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bowieandqueen11 · 3 years

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Time For Reading / Dewey Denouement Imagine

Request: Dewey does deserve to be happy. I can imagine having the sweetest/domestic evenings with him after a long day at work. He seems like he would read to you while sitting together.

I love this man so much thank you for letting me imagine this <3

If you enjoy, please comment!! I may have stayed up writing this oops

Dewey Denouement may not be the kind of man to place his feet up at the end of the day, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t.

It was a cold night, the sort of chill blowing through the cracks in the library’s doors that made you thankful for the crackling fire by your feet. The embers flashed red, hot and heavy before leaving their smoky trail in the October air as they fell back down onto the kindling. You stared at them for a moment, dancing like a circus troupe in front of your vision. A trapeze artist there, some juggling pins in another corner of the pit, and finally, the fiery lion’s roar rises from the middle of the heap, before falling onto the floor in a pile of ash. You snuggle down, burrowing deeper into the suit jacket you had stolen off of Dewey’s shoulders this morning. He had never seen it coming, too busy pressing back against the kiss you had pressed against his lips when you had come in to deliver him his morning coffee. He had smiled against your lips as he pulled away, nuzzling his nose against yours with a twitch of his moustache as you massaged his shoulders, gently levering the jacket down before stealing it away.

You wished he would hurry back, missing him already despite the fact you had only just heard the final, surprisingly pained sounding whistle of the library’s kettle. Although you knew, since his parents perished in that fire you both blamed Olaf for before his fifth birthday, that he would keep his promise to try and spend some more time away with you, rather than his catalogue. He was trying his best, you knew that. He also made it clear how much he loved you, evident in all the old bookshelves that lined the library’s walls that he had filled with your wish list, numerous treasures and memories stuffed into every crevice and nook of this small home he made yours. He knew, and had tried to tell you time and time again, that this was no life for someone as precious as you, but you had refused to leave him to this fate alone.

So instead of one librarian, Hotel Denouement gained two.

You sigh, kicking off your shoes and placing them up onto the old leather chair. You turn your nose back to your book, letting your mind fall back into a similar world of adventure and wonderment. You had only got a few more pages in, the book old and heavy in your tired hands, before you could hear the familiar sound of Dewey’s warm, deep humming swirling through the air as if in a dream. Before you can even place your bookmark back into the worn, crumpled pages before you feel a warm breath of air beside the tip of your ear.

‘I’m sorry I took so long, Y/n. The tea took quite a while to brew, on account of the brewing time of the leaves and the fact... we need a new kettle.’

You grin, reaching over the top of the chair until you grab the collars of his dress shirt. Running a thumb over his maroon tie, you pull his smiling face down until he reaches his lips. When you finally let go of him, he presses a final kiss against your forehead, moving to place the two steaming cups of jasmine tea he carried within the ornate china cups with his fingertips down onto the wooden side table of the living area.

He glances over at you, a glowing, slightly goofy but completely enamoured smile playing on his lips as he takes his usual seat in his own matching leather chair, placed facing towards your own on the other side of the fire. You lift your feet up, the two of you set in a steady and comfortable routine. He wipes the creases off of the front of his trousers, before replacing them with your feet. You beam at him thankfully from over the cover of your leather bound novel, breathing in the sweet scent of his cologne, and the warm feel of his fingers as they dig into the muscle of his feet. He only raises an amused eyebrow at you.

‘Ah, an interesting choice tonight Y/n. A tale of smoke and mirrors, quite fitting, don’t you think?’

You hum, folding your arms down until you could see the fond look Dewey gave you over the rim of his cup. He takes a sip before continuing, glad to finally be able to have a relaxed conversation for the first time today, with all the time spent preparing for the arrival of the Sugar Bowl. ‘It’s been a while since you’ve read a book from the books labelled 818.’

‘I just thought’, you start, leaning further into his touch as he places his now empty cup back onto the table and leans towards you, giving his full attention. ‘Hopefully, we’ll be out of here soon, and we can start again. A real life, a new life for you Dewey, without all these books and secrets and shadows and betrayal. I just thought it would be fun to reminisce before we finally burn all these secrets down.’

Dewey’s silent for a moment, gazing so intensely at you that despite your best efforts, you feel a blush flooding your face. For a moment, you’re worried you’ve upset him, his eyes so thoughtful, heavy and forlorn as they stare unmoving into yours. Your worries sink quickly, though, when that familiar tick of his raises his moustache, and the twinkle returns to his eye - the familiar sign that he’s amused by your words.

‘Yes, we can finally end this terrible series of events once and for all. Then, there is nothing else I would like more than to never be apart from you again, except for when we are at work, of course, but even that might be too much of a struggle.’

‘I suppose, then’, you begin with a slight grin, ‘we shall just have to retire off to some splendid tropical island somewhere, and spend our days drinking from coconuts and growing apple trees instead of having our noses stuck in books.’

As the two of you sit there grinning, hearts fluttering in time in your chest at the look of absolute devotion that lines both your faces, he’s suddenly quick to react. Smiling deeply, he reaches over and knocks the book straight out of your hands and into his own. Ignoring your cries of protest, he shakes your outreaching hands off and instead intertwines your right one within the large, slender fingers of his right. The other hand busies itself scanning over the words, following the paragraphs down until he finds a place to start.

His words, since they are directed towards you, are so beautiful and elegant. There was no other way, he had learnt in all his books, to speak to a lover. To someone who held your heart so tightly in their hands he felt he might drown with the feel of it. There could never be anger, or malice, when speaking to someone who was more of him that he himself was. So he read on, honeyed words pouring from his tongue in the only outburst of love he had ever learnt to give. Each word earned him a welcome groan, and each welcome groan earned you a tug at his lips until he was beaming.

Letting the words flow over you, you gazed up at the old pane of glass that lay above your head. As the night dwindled on, the heaviness of the water’s shade began to cast darker lines across the walnut floor, each specked with a glaring dot of celeste blue. Turning your chin up, you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to feel hopeful for the first in a longest time. Dewey didn’t stop, words gliding from his throat as he admired the way the writhing waves from the pool a world above fell upon your face in an almost otherworldly fashion.

When he was finally satisfied you had fallen asleep, he gently dropped your legs to the floor, one by one. Before heading out, he tucked the jacket he had let you steal earlier tighter around your shoulders, before pressing the most warm, intense and loving kiss he could muster against your cheek, eyes closed in bliss all the while.

He opened them again as he closed the door into the living quarters, leaving all his hopes and dreams locked inside. Instead, he stepped further into the navy shades of glooming water that seemed to envelope his frame.

It was time to prepare for the arrival of the Baudelaires.

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