way is real anymore.)

What is incredible about this movie is just how much everyone else already knows, while Ed knows freaking nothing. Also, if you know about homunculi, then you know about sorcerer stones, and you’d know about...most of the things in Fullmetal Alchemist. Assuming that Mustang, who can look at a homunculus tattoo and be like “yep that’s a homunculus” doesn’t know anything else is kind of a big leap.

This actor had fun. I legitimately enjoy the actor who plays Mustang, I really do.

Anyway, we do get a little bit more explanation at this point by going back to the part where Hughes dies and just...showing it a second time but with this extra  reveal:

(see Hughes die yet again under the cut because this movie did it not just once but twice)

It’s at this point that Hughes turns to the phone and in his dying breath is like “It’s lab 5, go to the old POW camp, at lab 5” but not only did I think that the person on the line was the general (Because Hughes originally said it was the general) apparently now the person on the line is...Mustang? And that’s why Mustang knew about lab 5?

Like it’s...it’s just kind of confusing. I know this plot because I’ve seen the anime, but if you have not seen the anime beforehand or read the books, you’d be so freakin up a creek right now about why we saw this scene twice, and why it was completely different both times.

To make things even more confusing, that whole Tucker side plot is so random, that not even our baddies know what is going on with that whole Tucker side plot.

Anyway we have to give Gluttony and Envy have to do something in order to make their presence make sense. Honestly Gluttony just needs to have a single line in this movie.

Just everything is that same shiny neutral Phong. Look at all that Phong. Like other parts of this movie are passable, this was just so hilariously overlooked.

And like I dunno if this was a teeth harness or not but damn. Damn that looks stupid from the back, hahaha. He kind of lumbers slowly after these 9 dudes (same extras we’ve seen everywhere else, ps—this is still just the same guys) and it’s not all that scary because like...they can easily outrun him. The only way you can die to Gluttony is if you trip and then take a nap for a little bit.

Mustang gets hurt and it’s kind of funny how they shot it. It was actually rough to cap because they have to do so many tricks to not show us exactly what is happening, so they rely on sounds, on zooming in on people’s shocked expressions, because they Do Not Have The Budget to do more than this.

I don’t remember if this happened in the anime, too. Like from this point forward everything is kind of like “can you spot the source material?” because it’s just become so jumbled at this point.

Ed, who as you can imagine is a bundle of emotions by default, suddenly gets really protective of his mean Dad although like...we’ve barely made Mustang seem like a Father. Hell, we’ve barely made Ed seem like a kid. Why would he get weird and conflicted now?

Just the awkward teenage energy that only occasionally stems off of Ed is very unpredictable.

This is a full grown man.

Finally, we make it to Lab Number Five, the correct one this time. It’s got an alchemy circle…

It’s got a ceiling full of...zombie corpses, if you squint real good because I have to shrink all these images (Yes, they fit in the zombie corpses, but could not fit in the North or Father or Ling Yao or like anything Armstrong) It’s got everything that we need to put that nail into that Fullmetal Alchemist coffin, but ran out of time to fully explain or do.

It’s even got Al!

Yep, this is happening now, this part of the show. Ed is just having a WILD TIME trying to keep up with it and so are we.

So apparently Shou could just turn Al “off” this whole time. This explains why Al was just chilling under a blanket for 36 hours, but like...doesn’t really explain how Shou can do this or why he is bothering to do it right now.

But we need Shou because...well someone has to tell Ed what the plot is and what he should be doing at this very moment.

(Winry is here too)

So, with the threat of Winry getting shot in the head, Shou Tucker demands that Ed make it impossible to do any magic, because magic is very expensive and hard to animate. I could be wrong...but I’m pretty sure he also took off his right arm in the show at some point nearish to the end...I think? Forgive me, everything before 2020 is kind of a haze in my memory.

PS him ripping his hand off with all these sparks everywhere gave me serious Star Wars prequel vibes that I can’t explain. Something about the CGI, something about this contrived mess was like “Ah, I’ve felt this insanity before...long ago in a simpler time” and it was kind of nostalgic for me.

GOL LOOK AT THAT.

This Mickey Mouse glove just hot chilling on that sparking end. Hahaha I love it so much!

Shou just...delivers one of the most important reveals, sending Ed on a bit of a spirit journey because the stones he’s wanted for so long are actually very bad.

As you can imagine, because Ed likes to freak out, he has a big ass freak out, to top all freak outs. This actor spent like sooo much of his time just screaming at the ground. Which, I mean this is a shonen, so that checks out.

I’m just letting you know in case you decide to watch this movie and you have some epilepsy issues--skip this part. Just skip it. I don’t personally have it, but like...they went kind of extra in this part.

Now unlike the show, this movie has like...no apology for Dr Marcoh. Freakin stabbed him through the chest and was like “I don’t care if it means we can’t have the original FMA ending I freakin hate this guy” and you know...good on you, movie. Dr Marcoh was a really bad person. Thank you for not even attempting to justify this godawful man.

This crazy ass fanfiction movie.

Anyway, Shou directs Ed to look 10 feet up to get the rest of that juicy content. That Juicy FMA DLC that was within eye distance this entire time but youknow...cropped offscreen so it just didn’t exist.

Can’t believe this wasn’t the FIRST THING you’d notice when coming into this room, since Ed has been hardwired for red stones for like 10+ years. But youknow.

Anyways, we’re getting a ton of visual elements from FMA, just checking off that check list here in the last 1/3 of the movie. But wait, it gets weirder.

What I love about this is that Shou tells us all of this stuff because I guess Ed asked for Philosopher stones once, and even Shou is like...heyyy I figured it out! But like...hell would anyone even want to do this though?

Because that’s what happens when you have Shou freakin Tucker reveal the big master plan when he is not the big master. Like this explains nothing about Father, about Ed’s Dad, about the homunculi, about the corpses in the ceiling, like there’s just no explanation, other than just –“hey! Look at this atrocity I found just now!”

There is actually a horror element to that, where you don’t need to explain everything if you’re doing horror. If this were a horror movie, this would probably...be fine. You could have a fully explained movie by just saying “they turned POW camp people into rocks and now the zombies are here!” and that would be fine.

But it’s just...that isn’t this movie. I had so many expectations. And honestly...I expected way too much from 1.5 hours of content.

So Shou pulls a gun on Ed, which makes sense. Ed is lookin to make stones, and if stones are made out of people—then it’s time to kill Ed. First thing that make sense in this movie, but I don’t know if it makes sense coming from Shou freakin Tucker who made it seem like he just wanted to kill Ed because Ed got him arrested that one time.

It may have been just the translation on my end but like...Shou’s reason for pulling a gun out here was a little nonsense. But Shou himself is already a little nonsense anyway.

So we say goodbye, for the last time, being honest—he’s fully dead—he’s not coming back—to Shou Freakin Tucker. You were a mess Shou. I won’t miss you.

And if I forgot that this guy comes back, I fully apologize ahead of time, but I am 99% positive that I remembered that this guy never comes back.

(He might come back.)

And then Lust is like “Hakuro why did you do that? Like what are you even doing???”

And everyone else is like “Oh, the General. Of course. Why didn’t I uhhh….see that coming?”

Because they had to condense a whole bunch of corrupt Generals for this movie into one character, and so I guess Hakuro took it for the team?

Also these guys are here.

Just every single person standing in this room is pretty confused, as you can imagine. No one really expects to open up Volume 2 of FMA and it’s accidentally printed the last page of the entire series.

Anyway, that’s all for this 15 minutes (It was actually a little short 15 because there was ton of caps) I’m very tired because I did this workout routine with bro that was like 300 squats and I don’t know what day it is. I wrote “update blog” in my bullet journal (because it’s January, so I’m bullet journaling) so I’m just gonna do that because I want to use this green sparkly jelly pen and cross off all of today. Mm. Satisfying.

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/fma/chrono

[starbornvalkyrie]

what we could be | part one

A/N: This is a Modern AU Rowaelin fic, loosely inspired by some major events in my own life. I’m not sure how long it will be yet, or how often I’ll be able to post, but please enjoy my first fanfic ever!

Let's just… see what happens when I get back.

Those words have been running through Aelin’s mind non-stop. The bomb that Rowan dropped before his study abroad program in Wendlyn was Hiroshima to her heart. 

“I don't want you to feel obligated to stay loyal to me,” he’d said. “I don't want to make those kinds of promises yet.”

During the drive from the airport, Aelin cried. She drove straight to Lysandra’s house and cried some more. A week later, she was finally able to eat a full meal, only to throw it back up. The same with the two meals following that.

“I just don’t understand what was wrong, Lys. I thought we were on our way to a steady relationship.” Aelin sat on Lysandra’s bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet, and looked up at Lysandra who was perched on the edge of the tub.

“Nothing really went wrong, hon. I think Rowan is just being your stereotypical college guy. He met a girl who very well could be the mother of his children, which, naturally, made him panic. I mean, you remember what happened with Aedion.”

Aelin had to snort at that. Her older cousin, Aedion, is Lysandra’s fiancé. But years ago, there was a span of time when Aedion was the biggest idiot and asshole on the planet, failing to see the perfection staring him in the face. 

They had just graduated college, and Lysandra had just been accepted to the University of Adarlan to pursue her Master’s in Fashion Design. But Aedion was off to Perranth to start Basic Training for Terrasen’s Army. Needless to say, Aedion turned into a controlling bastard and tried to convince Lysandra to stay in Terrasen.

Lysandra said no, went to Adarlan, and when Aedion’s eight weeks of BT were over, they reconnected. By no means was it easy, but they made it through. The rest is history.

Aelin had to admit, Lysandra had a point. But that still doesn’t tell her what they do now. Did he say that so he can hook up with foreign chicks without guilt? Or does he think Aelin isn’t good enough?

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, it does not mean that you aren’t good enough.” Lysandra took one of her hands. “Aelin, sweetheart. I know how hard it is for you to be rejected, but look where you are right now. Ten years ago, you were barely a preteen fighting her way through the foster system--”

Aelin closed her eyes as the memories of Arobynn and Sam flooded her mind. Aelin’s parents were victims of a drive-by shooting when she was twelve years old. Aedion’s family didn’t know she existed until she had already endured five years of playing human punching bag and hiding her most prized possessions under her pants while she slept on the floor. At that point, however, it was too late for her Uncle Gavriel to claim guardianship. She only needed to last three more months in hell before she turned 18 and could attend Terrasen University.

Growing up, Aelin was always fueled by pure hope, by her fireheart, as her mother called it. But towards the end, even on her best days, she didn't think she’d make it out of there. She was forced to watch her favorite foster brother, Sam, be beaten to a pulp while another was sent to Juvie. All of her energy was put towards getting good grades and staying on Arobynn’s good side. The former was easy, she was always good at school.

The latter… Well, let’s just say there was an incident with a matchbox, Arobynn’s favorite wrist watch, and a can opener. Aelin still has a scar on her left brow from what went down after that.

“And now,” Lysandra’s voice brought her back to the present. “Now, you are a first generation college student about to graduate with a degree in Chemical Engineering. You alone got yourself a full ride to Terrasen U, and you alone have brought yourself back from the depths of hell to make something with the life the gods gave you.”

“But--”

Lysandra cut her off with a squeeze of her hands. “But nothing, Aelin. I don’t care if this man is your mate. I don’t care if you end up growing old and dying with him. You do not need him to dictate whether or not you are worth something.”

Aelin knew when to argue with Lysandra, but after those words, now was not one of those times.

Groaning, Aelin did what she does best: she got up from the floor and went on with her life. 

When classes rolled around in the third week of January, it was easy for her to forget about Rowan. She only had two more classes and her senior thesis standing between her and her Bachelor’s degree, which hopefully comes with an acceptance into the Pharmaceutical Engineering Master’s Program at Terrasen U.

Fire had always fascinated her. The bunsen burners and hot plates and mixing of chemicals spoke to her in a way that she couldn’t really put into words. But fire, while beautiful, can also destroy. So she chose a field that would allow her to burn while creating methods of healing.

It didn't hurt that her TA, Chaol Westfall, wasn’t bad to look at. Last semester, he had asked her out on a couple dates, but she was already starting to talk to Rowan. It didn’t matter now that the man in question is probably off with some bimbo from Doranelle. His loss, right?

About a month and a half into the semester, Aelin finally worked up the courage to ask Chaol to grab coffee after class. She was packing up her books to head home and get ready when the nausea hit. She haphazardly zipped her backpack and ran to the nearest restroom. As she rinsed her mouth in the sink, she mourned the chocolate cake that was now making its way to the Avery.

Her mourning quickly morphed into panic when she thought about what day it was. As she did the mental math, she ran out the door and beelined for her car. Thank the gods no police were on the road at this time because she definitely deserved a ticket for how fast she drove to the pharmacy, then to Lysandra’s.

Aelin sprinted up the steps to her front door as fast as she could and incessantly knocked on the door.

The door opened to reveal a man with his shirt half unbuttoned, hair in disarray. Aedion scowled at her. “You better have a good fucking excuse for interrupting, cousin.” He said it playfully, but Aelin didn't have the mental capacity to roll her eyes and play along.

She pushed past him and ran to the kitchen, not stopping to think about why she knows their fetishes. Lysandra is tucking her breast back into her dress when Aelin exclaims, “I’m late.”

Lysandra, bless her soul, knew exactly what she meant, and ran to her side. “How late? Did you take a test?”

Aelin let Lysandra guide her into a seat and listened to her command to breathe. “Not yet, but I picked one up on the way here.” She looked Lysandra in the eye. “I always get my period the last week of the month, no sooner, no later. I wasn’t really thinking about it last month because I was so busy planning out my thesis, but…”

“...but it’s the end of February and you still haven’t gotten it,” Lysandra finished for her. “Not to play the Mother Hen part, but were you and Rowan always safe? I thought you were on birth control?”

Aelin shook her head. “My body doesn’t handle birth control well, but Rowan always, always, used a condom. When we didn’t have any, we didn’t do it, end of story. Our relationship was so new, we didn’t even do it that much.”

“Okay, well, condoms aren’t always 100% effective, but let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let’s take this one step at a time. First, drink some water, then pee on the stick. I’ll be with you to read it, and then we’ll figure it out from there, got it?”

Aelin nodded, eternally grateful she didn’t have to go through this with Aedion. The Army must have done something right with his brain because he made himself scarce after he answered the door.

She did the deed, opened the door for Lysandra, and they both sat on the floor holding hands for three minutes.

Aelin already knew what it would show.

Two solid pink lines.

Positive.

---

to my tag list: hello, i’m back, and currently in the process of uploading the rest of this fic! please let me know if you do not want to be on my list anymore, or if you would like to be added! love y’all!

@maddymelv​ || @lucy617​ || @tillyrubes10​ || @faerie-queen-fireheart​ || @tottenhamboys20​ || @the-third-me​ || @superspiritfestival​ || @rolltide7​ || @courtofjurdan​ || @sleeping-and-books​ || @aelinchocolatelover​

[anystalker707]

Cardboard Boxes

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader Genre: Angst/Comfort Word count: 1 814 Summary: Gerard and (y/n) are organizing their things when they find not just their things, but also memories

"I told you! I knew that we had more CDs than the ones in the shelves!" I grin pulling some CDs from a cardboard box and inspecting them. "KISS, Led Zeppelin, my Rolling Stones one..." I mutter, setting them back inside the box after checking at least half of them. "We gotta place them back with the others."

"How did they get in here?" Gerard asks and I shrug, placing the box away and grabbing a black folder that lays aside. I swear I've gone through five folders already and none of them have useful contents, all they've got inside are useless papers that I don't even remember why did we keep it.

This one, however, is different. My face lightens up as soon as I see what's inside. "Hey, look at that!" I say getting the papers in hands and foiling it. He shoots me a questioning look before walking over and sitting next to me on the floor. From the papers, I get a picture we took when we had just started the band; there stands Mikey with his bass; Ray, Frank and I with our guitars, Gerard with a mic in hands and Matt with his drumsticks.

When Gerard's eyes land over the picture, they widen and his lips curl open into a grin; he takes it from me. "I didn't even remember we had this!" He brings it closer to his face, analyzing it. "Plain 2002."

"Right?" I ask with a chuckle, moving my attention back to the papers. "A shame we didn't write the date in everything." I comment getting another photo in hands. "Nowadays, we take a step and write down the date and time." He laughs at my comment, handing me back the pic and I give him the one I got. "Look, this one is from when we presented in New York for the first time."

"Why are those here?" He asks, looking at the paper.

"No clue." I say and grab a what seems like to be a page ripped from a notebook or something. It's blank- wait, no, it's just the wrong side. Turning it around, it's seen one of Gerard's drawings. "January 6 2003." I read the date out loud, getting Gerard's attention.

"What? What's this?" He leans a bit towards me, placing his chin over my shoulder.

"Drawing of me." I turn it a bit towards his direction.

"Cringy." He comments, wrinkling his nose lightly.

"It isn't!" I raise my eyebrows at him. "It's precious! Gonna post in Instagram later." I return it to the folder and continue looking through its contents.

"Will you really?" He asks and, without looking up at him, I nod. He whines quietly, leaning his head against mine for a moment before moving away. "Look," He says, holding up a book. "this book Ray gave you in 2015."

"I was thinking about it some days ago!" I exclaim, immediately getting the object in hands and grinning as I foil it. In one of the first pages, there's a dedication Ray wrote. Really cute. Gerard chuckles quietly at my desperate manner, but I just shake my head lightly. "Do you think he remembers about this?" I ask, placing the book over the CDs box.

"Maybe." He tilts his head. "Take a photo of that later and ask him." In response, I raise my eyebrows lightly, nodding.

"Look here," I say handing him another picture. "I couldn't stop laughing while took that one." A chuckle leaves my lips at the memory. "2004 were wild times." I comment and he nods when seeing the picture, chuckling too. There's Frank with his face white because of purposely passing too much powder on his face as a way to mock Gerard in the Bullets tour. He sits with his legs crossed and his hands above his knee, shooting the camera a smug look.

"I can't even find it weird," Gerard comments, "that's basically Frank being himself."

"Yeah!" I agree and get another photo, smiling, "I also took this one that's Mikey trying to look like Doyle Wolfgang. And," My smile grins when I get a photo of Gerard, "you." In the image, he grins as having his hair all over his face. "We could barely see you under all that hair, but you never changed until The Black Parade."

His eyebrows furrow lightly and he pouts as looking at the picture then at me. "It was nice." Raising an eyebrow, I narrow my eyes at him. "At least I liked it." He justifies and I shrug, tilting my head. "Sometimes I kind of miss the white hair, but I then I remember why I hated it."

"Y'know, I can't choose a hairstyle I like the most," I smile, putting on a defeated look, "all of them are awesome and you're always cute." His cheeks redden lightly at my comment and I wink. He rolls his eyes in response. There's a moment of silence as I look through the folder's papers again and Gerard does something himself.

"Do you remember we always watched this?" Gerard hands me a VHS tape box. The Man Who Fell to Earth, it says. "Like, we watched it so frequently that it doesn't even play anymore. We didn't have anything to do? Okay, let's watch the movie again."

"True!" I comment, turning the object on my hands. "We should watch it again. Do you think we can find a DVD or maybe in the internet?" I raise an eyebrow, setting it next to the book Ray gave me.

"Maybe, but I bet it'll be difficult. Or not, nowadays you can find anything." He shoots me a wondering look.

"Not everything; I couldn't find The Anvil by Visage anymore, plus that movie is older than us." I say and he mutters an agreement.

"1998!" Gerard exclaims in a tone that makes me immediately look at him, confused.

"What?" I ask through a laugh.

"This!" He shows me a photo of us together. "When we were in arts college yet." He holds it in front of me and I narrow my eyes, analyzing it.

"Cute!" I smile, noticing we were clearly awkward when it was taken. "Why do we have so much important stuff kept here like this?" I ask as carefully grabbing the photo and placing it between the things I'm not placing back inside the cardboard boxes neither throwing away.

"You get it that we don't touch those boxes since 2013, right?" He asks quietly and I silently agree, getting what he means and not wanting to go further in the subject.

"Smol us in a Metallica concert." I say handing him a picture of Gerard and I in a concert I practically dragged him to. "Here, Frank and I." I give him yet another, where Frank and I stand next to each other and he still had those dreads. "Ray and you." The photo shows Gerard and Ray behind the glass of a studio, both with thumbs up; probably from summer of 2003.

"Do we have this many frames?" Gerard says through a hopeless laugh.

"Damn, I don't know!" Desperation present in my voice as I breathe a laugh too. "No way I'm keeping such important pictures hidden!" I put everything back inside the folder before setting it next to the CDs box. Standing up, I carefully step between all the books and objects thrown on the floor and the open cardboard boxes. One of the boxes has just books and folders inside it, I bend down to take it away from there.

"Look at what I found!" Gerard exclaims and I immediately approach, kneeling behind him and placing my hands on his shoulders. I ask what's it and he simply smiles as showing me a paper with some sloppy handwriting all over it and some small heart drawings here and there.

Furrowing my eyebrows, I take the paper in hands and bring it closer to read what's written, sitting back on my legs in the process. My eyes slowly widen as I understand what's it. "It still exists..." I groan playfully, hiding my face on Gerard's shoulder; I can feel it moving as he quietly laughs. "So cringy..." I sigh, smiling, as reading the paper again. It's a letter, one of the really cheesy ones I wrote Gerard when we were dating. It's not like we lived far from each other or couldn't speak frequently, we were just two idiots in love. Shit, we still are.

"I loved those. Love those." He comments and I smile even more, placing a kiss to the side of his neck and looking over his shoulder, seeing he has a folder in hands now. It's one from when I worked in a instruments store and used to keep the store registers in there plus that's also why it's full of instruments brands stickers. I kept it because of the rare stickers and emotional attachment.

"And yours? Are they there too?" I say in a slightly teasing voice, reaching for the folder. Gerard, however, is faster and moves it away.

"Nuh huh." He looks back at me, twisting his mouth lightly. "If yours are cringy, mine are ten times worse!" His tone is playfully.

"Who cares, Gerard?" I laugh, setting the paper I have in hands aside and reaching for the folder. His crossed legs position is of course a disadvantage to him and I'm able to successfully get the folder in hands, sitting down next to him when doing so. I notice it's kinda heavy when placing it over my lap. Gerard's gaze doesn't leave me the whole time as I grab the letters in hands. I hold up a specific one. "You say it's cringy," I shoot him a bored look, "but those are fucking awesome. Cheesy and cliche as fuck? Sometimes, obviously; but it's so deep and inspiring that they make me want to write too!" His face reddens as his lips curl up into a sheepish smile.

"I tried to write something to match your amazingness." He says flirty, winking.

Not answering at first, I stare at him and finally crack a grin, "Oh my God, now you were cringy!" I exclaim, laughing, "I don't think that exists!"

"I know!" He starts to laugh too and buries his face on his hands.

"God, so cute!" I say placing the folder on the floor and moving closer to him - Gerard's red face comes into view as I pull his hands away. He looks at me with a small smile and I internally melt at the sight. We just look at each other smiling in silence until he leans his forehead against mine and the both of us close our eyes, sharing a silent 'I love you'.