#the weird bases from this session as a result of the secret tasks are incredible

[thiefnessman]

tbh i think bigb’s corri-door rules. i love cave bases and i think the excess amount of doors gives it character

[jcmorrigan]

A Good Listener

Well, it happened. I wanted to write a oneshot for my current shipping poison. And, as usual, the fic took over and wrote itself. I snooped around, and either ff.net doesn’t have an archive for the Netflixverse of ASOUE or I couldn’t find it, and this is most DEFINITELY Netflixverse and not bookverse (though it contains bookverse elements and some mild spoilers for the bookverse and presumably things that have not yet been filmed for Netflixverse). So you’re getting this uploaded right to Tumblr.

Title: A Good Listener

Fandom/Verse: A Series of Unfortunate Events, Netflix series

Pairing: The Hook-Handed Man x The Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender

Rating: PG (swearing, small animal death, nothing actually steamy but implications that there may one day be steam - not quite T but not quite K+ either)

General notes: The Hook-Handed Man will be referred to by his bookverse canon name (so beware of spoilers in the FIRST PARAGRAPH). All the rest of Count Olaf’s associates will be referred to by names I came up with and assigned to them and should not be taken as canon or even popular fanon (though believe me, I’d be flattered if they were referred to by these names elsewhere). Fic assumes Grim Grotto and the revelations within will be played close to the books. 

(Also mad props to @gavillain for story advice and fine-tuning. I don’t even know where my writing would be without you, man.)

STORY UNDER THE CUT HERE GOES

If you asked Fernald what his best qualities were, he would not have thought of himself as an exceptionally good listener. He would instead have cited his acting talent (not entirely accurate) or his skill doing various criminal acts as required by Count Olaf (though with perhaps a twinge of doubt on his own part). In order to save face, he might have even claimed he was excellent at figuring out how to operate machinery such as telephones on the first try. This claim would have been entirely false and would have fooled absolutely no one.

           If you asked a certain other member of Count Olaf’s entourage what Fernald’s best qualities were, however, the first thing they would say was that he listens. He was, in fact, the only person that ever really seemed to listen to them.

           Before the Baudelaire children ever came into the life of Count Olaf and when his nefarious schemes were directed toward other matters than their fortune, he and his troupe were based out of a theatre of somewhat good repute located in the arts district of the city. As it turned out, running a theatre and performing shows of dubious quality was an excellent front for criminal activity ranging from arson to petty thievery to actively trying to undermine the largest secret organization dedicated to justice in the known world. Olaf had filled his theater with what he believed to be like-minded people: the bald man Bolton, the white-faced twins Charlotte and Emily, and Fernald, the one who would often come to be referred to as the “hook-handed man” after a gruesome incident best not detailed within this tale.

           Fernald was a rather exceptional case, as he himself had previously been affiliated with the very organization that Olaf had cursed and spit upon. The great schism had brought him to the conclusion that he was far more suited to setting fires than dousing them, and he had resolved never to look back. This didn’t mean he was exceptional at not looking back at all. Some things he had left behind refused to stay in the past, at least in his memory. Some days, he wished he could set fire to thoughts in order to prevent them from ever coming back to haunt him. Olaf, of course, had seen his prior involvements as an asset; a peek into the enemy’s defenses, so to speak. Olaf was a cruel master, but one with whom Fernald felt like he was on the right track.

           He was attached to his teammates as well. Bolton was difficult to get along with at first, but the two of them had found common ground to bond over after some time. Charlotte and Emily, he could never keep a good handle on which was which, but they didn’t mind Fernald calling each by the other’s name so long as he participated in their gossip sessions. Much to Olaf’s annoyance, when the four weren’t involved in a scheme or rehearsing for a masterpiece by “Al Funcoot,” they could often be found playing cards backstage, with the inevitable result that Fernald would lose.

           That was exactly what they were doing, making a point to ignore Olaf, on the day that they heard him step onstage with an unfamiliar voice accompanying him.

           “Who’s he talking to?” Fernald muttered so as not to be heard by Olaf.

           “Dunno,” Bolton replied. “Should we check it out?”

           “It might be a new associate,” Emily theorized.

           “Or maybe an enemy he’s luring into our clutches,” Charlotte suggested quietly.

           “Or a critic who saw our latest show,” Bolton added.

           “Critics actually watch our shows?” Fernald said in disbelief.

           The cards were abandoned and all four villainous associates gathered in the wings to spy on Olaf and the stranger: a tall, auburn-headed person who seemed to be reacting to Olaf’s exposition with apathy.

           “Wow,” Fernald whispered. “She’s beautiful.”

           “She?” Bolton whispered back. “That’s a man.”

           “It’s rather hard to tell from this angle,” Charlotte commented.

           “ – And, of course, you’ll have to meet the rest of them,” Olaf was saying. “They’re all idiots, of course, but they get the job done. Which is really all I’m asking of you. OHHH, HENCHPEOPLE!” Olaf clapped loudly to summon his associates.

           Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily waited a moment before appearing so as not to give away how closely they’d been watching. “Yeah, boss?” Fernald spoke up, leading the group.

           “I would like to introduce you all to your new associate,” Olaf said dramatically, stepping out in front of the newcomer and gesturing toward them for the group’s benefit. “Avery Orson.”

           “Actually, it’s Ainsley Orlando,” the newcomer corrected in a rather monotone voice that made Bolton suddenly far more sure of his conclusion.

           “Whatever,” Olaf huffed, rolling his eyes. “Avery – “

           “Ainsley…”

           “Will be joining us for all our plots henceforth,” Olaf went on, “as a steadfast ally against those well-read do-gooders.”

           “V.F.D. looks pretty good on paper,” Ainsley stated, “but I’ve become pretty disillusioned with their exclusionary nature and literary elitism.”

           “So, basically, play nice,” Olaf commanded. “Also, Avery – “

           “Ainsley…”

           “ – is part of the theater side of the troupe as well, so hopefully, the Daily Punctilio should be a little nicer to us now that we have fresh talent,” Olaf concluded.

           “So, uh…” Bolton broke in, “you are a guy, right?”

           Fernald smacked one of his hooks against Bolton’s upper arm for that. Fernald, of course, was curious as well, but he wasn’t about to ask a new associate something that rudely.

           “Actually, neither of the binary genders accurately represents me,” Ainsley stated casually, “so if you could all use ‘they’ and ‘their’ pronouns when you refer to me, that’d be great.”

           It was a simple enough request, but one that Bolton would outright ignore over the next month, opting to still refer to Ainsley as “he” and “him.”

           “Well, Ainsley,” Fernald said, stepping forth, “welcome to the – “

           He had extended his right arm before he remembered. Withdrawing the hook, he just gave a shrug. “Team.”

           Ainsley’s eyes followed the hook, noticing the matching one on the other arm. They became incredibly curious, then, about what had happened to put Fernald in such a condition. But they, much like Fernald, weren’t about to simply put a new teammate on the spot.

           There are many things that can bring people closer together. Collaborative art projects, shared meals, fighting together against a greater evil, book clubs, classes in special interests, theatre, and assorted villainy, to name a few. Ainsley’s bonds with Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily were forged mostly through use of the latter two.

           Olaf remained ever the leader, and often times it was hard to tell whether he was proud of the team he’d assembled or whether they made him regret most life decisions that led up to his leadership of them.

           When the Baudelaires came into their lives, it gave them all almost a sense of renewed purpose. The parents of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were quite hated among the troupe, either through reputation or personal experience, and their passing was not mourned. And now that Olaf had his sights set on obtaining their wealth, the others found themselves onboard a fast-moving train of plotting and scheming that was much more interesting than their pre-Baudelaire days.

           However, Olaf’s initial dealings with the children prompted several absences from the theatre, leaving the other five to their own devices and not much to do other than rehearse the “Al Funcoot” piece known as “The Handsomest Zookeeper.” This was extremely hard to do when the man who had insisted upon casting himself in the titular role was absent, but the others made do by propping up a broom and draping a suit over it, pretending it was Olaf.

           “So when do you think we get to meet the brats?” Bolton asked during a stretch of down time; the twins had taken a break to brew some tea that would become heavily sugared while Ainsley, as the rookie, was tasked with changing the set pieces for the next act. Bolton and Fernald reclined as best they could in the front row seats of the audience.

           “Whenever Olaf decides we can actually get involved again,” Fernald grumbled. “You think he was serious about splitting the fortune with us?”            “He better be” was Bolton’s only response.

           After a moment’s silence, Bolton asked, “What do you think of the new guy?”

           “You mean Ainsley?” Fernald replied. “First of all, they’re not a ‘guy.’ Second…they’re all right. They seem to fit in well around here. Good enough actor.”

           “He never shuts up about weird stuff,” Bolton commented.

           “They have a lot to say,” Fernald rephrased. “It’s interesting, sometimes.”

           “Yeah, sometimes.”

           Both were interrupted by a piercing scream. Ainsley, shrieking loudly, pealed onstage. The current set had been meant to emulate a dining room, with a large, crooked wooden table taking center stage. In one feat of unprecedented dexterity, Ainsley leapt on top of this table, positioning themselves at its center and frantically looking around at the stage below, cries petering out into whimpers.

           Bolton stifled a laugh. Fernald, on the other hand, immediately concerned by whatever had Ainsley so terrified, practically jumped up from his seat, rushing onstage at the same time that Charlotte and Emily skidded into the auditorium from the outside hall, nearly spilling their tea. “What’s wrong?” Fernald barked up at Ainsley.

           Ainsley required a few breaths in order to collect themselves before informing Fernald, “There’s a snake backstage…”

           “A snake?” Fernald repeated, and Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all flinched. “What kind of snake?” Fernald hoped not to hear the response “The deadly kind.”

           “It’s just…it’s a snake,” Ainsley responded, visibly trembling and turning circles and circles on the table to be on guard for it. “And it’s RIGHT THERE!” They pointed at a spot on the stage floor where the perpetrator, a smaller-than-usual garter snake, was curiously making its way out from the wings.

           “That…is a very tiny snake,” Fernald pointed out.

           Ainsley had run out of words, shuffling toward the edge of the table that was furthest from the snake’s current position.

           “You’re not going to be okay until one of us kills it, are you?” Fernald sighed. He wasn’t a fan of snakes either. Had the garter snake been any larger, he would have been slightly nervous.

           Ainsley shook their head, their quivering becoming even more prominent.

           “One minute,” Fernald sighed, storming backstage (to the opposite wing from where the snake was) to root through the troupe’s collection of odd props that could conveniently double as weaponry. A snow shovel caught his eye. It took him a few tries to get his hooks in a grip on the handle, and it tilted at an awkward angle as he carried it back out onstage.

           By this point, Charlotte and Emily had joined Bolton in the front row of the audience. The scene was becoming far more entertaining to them than any Jacquelyn Seieszka film.

           Fernald didn’t just kill the snake with the snow shovel. He smashed it flat repeatedly, absolutely destroying its physical form so that it barely resembled a snake anymore. The WHAM, WHAM, WHAM of the shovel hitting the floor bounced around the acoustically excellent walls of the auditorium. After about a solid two minutes of making sure the garter snake was obliterated from existence, Fernald finally dropped the shovel. “The snake is gone,” he announced, turning back around to face Ainsley.

           Ainsley looked back at him with uncertainty.

           “You can get down off the table,” Fernald encouraged. “It’s dead.”

           Ainsley gingerly clambered down onto the stage as Fernald approached them, driven inexplicably by the desire to make sure Ainsley wasn’t permanently traumatized.

           It should not be necessary to point out that Ainsley was ophidiophobic, and didn’t have a good relationship with most other types of reptiles either. The garter snake’s sudden appearance had shaken them, and though the threat was now neutralized, they were still reeling from the scare. Instinctively, they sought a protective bastion until their heart rate had lowered, and so, without even thinking, they closed the distance between themselves and Fernald and wrapped the latter in a tight embrace, grateful that Fernald had stepped up to get rid of the offending reptile and now seeing Fernald as the safest thing in the entire auditorium.

           Fernald was stunned by this reaction, though he didn’t make any moves to shoo Ainsley away. Instead, after some thought, he gently wrapped his own arms around Ainsley, taking care not to jab them in the back with either hook. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “The snake is gone.”

           Ainsley realized what they were doing just then, letting go of Fernald and backing away in embarrassment. “Can we…pretend that never happened?” they asked sheepishly.

           Fernald nodded, a bit flustered himself. “Sure. That’s…a VERY good idea.”

           “Hey,” Bolton called up from the audience. “Somethin’ going on between you two?”

           “Something?” Fernald replied. “What do you mean SOMETHING? There’s NOTHING!”

           “I was just reacting out of ophidiophobia-driven instinct,” Ainsley added. “There really isn’t any deeper meaning behind what just happened.”

           “Of course there isn’t,” Charlotte said teasingly.

           “Why would we EVER think there was?” Emily added, equally teasingly, and the twins’ smirks were both far too gleeful.

           “The snake is dead,” Fernald growled. “End of discussion.”

           “You know what would happen if you two WERE a thing, right?” Bolton brought up.

           “By ‘thing,’ do you mean a couple?” Ainsley clarified. “Because if you mean that, we’re definitely not.”

           “Olaf would figure out some way to use it against you,” Bolton pointed out. “Get you to do what he wanted.”

           “Then it’s a good thing we’re NOT A COUPLE,” Fernald insisted. He knew quite well how ruthless Olaf could be about exploiting where one’s affections lay; that was why he’d been careful to the extreme about never letting Olaf know he had a sister.

           “Right,” Bolton jeered. “Mr. The-New-Guy-Sure-Is-Pretty.”

           Ainsley turned to Fernald in interest. “You said that?”            “NO!” Fernald yelled defensively. “Can we just get back to work already?”            Ainsley gave him a shrug that more or less meant “yes.”

           “And somebody clean up that dead snake!” Fernald barked as he stormed backstage. 

           Ainsley’s downtown apartment wasn’t overly lavish, nor was it representative of one living in destitution. It was small, but for one person living alone, that made sense, Fernald thought as he glanced around it. He felt incredibly out of place there, and wondered how he’d even gotten to that location. Of course, he knew how: it just struck him as a bit unbelievable.

           Olaf’s scheme to marry Violet Baudelaire had gone belly-up. Now the entire troupe was on the run from the law, though the law hardly had any idea where to start looking for them or what their names even were. All five had felt relatively safe hiding out in their own abodes, though when the phone had rung earlier that afternoon, Fernald had admittedly jumped, fearing the law had already tracked him down (and not realizing that the first thing they would do was knock on his door, not call him on the telephone to try to arrest him via audio). It had taken him, as usual, a few minutes to figure out how to answer the phone. No matter how many times he did it, he seemed to always mix up the receiver and the mouthpiece; it simply didn’t click as a natural pattern in his brain. When he finally did get it turned right way round, he practically yelled “HELLO?”            “Is this Fernald?” a familiar voice had asked.

           “Who is this?” Fernald snapped in response. “Who’s calling me?”            “This is Ainsley,” the voice replied. “I kinda want your help with something.”

           And that had begun the conversation that led Fernald downtown to Ainsley’s living space.

           “So do you want any coffee or anything?” Ainsley offered.

           “No,” Fernald said brisky. “I’m good. Thank you.”            “You can totally sit on the couch if you want,” Ainsley continued.

           Fernald took them up on that one, settling in on the beige couch. “So what did you want my help with?” he asked.

           “I actually have an audition in a couple hours,” Ainsley informed him, “and I wanted a second opinion on if I was emoting properly in the soliloquy I prepared for it.”

           “You’re actually doing a show the boss didn’t write?” Fernald said incredulously. “Which one?”

           “Equus.”

           “Isn’t that the one where the kid gets turned on by horses?”            “It’s actually more complicated than that,” Ainsley explained. “It’s basically a critical analysis of spirituality in modern society.”

           “I’ll, uh…I’ll take your word for it.” Fernald settled back into the couch. “So, uh…did you invite the rest of the troupe over, or…?”            “Just you, actually,” Ainsley admitted. “I just think you’re probably the most appropriate person to judge my delivery and give me an honest opinion.” That wasn’t quite true, but Ainsley didn’t feel it quite appropriate to let on to Fernald that he was the person they felt the most comfortable around, between him using their correct pronouns and his actions during the day of the great garter snake invasion.

           “Well, let’s hear it,” Fernald encouraged.

           Ainsley momentarily wondered if inviting Fernald to review their audition was a mistake. Watching him watch them was giving them classic symptoms of stage fright, which Ainsley found odd, as they generally didn’t have such a condition, even in front of audiences of hundreds. Perhaps it was because of their amicability toward each other, the fact that Ainsley actually knew the lone member of their audience this time, that was causing Ainsley’s heart to beat faster and palms to sweat. They closed their eyes momentarily in order to find the beginning of what they’d memorized, then took a breath, opened their eyes, and began to recite.

           They didn’t get two lines in when the phone rang.

           “Sorry,” Ainsley sighed. “I have to get that.”

           “Go ahead,” Fernald replied.

           He watched Ainsley walk into the kitchen to answer the phone; the door offered a clear view of them the whole while. “Hello?” they greeted, picking up the receiver. “Yeah, this…you what? You totally couldn’t have called at a worse time. Okay, so I have this audition for Equus in a couple hours and…I don’t really…no, I…that’s not…can you at least let me talk? Okay, fine. I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll tell them. All of them. No, I won’t forget – his name is Bolton. And mine’s Ainsley. I said I’ll BE there.” They slammed the receiver back to the telephone base with a show of force Fernald had never seen before. Then, continuing to surprise Fernald, they picked the receiver up and slammed it angrily back into place several more times. Fernald had a pretty good idea of who had called.

           He got up from the couch, crossing tentatively into the kitchen. “That was the boss?”            “Yeah,” Ainsley confirmed, still staring daggers at the phone.

           “Let me guess. He needs us for a scheme. Right now.”

           “Yeah.”

           After an awkward silence, Ainsley turned to face Fernald, obviously trying to stuff their anger away. “Fernald?”

           “What?”

           “How do you spell ‘coroner’?” 

           Somehow, the entire troupe managed to shake off the authorities that were tailing their van, despite the van being emblazoned with a definitely misspelled “CORNER,” a testament to why Fernald should never be asked to help spell anything.

           Fernald, Ainsley, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily ended up holing up at a rundown motel, awaiting Olaf’s call and further instructions. They booked four rooms, with Charlotte and Emily sharing one. They then congregated in Fernald’s room, all five cramming onto the bed, in order to start up a new card game.

           There were only so many hours that can be killed playing cards. “Maybe he forgot about us this time,” Bolton theorized.

           “If only we were so lucky,” Charlotte griped.

           Emily elbowed her sister in the side. “Without Olaf, where are we?”

           “We’re here, is where we are,” Fernald grumbled, playing the absolute most wrong card he could have picked. “Playing cards in a dingy motel where I know I saw at least three spiders in the bathroom.” A thought occurred to him. “Ainsley…you aren’t afraid of spiders, are you?”            “Not as much as snakes,” Ainsley replied, intentionally picking a worse card than Fernald’s play. It hadn’t taken them long to catch onto the fact that Fernald usually lost at such games, and they felt somewhat piteous toward him for that, hence the beginning of an intentional losing streak on Ainsley’s end.

           “Well, if nothing else, we’ll at least get treated to another show of Fernald beating the spiders to death with a toothbrush,” Emily joked.

           The last card was played and the score tallied. “You know, Ainsley,” Bolton commented, “you’re really bad at this.”

           “I know,” Ainsley responded nonchalantly. “And totally not on purpose, either.”

           “Another hand?” Charlotte asked.

           This was met with four groans; everyone was sick of playing. “I’m going to bed,” Bolton announced as the group scrambled off Fernald’s bed.

           “I’m going to go find coffee,” Ainsley added. “I have seriously needed coffee for hours.”

           “It’s…” Fernald checked the clock. “Eleven at night. And you’re getting COFFEE?”

           “I’ll have decaf,” Ainsley said with a shrug.

           “It’s already eleven?” Charlotte remarked. “That’s far past bedtime, if you ask me. What do you think, Emi – “

           Emily collapsed onto Fernald’s bed face-first, snoring.

           Bolton had to scoop her up to carry her back to the room she shared with Charlotte. “If he calls at two in the morning,” he informed everyone, “I’m seriously going to think about punching him in the face when we see him again.”

           The group parted ways, and Fernald lay down in his solitary bed. At first, he considered simply going to sleep. It was, after all, very late. Yet he made no move to detach his hooks, as he usually would before lying down for the night. He wondered if it was reflection upon all the excitement of the Dr. Montgomery incident that kept him from dousing his mental light.

           Then he wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Ainsley had said they weren’t going to sleep just yet either.

           He found himself leaving his room to make his way to the lounge. A small, weathered coffee machine was situated in the middle of a counter, free for use by patrons of the motel. Fernald guessed Ainsley had been here in order to obtain the coffee, but they were long gone by that point. Perhaps they’d gone back to sleep.

           Crossing back through the lobby, Fernald stopped to ask the hostess, “Have…you seen a very tall person with reddish hair come through this way with a cup of coffee?”

           The hostess nodded. “She actually went out front of the building. There are a couple chairs set up out there.”

           “They’re not a…” Fernald shook his head. “Never mind.”

           He exited the motel into the dark night to see a patch of rickety-looking chairs set up on the lawn in a semblance of guest convenience. One of them was occupied. Fernald reconsidered joining the familiar silhouette for a moment; perhaps they just wanted to be alone. Then again, there was never any harm in asking, was there?

           “Mind if I sit?” he asked as he approached Ainsley.

           “Go ahead,” Ainsley replied, and Fernald took the chair next to him.

           There was silence for a moment as Ainsley sipped from their steaming, chipped cup and Fernald rummaged around his mind for conversation topics. “So,” he said at last. “Some day, huh?”

           “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, rather miffed as they recalled the events. “Because missing my potential break into serious acting in favor of walking into a plethora of snakes and other assorted reptiles was totally how I wanted to spend my day.”

           “Well, look at it this way,” Fernald pointed out. “You might have missed your audition, but you brought down the house as Nurse Lucafont.”

           It was hard to tell in the dark, but somehow Fernald was still able to detect the faint smile that replaced Ainsley’s disgruntled expression upon hearing that. “You weren’t bad either.”

           It was then that Fernald realized, for the first time in hours, that they were still wearing their disguises from earlier in the day. He couldn’t imagine what the hostess must have thought of the entire troupe walking in dressed as though they were the cast of a forensics-based TV program. “You look pretty good in that,” he said softly.

           “What?”

           “What?” Fernald feigned ignorance. “So…what were you thinking about out here?”

           “Lots of things.” Ainsley paused to take another long sip. “I was actually considering the nature of romantic love.”

           Fernald didn’t even think to wonder what could have put Ainsley on that train of thought, even though by that point, it would have been obvious to any outsider. “What about it?”

           “I was wondering if it’s even real,” Ainsley explained. “Sometimes I think it’s all just a societal construct designed to fool us into taking on cultural roles that are largely patriarchal. Sometimes I think it’s actually one of the greatest mysteries and most powerful forces in existence.”

           “You…ever been in love?”            “Not yet. But I think I’ve been pretty close a few times.” Another sip of coffee. “What’s your take on the subject?”            “I don’t even know,” Fernald admitted. “I guess I think it’s real. I’ve felt…things. About people. I don’t know as much about this kind of stuff as you do.”

           “I think you do,” Ainsley corrected. “You just word it differently.”

           It was then that Fernald failed to exhibit the self-control he knew he should have had. Listening to Ainsley speak had only reminded him of all the things he appreciated about his co-worker, and he suddenly felt compelled to demonstrate this. He leaned over in the dark, briefly kissing Ainsley on the cheek.

           The coffee cup hit the ground, its remaining contents spilling.

           Fernald was hit with the full realization of what he’d just done. Ainsley had turned to face him, and he could make out an expression of bewilderment on their face. “I don’t know why I just did that,” he sputtered, flummoxed. “Do you hear Bolton calling me? I think I hear Bolton calling me.” He rose from his seat and turned to scurry back to the motel. “I should go – “

           “Fernald.”

           A hand landed softly on his shoulder from behind; Ainsley had risen as well. Fernald had to work up the nerve to turn back around and look them in the eye.

           “It’s when I’m with you that I think the idea of romantic love isn’t a total fallacy,” Ainsley confessed.

           “Wait, really?” Fernald replied.

           “You’re the only one who really listens to me,” Ainsley told him. They leaned forward a stitch, and Fernald caught on, stepping closer to meet them so that Ainsley could gently press their lips to Fernald’s. Their hands sought out and caressed the sides of Fernald’s face, and Fernald found himself rather lamenting that he didn’t have hands to do the same; the best he could do was just wrap his arms around Ainsley’s waist as he returned the kiss more forcefully.

           “Olaf can’t know,” he said when they parted from the kiss.

           “Olaf won’t know,” Ainsley reassured him.

           “NONE OF THEM can know.”

           “They won’t.”

           They stepped back from each other. “It’s probably midnight,” Ainsley realized.

           “And nobody knows how long we have to get any sleep before the boss calls,” Fernald sighed. “Just…one more, first?”

           They kept the kiss brief, then walked back into the motel side by side.

           “Goodnight, Ainsley,” Fernald said earnestly.

           “Sweet dreams, Fernald.”

           They entered their respective rooms, across the hall from each other, and as each closed the door, each took a moment to lean back on it and reflect in disbelief on what had just taken place.

           To Olaf’s credit, he didn’t call at two in the morning. He called at three. 

           Shortly thereafter, the troupe found themselves ferrying Count Olaf across Lake Lachrymose. While Bolton, Ainsley, Fernald, Charlotte, and Emily crammed themselves into a small rowboat, Olaf fixed a slightly smaller rowboat behind them and decided immediately he wasn’t going to be doing any of the work whatsoever. Charlotte and Emily sat up front while Fernald was positioned in the rear of the boat between Bolton and Ainsley, the latter two of whom were rowing to propel the entire entourage forward. This was at the behest of Olaf, or, at the very least, he had wanted “Gordon and Avery” to do the rowing.

           “So the Montgomery thing was a bust,” Olaf rambled, as much to himself as to anyone else. “At least he’s dead, and if there’s one thing we didn’t need, it was Montgomery Montgomery figuring out our plan. I still can’t believe that idiot thought I was from the Herpetological Society. Given his reputation, I’m surprised he didn’t figure out who I was right away and make up some lie about thinking I was a spy from some cold-sore organization to throw me off the trail.” Then he paused. “…He didn’t just DO that to me, did he?”

           Olaf continued to rant, to the point where Fernald was basically tuning him out. He noticed when the boat seemed to take a sudden tilt to the side. Bolton’s rowing was still steadfast, but Ainsley was flagging. Fernald took one look at Ainsley and knew something was wrong; they were bent over the oar, face gone completely pale.

           “Are you okay?” Fernald whispered.

           “No,” Ainsley whispered back. “I’m trying really hard not to throw up over the side of the boat.”

           “What, you’re seasick?”

           “It’s a large lake, remember? I’m large-lakesick.”

           “I swear you’ve told us you’ve been on boats before!” Fernald hissed.

           “Bigger boats,” Ainsley corrected. “Boats where I can’t actually feel the water…rocking.”

           “You going to be able to row?”

           “No…”

           “Give it to me. Now.”

           Ainsley nodded, pursing their lips together to be sure that the next thing that came out of their mouth was words and not vomit. Both Fernald and Ainsley knew far better than to stand up in the boat, an action that would surely take the whole operation overboard and make the others not only soaked but very, very crabby. They did their best to shuffle past each other, switching places. Once Fernald was settled on the edge of the boat, it took him a couple tries to position his hooks in such a manner that he had a definite grip on the oar, but at last he found a comfortable hold and took up the job of boat propulsion.

           “What are you doing?” Bolton asked.

           “Switching,” Fernald answered sternly.

           “Yeah, but WHY?”

           “Because I want to row the boat,” Fernald insisted.

           “You’re just rowing because HE’S too lazy to,” Bolton accused, indicating Ainsley, who was at that point settling in to lie on the bottom of the boat between Bolton and Fernald.

           “They’re not a ‘he,’” Fernald growled.

           “I’m right here,” Ainsley reminded them both. “You can actually, you know, talk to me.”

           “Sorry,” Fernald muttered.

           “Will you all quit arguing and ROW THE BOAT?” Olaf yelled from his position behind.

           “That’s exactly what we’re doing, boss!” Fernald called back. He then looked down to Ainsley, asking softly, “Any better?”            “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, shutting their eyes tightly.

           “Just keep your eyes closed,” Fernald advised, “and try not to think about the waves rocking the boat back and forth, or the water rippling underneath us, or the – “

           “FERNALD.” Ainsley had opened one eye to glare up at him.

           “Probably not helping. Right. Sorry.” 

           The Captain Sham gambit was twice as convoluted as Plan Stephano. The troupe put on their best performances (which isn’t saying a lot) when it came to uniting Olaf and Josephine in a romantic relationship that was about as real as the second elevator shaft in 667 Dark Avenue.

           From there, it was a madcap rush between fencing the Baudelaires in at Josephine’s cliffside abode and making sure everything at the Anxious Clown restaurant went as wrong as it could.

           As Arthur Poe and Count Olaf, still in the guise of Captain Sham, sat in the main seating area of the small dining facility, the troupe had the run of the kitchen, making sure their captive waiter Larry didn’t give the game away by hiding messages in the food he was to bring to the Baudelaires. Larry, for his part, had either believed the quintet to be incredibly stupid or hadn’t counted on them being familiar with the secret V.F.D. methods of communication.

           “You’ll never defeat us,” Larry asserted. “You can surround us. You can throw us out of windows. You can threaten us and make us cook for you – “

           “Sorry to interrupt, but what’s the soup of the day?”

           Larry, Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton’s heads all whipped to look at Ainsley, stupefied that they’d made such a non sequitur request. Fernald, for his part, was unfazed.

           “Well?” Fernald barked. “Answer the question!”

           “It’s clam chowder,” Larry growled. “But I don’t see what that has to do with – “

           “You’re OUR hostage now,” Fernald insisted. “And that means you do what we say. And right now, I say you MAKE THE DAMN SOUP!”

           He stole a quick glance at Ainsley, whose face had lit up.

           “And while you’re at it,” Fernald ordered, “get me one of those Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers.”

           “Don’t put any secret messages in that one, either,” Ainsley added.

            This wasn’t to say that everything between Fernald and Ainsley was forged of complete accord. They had their share of arguments. For instance, one was had the night before, when Fernald, hoping to divert attention from the time the two spent together, had clearly assigned Ainsley the task of guarding Larry, and Ainsley, thinking the twins had it under control, had simply gotten into the car with the rest of the troupe. Then there was later that very same day at the Anxious Clown, when Fernald found Ainsley and Larry having a conversation about pasta puttanesca. Then again, it wasn’t so much a conversation as Larry bewilderedly listening to one of his captors describe a pasta recipe he already knew how to make to him and wondering how he’d gone from being the troupe’s dish-washing servant to this.

           “STOP BEING FRIENDLY TO HIM!” Fernald snapped at Ainsley, having flashbacks of when he’d been less than cruel to Sunny Baudelaire and how well that had turned out.

           Ainsley fell silent, looking away. They absolutely hated being snapped at by Fernald; it hit right in the heart.

           The telephone rang. Neither Ainsley, who was still dismayed from being shouted at by Fernald, nor Fernald, who was at that moment wondering if he’d been too curt with Ainsley, thought to actually stop Larry from answering it. “Anxious Clown Restaurant,” Larry greeted halfheartedly. “This is Larry, your waiter.”

           “Larry, I don’t have much time,” a muffled voice, likely disguised by a cloth placed over the mouthpiece of the connected phone, said over the line. “The Quagmires are alive.”

           “Alive?” Larry said in disbelief. “Where?”

           “The tunnel system should have taken them to the depths of Peru.”

           “Peru?”

           “We haven’t heard anything on the Quagmire children. Are they still safe?”            “Secure for the moment,” Larry hissed, “but you need to know – “

            “So are you gonna stop him?” Ainsley grunted.

           Fernald realized letting the hostage use the telephone may have been a fatal mistake. He rushed to overtake Larry, hooking the phone cord and yelling into the mouthpiece, “WHO IS THIS?” His usual telephone illiteracy overtook him, and he peered into, then listened at the mouthpiece, trying to remember how those cursed devices actually worked. He fumbled with the receiver for a moment before giving up on it completely. “Hello?” he yelled at the phone. “HELLO!” He then bashed the phone a couple times with one hook. “How does it WORK? HELLO!”

           Larry simply stared on in fear and disbelief.

           Fernald spun to face Ainsley. “HELP ME WITH THIS THING!”

           “No,” Ainsley replied, not making eye contact.

           “WHY NOT?”

           “Because you yelled at me.”

           “Listen.” Fernald dropped the receiver and stormed toward Ainsley. “We don’t have time for fooling around, making nice with the hostages!”

           “We don’t have time to waste trying to figure out how phones work, either.”

           “WHAT?”

           The argument that followed was lengthy, with Fernald’s volume steadily increasing while Ainsley put more and more creativity into the insults they hurled at Fernald in return.

           “YOU THINK THIS IS SOME KIND OF GAME?”

           “If it is, you’re a pawn with delusions of grandeur of being a dictatorial king.”

           “I BET YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAY CHESS!”

           Larry tried to use his captors’ distracted state to edge toward the door, but Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all planted themselves in front of it so he couldn’t make an escape attempt.

           “The only reason,” Fernald huffed, finally running out of steam, “I didn’t want you to play nice with him is because that’s how you end up with tape on your mouth, giving the hostage a free ride all the way down to the theater. I know this from PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.” He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Sorry I yelled.”

           “Sorry I called you an ignorant example of the sheeple that are slowly poisoning our already toxic society. Among other things.”

           “You’re forgiven,” Fernald relented.

           “Are those two…?” Larry tried to whisper.

           “We’re not a couple,” Fernald and Ainsley said as one in a knee-jerk reaction.

           “Of course not,” Charlotte said smugly.

           “Whyever would we think you were?” Emily said even more smugly.

           Fernald and Ainsley exchanged a nervous glance, then looked away from each other, both wondering if they’d gotten a bit too obvious. 

           The Captain Sham sham sank like a rowboat that had just been pulverized by a cannonball. However, the entire troupe escaped once again, speaking to Mr. Poe’s ability to actually corner known villains.

           “Where are we going now, boss?” Fernald asked as they all loaded up into a getaway car.

           “WE aren’t going anywhere,” Olaf replied, briefly glancing into the rearview mirror, which was pointed down at his face rather than at the back window as is actually safe when driving in heavy traffic, so he could wink at himself. “I’m going to contact an old ally. You’re going to wait until I call you for further instructions.”

           While Olaf made haste toward a town calling itself “Paltryville,” the other five returned to the city. Bolton hid out in his usual apartment, and the twins found their house in the suburbs to be secure. When it came to Fernald and Ainsley, however, splitting up wasn’t in the cards.

           “I never saw your place,” Ainsley pointed out.

           “I don’t really think you want to,” Fernald replied.

           They ended up at Fernald’s apartment anyway, and Fernald found himself somewhat self-conscious of the mess it had been left in. Hardly anything was clean, and nothing was where it was supposed to be, with dishes on the bookshelf and socks in the silverware drawer. The entire apartment ran on a premise known to many as “organized chaos.” Fernald knew where everything was, and it was exactly where he needed it to be. He suspected Ainsley wouldn’t see eye-to-eye with him on this, however.

           “I know,” he sighed. “It’s a mess.”

           “It’s bigger than my place,” Ainsley pointed out.

           They spent the afternoon playing various card games. Fernald was astonished that Ainsley lost every single hand, thinking it miraculously that he’d somehow found the one person in the world who was worse at card games than he was – though again, this was an intentional act on Ainsley’s part. And Ainsley was more than happy to owe Fernald a back rub for a lost game.

           After some discussion, they decided it was still too soon to be sharing sleeping quarters, but at the same time, they did want to remain together for as much time as they had, knowing it wouldn’t be much before Olaf called them into action once more. Fernald decided to spend the night on the couch, letting Ainsley have the bed in the adjacent room.

           Thinking Ainsley was settling into the bed for the night, Fernald detached his hooks, huddling under a spare blanket on the couch, which was old but not uncomfortable. No sooner had he closed his eyes when he heard a voice asking, “Can I make a cup of coffee?”

           “It’s ten-thirty,” Fernald replied, opening his eyes and sitting up. “So I assume you want decaf.”

           He talked Ainsley through the locations of the coffee grounds and filters in the kitchen, as well as the mugs, which were kept in a cabinet under the television. As Ainsley watched the coffee drip into the pot, Fernald asked, “What are you thinking about?”, knowing Ainsley was always thinking about something and suspecting their mind was going into overdrive if they needed coffee that late at night.

           “I was just thinking about evil,” Ainsley admitted. “I always thought good and evil were another binary that people didn’t really belong to one or the other of. Morality isn’t black-and-white. It’s more like a grayish color. A lot of people do bad things for good reasons, and a lot of people do good things for bad reasons. Then there’s us. We do bad things for bad reasons, but really, so far, we’ve just been doing what we need to do in order to get ahead. We’re looking out for ourselves, and people like us need to do that.”

           “But?” Fernald encouraged, sensing doubt in Ainsley’s voice.

           “I’m starting to wonder if we’re taking it too far,” they admitted. “I was cool with Dr. Montgomery dying and all, but Josephine wasn’t really a threat to us. I also didn’t actually see Dr. Montgomery GET killed, which, all considered, shouldn’t really change things, but it still made me wonder if I’m actually becoming evil.” The coffee maker beeped; Ainsley removed the pot to pour a cup. “And I thought I’d be cool with it if I was, but maybe I’m not.” They paused, momentarily afraid to look Fernald in the eye. “You probably think that means I don’t belong with the rest of the team, then. Or you.”

           “I don’t think that,” Fernald assured them, lightly touching the end of his arm to their forearm. “Good and evil are complicated. I never thought people were one or the other either. I always thought people were more like…chef salads, with good and evil mixed up in them.”

           “Even Olaf?”            “Yes. He’s got some good in him SOMEwhere. Just not where any of us can see it. I know I have a lot of good and evil mixed up in me. I’m fine with it. And I think you’re the same way. I don’t know exactly HOW good or HOW evil you are. But I like you. I always love hearing you talk about stuff like this.”

           Ainsley turned to face Fernald, smiling unsurely. “And I totally love that you listen.”

           They kissed briefly. “I like you so much,” Ainsley continued, and they kissed again after that. “But what happens next time – “

           “Let’s not think about next time yet,” Fernald decided before a third kiss ensued.

           That seemed to bring Ainsley to a realization. “You always listen to me,” they reiterated, backing off a bit. “Maybe I don’t listen to you enough. I want to know more about you. How’d you get involved with Olaf, anyway?”            And in that moment, Fernald was tempted to tell Ainsley everything he could never have told Olaf. About Fiona. About the true nature of the V.F.D. schism and what led him to make his choice. He was ready to begin speaking of all such things, and very nearly poured all of his secrets out in a manner similar to how Ainsley had poured the contents of the coffee pot into a cup, when the phone rang, and they both knew who was calling.

           Fernald looked at the ends of his arms in a panic; answering the phone would be twice as difficult without his hooks, and it would take him a bit of time to reattach them, time during which Olaf would become grouchier and grouchier. Ainsley knew exactly what Fernald was thinking, asking, “Do you need me to hold the phone?”            “Yes…”

           In an instant, Fernald was set up in front of the telephone, with Ainsley holding the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Fernald greeted.

           “Ferdinand?” Olaf said in disbelief. “Usually it takes you longer to answer a phone.”

           Fernald exchanged a quick and somewhat anxious look with Ainsley. “Had to get it right sometime,” he said sheepishly. “So, whaddaya need, boss?”

           “I’m at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill in Paltryville,” Olaf explained, “and they just so happen to be in need of a new foreman. One with HANDS, mind you. Being the brilliant casting director that I am, I know you’re perfect for the job. Though, like I said, bring hands. We need a little…ACCIDENT to happen here at the mill.”

           “I’ll be right there,” Fernald promised.

           “And hurry it up,” Olaf insisted.

           “I am literally headed out the door as we speak!” Fernald replied, following in his boss’ footsteps of confusing the definitions of “literally” and “figuratively.” He nodded to Ainsley, who took the cue to hang up the phone.

           “The boss needs me in Paltryville,” Fernald explained. “Now.”

           “You need me to come along?” Ainsley asked.

           Fernald didn’t just refuse because Olaf hadn’t specified for anyone else to accompany him. Olaf’s emphasis on the word “accident” rang in his ears, coupled with Ainsley’s uncertainty about murdering Josephine Anwhistle. “I’ll be fine,” he said simply. “This shouldn’t take long, hopefully.”

           “I’ll wait for you,” Ainsley promised. 

           Of course, villains, even villains with a fair amount of good and evil mixed together in them, are as subject to misery as those who are not villains. No matter how much sugar you put in your tea, you cannot escape the impending rocks that life places beneath your wheels.

           However, this also means that villains are just as apt as those who are not villains to come by events that are fortunate, though for those who are their victims, these events are usually seen from the opposite point of view entirely. Sometimes, however, they simply find something as significant as someone to talk to, or someone to listen to. And from a certain point of view, that isn’t so unfortunate after all.