#she is trying to get me last-minute to play piano for the funeral and i already said no to singing

[coldswarkids]

i see all of you have a lot of opinions tonight about many niche things. however i spent most of the day outside and i am too tired now to moderate all your opinions and inform you which ones are right. so you'll have to retire them all for now, to be brought before my throne another night

[scratchandplaster]

Stack The Deck - Fair-weather company

CW: corny behavior, suggestive language, PTSD, aftermath of torture and injury, medical whump, mention of self harm, hand whump

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The taste of cheap liquor still stuck to the roof of their mouths, and with the streetlights already guiding the way, they could stumble freely onto the driveway. Hardly trying to keep her laughter down, Amber unlocked the front gate of the massive family home and let the cold spring breeze follow them.

Her escort was close behind her when she stepped over the doorway, hands still clutching onto her bags. As always, they had swiped a lot more food from her friend's house party than intended, but that turned out to be his favorite part of the night.

"You good?" she slurred while turning around to meet him.

With a gentle push of his foot, Elliot let the door fall back into place: "Yup, I'm just gonna say hello real quick and get going. I got practice tomorrow morning."

This would be a terrible first impression, but better than bluntly running through a house he didn't belong in.

"My parents aren't home tonight," she disclosed, the news echoing through the foyer, "So no rush. The party doesn't have to stop."

Elliot knew that glance well enough, the one he got at family reunions. Or birthdays. Or funerals, for some tasteless reason.

"Oh come on, not when I'm half-shitfaced!" A tired huff was all he could muster as she grabbed him by his hands to lead.

"Please, baby..."

With that, he was dragged through the hall past the coat rack and over to an upright brown piano at the back of the living room. The simple white decorations didn't divert him from noticing how this room, apparently only existing for a couch and TV, was nearly big enough to fit his whole apartment.

"Still a no," he tried to mumble, only to be excitedly interrupted.

"Pleasepleaseplease!" sparkling eyes begged without ever losing contact, "You didn't want to do it at Rhys' place, it's just us now."

Amber hugged his waist tight, holding him close for a minute. Elliot knew what she wanted and also how it would end: with her winning, like she always did.

"Alright, alright," he pressed a quick kiss on top of her head. "But only one!"

Kicking his shoes off at the carpet's edge, Amber made him sit down on a dusty velvet stool to warm up to the old box. Elliot thought about playing some ethereal overture, an hour-long session that would only impress his conductor; or maybe the Faerie's Aire...

Let's hope I still got that ready on call.

Through his tipsy courage, he remembered a gift he prepared weeks ago, before their first big fight-

Why not, actually?!

Slender fingers pressed carefully down on the black and white keys, forcing the first notes of the evening out from the mahogany.

"I know you like this one. I had to secretly google the lyrics first, though," he admitted through a whisper.

A few wayward sounds proved what he had already worried about: that thing hadn't been tuned in forever. What a waste of art in this suburban ivory tower.

"But you know I can't sing for shit, so save your jokes for later. And if Sahra ever gets wind of this, she will not let me live it down," Elliot continued to sigh dramatically, "I mean, should I flop at the next auditions, maybe they can use me as a choir boy instead."

"You would get one of those pretty white robes, so think about it!" Amber too settled down on behind him, arms wrapped in sequin rested around his neck.

"You'll definitely need a safeword when this gets too sappy."

His hands practically danced from left to right now, filling the whole room with bone-deep warmth.

"How about something creative; like: Please, Elli, stop! My ears are bleeding!"

An amused scoff was everything she earned and unable to hide his smirk, Elliot cleared his throat one last time. As the familiar melody began to match the gentle hum in the back of her sweetheart's chest, Amber got more than she bargained for:

"True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree

A willow dancing on air before covering me

Under cotton and calicoes

Over canopy dapple long ago"

Elliot must've had a few more drinks than expected, she wondered, giving how calmly he let the words bubble from his lips; usually she had to press up against the bathroom door to catch a taste of it.

"Must be felled for to fight the cold

I fretted fire, but that was long ago"

With a sudden spark, the pace picked up intensity, fingertips now slamming out the melodies from inside the wooden frame.

"And it's not tonight

Where I'm set alight

And I blink in sight

Of your blinding light"

How lucky could a girl like her be?

"Oh, it's not tonight

Where you hold me tight

Light the fire bright

Oh, let it blaze, alright"

To meet someone like this?

"Oh, but you're good to me

Oh, you're good to me

Oh, but you're good to me, baby"

To wake up with hands around her shoulders, holding her close. Not on her chest, ass or in between her legs. No hard, needy pressure rubbing against her back.

"With each love I cut loose, I was never the same

Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame

I was fixed on your hand of gold

Laying waste to my lovin' long ago"

No, he never used her like this - even when she asked him to.

"So in awe, there I stood as you licked off the grain

Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame

Long as amber of ember glows

All the would that I'd loved is long ago"

The drone of the strings still reverberated deep inside them, as the last echo died down somewhere between these walls.

Meanwhile, Elliot was grinning like an idiot because of the puns and if not for free video tutorials, he would've missed out on this inviting opportunity. He really overdid it with the shots this time, even made him miss some dazed notes, but he couldn't say no to a shot of Apple Pie.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of a teared-up Amber. Her head rested on his shoulder, shaky hands petting his back.

"That terrible? Oh god," he whispered against her hairline with a small chuckle. She dyed it honey-yellow this week, very pretty, like always.

"Shut up." Amber kissed a line down his neck.

He hoped the embrace they were caught in would last forever. It did, for a moment, until they both noticed a shape leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cute," Chase nodded, munching on his midnight snack of dry high-protein cereal, "if that didn't make you wet, I don't know what will!"

Lovely like always.

"You're so fucking gross," Amber hollered with an earring in hand, ready to be thrown. "No wonder that Taylor didn't screw you without getting paid first. Piss off!"

Elliot decided not to get in between the twins when they were... mediating. God knows he never had to bother fighting any sibling off, but all they got was the dirty "Make me, bitch!" Chase made on his way upstairs anyway.

Public Amber was back, it seemed. Not that she wasn't herself when they had company, just... different. Elliot wondered when he would get used to it.

Walking back to him, she let the grained lid lower itself down onto the keys: "Should've eaten him in the womb, honestly."

Besides her irritated huffing, one question remained, though: "Can you stay? I don't want to be alone tonight."

Of course he did, but the only downside threatened to ruin this too.

"Practice?"

Amber melted into the hands that slowly stroked over her forearms: "I wake you up, promise!"

As if that ever worked before.

"Okay then," he blinked towards the full bags that still leaned against the door frame, "just need to get this into the fridge first."

If it meant he would always be like this for her, Amber could wait for him. And if she let herself be herself with him, Elliot could learn to love all her other sides too. Together.

Always.

---

--

-

-

-

"Mr. Ribera?"

"Mhh?"

"Are you still with me? Just this exercise and you're done for today."

"Yeah, sorry..."

The off-white walls of the hospital room had grown homelike during the weeks he spent in and out of feverish delirium. Fahim from OT, more than an angel in his turquoise scrubs, patiently let his pen rest on the clipboard. He had been here every day since the fog inside his head had lifted, but today, Elliot wasn't sure if he liked the company. 

Sitting together at a small table, only a bit of equipment and a glass of water between them, this suddenly seemed too familiar in the worst way possible.

Yes, he needed the exercise, be it a walk around the corridors or a quick game of catch, but after all the training, he knew he was still where he started. And Fahim seemed to finally recognize this too.

Elliot had offered to be on a first-name basis, but even after agreeing to it, the OT was too polite for his own good. Elliot could try to read the annotations that waited to be shared with the doctors and nurses, long upside-down medical babble was all he could make out right now, ready to be filed.

Did he really want to know what it said? 

The sudden beep of monitors around them reminded of the fact that he was still wired up like the Christmas tree in the foyer, just less joyous. The tube of a catheter snaked up to his left collarbone, making Elliot accessible for whatever they wanted to shoot him up with. Liquid relief, if only for a few hours. He didn't press the friendly red button at his bedside often enough, especially not before therapy, to not alienate the outcome, Fahim insisted.

And why not so? He already hit rock bottom.

"Let's go, then," Elliot said, and his voice cracked weakly.

"Okay!" Fahim quickly picked up and let his attention rest on the board between them; nine holes in it, waiting for the unlucky patient to fill them up. 

"Now I’d like you to switch and use your left hand. You can use your other to stabilize the board. Ready?" 

Only one at a time and neatly placed, surely. How thrilling my life is.

"Same order as last time?"

"Exactly. Whenever you're ready." With his thumb steady on the stopwatch, Fahim waited for Elliot's left to start moving. It was still wrapped up in tidy white gauze but left his fingers free to move. His first three ones, that was, the rest stayed tightly screwed together.

At the click of the watch, Elliot had already picked up a peg between his thumb and pointer finger to carefully maneuver upright into the first hole. With this one placed securely down, the second made his whole forearm shake so badly, it nearly slipped out of his grasp in the first few seconds. With the iron grip back, the always present burning decided to let itself surface from under the chemically induced numbness. Quicker than anticipated, the flare shot up from his hand all the way to his neck, meeting where the thin plastic tube had been shoved in.

His face was on fire now too, from pain or humiliation, he couldn't tell. The white-hot prickle gouged itself deeper and deeper into his flesh, dancing around the wires that held the bones in place, making Elliot feel them straining the tight stitches ever so horribly. A pressure that didn't belong inside him.

The wooden peg fell down onto the board, rolling back towards its box.

"Take your time."

He despised Fahim for these calming words and hated himself instantly for it. The poor man was doing his job, wasn't his fault that Elliot was as strong as a bundle of lettuce.

Despite all efforts, he couldn't get a grasp on that little stick again and with another click of the timer, this chance was officially over. 

The therapist gave him a reassuring smile, just as empty as his words: "Great work, I think you can rest for today."

I performed Beethoven, you know?

Enjoying his prescribed rest, he watched Fahim move the pen on the paper, probably documenting every failure of the day. A peek could do non harm, Elliot supposed. He thought of how his music teacher made him play with the sheets turned upside-down, as a fun warm-up. What a cruel blessing this turned out to be.

Thumb opposition (✔, Kapandji 6)

Inferior+superior pincer grasp (✔)

Radial palmar grasp (✔)

Closure of fist (✗)

9HPT: r= trial 1 (16s), trial 2 (14s), l= trial 1 (✗ after 120s). Elliot could make out a big thunderbolt scribbled behind that, probably the first note he understood. Weakness, P unable to complete trial due to physical limitations.

Physical limitations. That sounded so nice; much more harmless than molten iron running down his arm and turning to ants under his fingertips.

"Let's try that again soon," Fahim finally looked back up to collect the arsenal of tools and elastic bands, "until then you need to take your walks and train your hand." His head bopped toward a small foam ball on his bedside table. Elliot had stomped on it a few times, to give it that well-used look the therapist needed to see.

"How long will it take?" he mumbled with a thin smirk on his lips.

"My colleague will be here tomorrow, so-"

"No, sorry. I mean...how long will it take?"

As he leaned back into his chair, Fahim was visibly trying to hold back a sigh, his ink-black beard rustling against the hospital's uniform. He let his view rest on Elliot for what felt like the longest five seconds of his life, warm and patient. Elliot hoped he wasn't a 10 on the annoying-patient-scale, but he just had to know-

"One day at a time."

Yeah, they were definitely on the same page now.

"Thanks for your time," Elliot tried to sound at least a little bit motivated as he walked with him as far as the tubes allowed, "See you on Monday."

--------

The first thing Elliot remembered was screaming at the doctors. How they had gotten him into the hospital was lost to the feverish heat of the first week, just as any questions or treatments he endured. Thank god he kept his stupid mouth shut, even though that didn't stop anyone from asking over and over again.

Elliot hadn't been lucid enough for a good enough excuse, so none ever made it across his lips, he didn't own that cheap lie to anyone. Any injury had to be self-inflicted then, more or less officially because nobody intended to get the police further involved. Too much paperwork, they had whispered.

Now, everybody knew it was his fault; that's what they believed, and he didn't intend to convince anyone of the opposite.

Elliot's mother had told him about how terribly he lost it when they brought him in for the first surgery. Embarrassing, really, but he couldn't think of what he went on about or why he would ever be so aggressive.

They treated him to some extra medicine, making him stay quiet for even longer. He recognized that weirdly trusted feeling after a while: whatever had kept him down during his time in that crack house bathroom was also flowing into him with a press of a button, conveniently placed in reach.

He was behaving himself since, of course, after that aimless fury got out of his system. They gave him a splint and biweekly counseling and OT... as a treat, he supposed.

The man in the bed to his right went home after a day, "Just carpal tunnel," he said with an apologetic smile.

Elliot was alone again, only surrounded by an ocean of flowers with some cards swimming in between:

"Get well soon!"

"All the best! "

"Visit Fleming Beach!" Huh?

In the short time living on his own, he wasn't able to make many friends around town; his parents visited nearly every day, but that only made it harder. Between her shifts, Elliot's futility had practically forced his mom to pack up everything on her own: the ultimate offense to the woman who had nothing but helped him.

They were all safe now, but somehow the relief about dodging his worst fear didn't show itself. It was just pain now, every day for every minute.

Two more weeks in here, according to the latest prognosis, and then straight into the unknown. Ambulant rehabilitation maybe, workplace retraining - something like that.

Alone again, until another blood sample or change of dressing became necessary.

Couldn't it have been something else? Elliot would rather be living with his ankle smashed to pieces... or skull, he didn't use its contents anyway, right? Otherwise, he wouldn't be in that fucking bed with a piss bottle on its side.

How much healing to get his life back?

It would only get harder from here on out, that's for sure; although he didn't have to feel all of this right now, therapy was over. So Elliot pressed the big red button down, letting the rush of numbness take him away, if only for a moment.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

[mommasunshines]

Let me tell you all about my grandma.

My grandma was the kindest woman I ever got to meet, and if I had to compare any woman to Hestia, it would have to be her I think. My grandma had hair as red as a fox and loved squirrels and baby seals, she loved music and dancing and cooking and knitting and crocheting and she was the best.

My grandma was warmth, she was the idea of safety and home. When I visited her house she always had some chocolate or kinder surprise eggs or chips in that old cabinet on the very right, and she had this huge wooden monstrosity of a cupboard that's now in my room, filled with beautiful glasses and pictures. When I wanted something to drink, we'd heat up milk and dissolve some sugar in it, cause I like it, and when we made potatoes she peeled them and I got to throw them in the pot of cold water so we could wash off the starch.

She liked to joke all the time that I got my love for dancing and music from her, because she used to hold me in her arms, singing and dancing in front of the mirror when I was still very small. She wasn't wrong I think. I think that's where I got it from.

My grandma loved when I played the piano, because she thought it was so wonderful to hear, even when I was a child and could barely play, she wanted to hear it every time she came to our place.

To call her a spitfire would be less than she was. She still biked to our place as long as she could, not caring that it was over three kilometres and a bridge away. She also refused to wear a helmet over her beautiful curls for as long as she rode her bicycle. She had a tongue sharper than the knifes in her kitchen drawer or the retractable measuring tape that she owned, on which I cut my finger. I reopened the cut on a toilet paper roll the next day, and I was a little scared of metal measuring tapes since that day.

And even when she had to go to the nursing home, she always brought crackers for me when we got her for a visit. Cause she knew I love savoury foods more than sweet. And when we got together, we liked to make jokes about many things. Many many things.

And when she died this morning... I could only smile for a few minutes, because that couldn't be true. And when my dad called mom to tell her at work, it finally sank in. And I relearned to cry like a waterfall. And I got the scarf she made me, in my favourite colours, and hugged it, knowing it was one of many things she gave me during the almost 18 years I got to know this wonderful woman.

I'll be 18 in two weeks, and I will celebrate without her. But I will dance, knowing it was her that made me love it so much. I will play "Underdog" at piano lessons tomorrow, knowing it was the last thing she heard me play on the piano when I played for her last. I will try to wear the scarf she made me, or one she gave me at least. I will sit at her old desk, using her old typewriter to write the things I wanna say at her funeral. I will ask my mom for her apple pancake recipe later today. I kind of wanna eat them again now.

It hink I'll get a cup of milk with sugar now. Maybe I will look at her old pictures too.

I wonder if the next time I see a squirrel, it will be one she sent my way.

And even if I am pagan now, the next time I lose something, I will grab the old bell we'll get from her room in the next days and ring it, asking for help from Saint Antonius, the patron saint of the "schussiligen".

If only he could bring her back to me, I lost her too, didn't I?

[petersasteria]

hope ur ok || holland!reader

sour masterlist || holland!reader || sour taglist

3,637 words tw: sad shit bc spoiler: someone dies, italics are flashbacks, bold is a letter i don't have a holland reader banner so i used the olivia banner instead. also, sorry for the delay of posting this lmao

* * * *

You were in your room, sitting on your bed as your eyes looked around. Your room was painted your favorite color and it made your brothers jealous because their rooms were painted white, it was boring. Yours had posters, polaroids of you and your siblings, fairy lights, a bean bag chair, and a simple full body mirror. You heard a knock on your door and you looked to see that it was Tom smiling brightly with a plate of your favorite cookies.

“Hey.” He said softly as he entered the room and shut the door behind him with his foot while balancing the plate of cookies in his hands.

“Hi.” You smiled.

“Sam kicked me out of the kitchen, but I was there first and fortunately, I finished the cookies on time. I hope they taste alright.” Tom said as he sat beside you, the plate of cookies in between you.

“They smell good, so you did a good job.” You chuckled. Tom took one cookie and looked at you, “Taste test.”

He took a bite and chewed it a few times before saying, “It tastes alright. It’s not like how Sam makes it, but I’m not Sam. I’m Tom.”

Both of you erupted into a fit of giggles as you talked about random things. The plate of cookies were now on your bedside table and only half of the cookies were eaten.

“Hey, how’s your friend?” Tom asked casually. Both of you were laying on your bed, facing the ceiling.

“Which friend?”

“The blond one who had one hell of a musical talent.” Tom said. “He used to come here and play on Sam’s piano.”

“Oh, James! I don’t really know what happened to him. We, uh, fell out of touch.”

“I see.” Tom said. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Same here.” You told him. “My friend, Madeline, got a scholarship last time I checked. She got accelerated in school and she got to attend uni ahead of us. I’m really proud of her, y’know?”

“Where is she now?” Tom asked.

You looked at Tom with sorrow in your eyes. He glanced at you and he could see how hurt you were. “We don’t talk...anymore. We used to. She’s basically like a sister to me, but we don’t talk anymore. Regardless, I’m really happy for her and I miss her. Wherever she is, I hope she’s alright.”

Suddenly, there was a knock on your door and Tom sat up quickly. The door opened and revealed Sam. “Hey, it’s time to eat dinner. You’re washing the dishes tonight, Tom!” Sam said before leaving.

“That little shit.” Tom laughed. “C’mon, Y/N. Let’s eat!” He got up from your bed and you followed suit with worry and concern in your eyes. You shook your head and shrugged it off. What you’ll say can wait.

Both of you went down to join everyone on the dining table. You sat in your usual seat, but didn’t contribute in the conversation. You were just happy to be there. You looked around and saw how happy your brothers were. You looked at your parents and saw them smiling. It was a beautiful sight to see. After all, all you wanted was for them to be happy. They deserve to be happy.

Harry and Tom cleaned up as you watched them help each other. “Next time, we should cook Y/N’s favorite dinner.” Tom said. Harry looked at him and shrugged, “Why not? I never liked it, but I’m sure she’d appreciate it very much.”

The next few days were spent with Tom. He never left your side and he made sure you were alright. You were the youngest and as the eldest Holland child, he made it his job to look after you. He wasn’t close with you before, but somehow as you grew older, it changed. Tom was now excited to spend time with you. He loved talking to you and he loved laughing with you. In his opinion, you make his stress and worries fade away.

Your birthday is coming up and he wanted everything planned out. He already had plans, actually. He knew what cake you wanted, he knew what decorations to put up, he planned the food, and he even had a theme in mind. He was really prepared. Paddy had to go with Tom in town just to buy balloons. Tom was really going all out.

“Are you going to help me set up tonight? Y/N’s birthday is tomorrow and I want her to be surprised when she wakes up. I can already imagine her face.” Tom smiled excitedly as he parked the car in the driveway.

“I can’t help you tonight. I have homework.” Paddy said as he looked at Tom who just shrugged. “Alright. No problem. Stay in school, Pads.” Tom smiled before exiting his car with Paddy following him.

They walked in and Tom saw you sitting on the arm of the couch with Sam and Harry. Tom smiled at the sight. “Hey, guys!” He greeted, causing the three of you to look at Tom and Paddy.

“Wow, you went shopping for a lot of things.” Harry pointed out.

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Sam asked with a grin.

“Nothing.” Tom smirked. “I’ll put these in my room.” Tom left and went upstairs to his room as Paddy walked to the couch and sat next to you. You looked at Paddy and smiled. You weren’t close with him, but you loved him dearly. You were only one year younger than him and he was always kind to you and you liked hanging out with him.

You looked at Sam and Harry and you held back a chuckle as you watch them annoy each other. It was a lovely sight to see.

Night time came and dinner was over a few hours ago. You were just standing in your backyard feeling the wind blowing and you knew that something was about to happen. You just didn’t know what. The backdoor opened and you turned around to see Tom with a small smile.

“What’re you doing out here? It’s cold.” He said as he tugged his jacket closer. He walked towards you and stood beside you. “What’s on your mind?”

You shrugged, “Nothing. I guess I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest now.”

Tom nodded. He suddenly remembered his plan and said, “Yeah, you can go upstairs now. I, uh, prepared your room.”

“Thank you.” You smiled at him. You walked towards the back door and stopped to turn around to look at Tom. He was already looking at you and you said, “I- Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, Y/N. Sweet dreams.” He smiled sweetly. You opened the door and walked in and went straight up the stairs to your room.

Tom stayed outside for a minute before walking in. He locked the back door and went to the living room where his brothers were. “Hey, guys! Ready to decorate?” Tom asked with a huge smile on his face. It was evident that he was excited.

“What’re you talking about?” Sam asked, looking at Tom with a confused face.

“Yeah, what’s happening?” Paddy questioned.

Tom scoffed and crossed his arms, “How could you guys forget?! It’s our sister’s birthday tomorrow and you guys aren’t preparing at all!”

Tom was yelling as the rest were looking at him sadly. Sam’s eyes were clouded with tears as he looked at Tom. Harry and Paddy looked at Sam, not wanting to be the ones to remind Tom. Sam sighed and closed his eyes and his tears fell. He wiped his tears and opened his eyes to face Tom.

“Tom, mate, she’s dead.” Sam said softly. “She’s been dead for two months now.”

“W-What are you talking about?” Tom shook his head slowly. He looked away from Sam and he saw you standing behind Sam. “She’s right there, Sam! She’s literally right behind you! How can you not see it?!”

“Tom, stop! She’s gone, okay?!” Harry exclaimed. “Y/N’s not here! She won’t be here anymore and it’ll be that way forever. We just have to accept that.”

“It was leukemia, Tom. She didn’t make it and we had a funeral and everything.” Paddy said softly.

You were confined in the hospital for about a week now and you were getting weaker and weaker as the days went on. Your family was trying to be positive, but all of you knew that it was your time to go. Before you were confined, you had written letters for them to read after you die and it was now hidden in their drawers.

Tom and Harry weren’t there when you passed because they were in a different country. They immediately went home when they heard the news. All of you knew that you weren’t going to make it, but all of you ignored that fact. Everyone except Tom was grieving. He held his mother as she cried and he stayed strong for his brothers. He couldn’t remember the last time he and his brothers slept in one room and he hated that they chose to do it again as soon as you were gone.

It was like a sleepover. They all talked about you and everything you did that the others didn’t know about. Turns out, you had secrets you shared with everyone except Tom.

“Wait, she told you guys about her secrets?” Tom asked that night.

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, eyes bloodshot from all the crying. “If something happens to her, she tells the first person she sees.”

“She never told me anything.” Tom stated.

“That’s because you’re the eldest. No one tells people about themselves to the eldest sibling.” Paddy answered.

“That’s unfortunate.” Tom frowned. “I wish I knew the things you knew.” He added.

“It’s alright, Tom. She didn’t have major secrets, anyway. Besides, she was just scared to tell you. That’s why she did that.” Sam explained.

Tom couldn’t sleep that night as he looked at his brothers. They were cuddled up next to each other and were fast asleep. Tom couldn’t help but think of you before finally drifting off. Days later, it was the funeral. The whole house was quiet and while your mum, Nikki, would appreciate it, for once in her life she wanted the noise. She wanted to hear boisterous laughing, heavy footsteps running up and down the stairs, yelling, the sound of Sam cutting vegetables, Dom’s loud typing, Paddy talking to his friend on the phone, Harry telling you to wake up and calling you a lazy bum for not being productive, and Tom playing with Tessa outside. Now, there was none of that.

When a husband or wife dies, the one they left behind is called a widow. When a child dies, what do you call their parents? No one’s ever come up with a word for that yet because it’s too painful to think about. You were young and you deserved all the best life has to offer. Nikki was devastated, but she knew that wherever you were, you aren’t in pain anymore and that was enough for her.

Tom wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He was numb. After the funeral, he and Harry decided to take a break from traveling to spend time with the rest of the family. He stopped working for a while and everyone understood that.

When they got home, Tom went straight to his room and cried. He cried and cried until no tears came out. His head ached, but he didn’t want to get up and get himself a glass of water. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table to ask Harry, but his phone died. Tom scoffed, sat up, and reached the drawer of his bedside table. He leaned over to look for his phone charger, but he saw a letter instead. It had his name on it and he realized that it was your handwriting. Tom quickly grabbed it and put his phone back on the bedside table. He opened the envelope and read what you wrote for him.

Dear Tom,

Hi. When you read this, you know that I'm gone. I'm sorry that we never got to bond a lot. I guess it's my fault because I was so scared of you. Despite that, I want you to know that I'm really happy for you and I'm proud of you.

You're my inspiration and please know that I'm very proud to be your sister.

I don't know where I'll end up when I'm gone, but please don't worry about me. I'll be okay, I can feel it. I'll just go where the wind takes me.

You're a kind person for the whole time I've known you. I'll miss everything and I'll miss your pranks and jokes. Please never stop doing those just because I'm gone. I hope you think of me whenever you tell a joke or pull a prank on Harry again.

I wish we bonded more. I wish we made cookies until Sam kicked us out of the kitchen because he needed to prepare for dinner. I wish we watched movies together and I wish we spoke often.

I'll miss you all the time and I love you. So much. Never forget that.

Your sister,

Y/N/N x

Tom cried again until he slept with the letter resting on his chest. The next morning, he got up to go to your room. He dreamt of you and he wanted to tell you about it. He glanced at the door and noticed that it was unlocked. He slowly opened it and to his surprise, he saw you standing there watching everyone outside from your window.

“Y/N.” Tom said.

You turned around and smiled at him, “Hey, Tom.”

“I dreamt of you! And in my dream, you were a ballet dancer. We did ballet together. Wouldn't that be something? It could be a bonding thing for us." Tom said with a big smile as he fully entered your room. All of a sudden, he forgot about your sickness, your death, your sickness. From an outsider's point of view, it was a sad sight to see. He was clearly in the denial stage.

Harry was on his way downstairs when he heard a voice coming from your room. He quietly opened the door and saw Tom excitedly talking to thin air.

"You know, I'm not doing anything anytime soon. Why don't we go out? It'll just be you and me, Y/N." Tom smiled. Harry's heart broke upon hearing this. His older brother was imagining their dead sister. Harry kept it to himself because he thought that Tom was coping that way.

It wasn't until Sam witnessed the same thing. Tom was in the kitchen and he was talking to thin air once more. Sam watched as Tom laughed and said a bunch of things. Sam kept it to himself too.

Paddy, however, was different. He went to Harry and Sam's room, unannounced. He closed and locked the door behind him as the twins looked at him in confusion.

"Okay, I can't be the only one to notice it." Paddy said with arms crossed.

"What're you talking about?" Harry asked.

"Tom." Was all Paddy said. The twins looked at each other before looking back at Paddy.

"What about him?" Sam asked, his eyebrows were raised a bit.

"Tom told me that he'll bake Y/N's favorite cookies tomorrow because Y/N said she was craving for it." Paddy explained.

"I saw Tom talking to thin air the day after the funeral. He was in Y/N's room." Harry confessed.

"I saw him doing that too, but he was in the kitchen this time. I'm worried about him." Sam said.

"What should we do?" Harry asked with a frown on his face.

"Let's just let him be for a while. Let’s just intervene when it gets out of hand.” Sam decided as the other two nodded.

They just let Tom be until they had enough.

Tom couldn't believe what his brothers were telling him. He felt sick to his stomach. His baby sister was gone and the thought of it ate him alive. He shook his head and Sam said, “Tom, everything will be alright. We’ll get through this together. We’ll be fine.”

“That can’t be true. I’ve been speaking to her. Stop fucking lying.” Tom cried.

“Tom, wake up! She’s not here, alright?! She’s not in her room anymore. Her things will forever be untouched and her books will be dusty. Her phone hasn’t been charged since she died and it’ll stay that way. All we have left are pictures, videos, and memories of her. We should accept that because no matter what happens, we can’t bring her back!” Harry said as his voice was raised.

“Just go to bed, mate. You’re tired.” Paddy said softly. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

Tom wiped his tears and went up to his room, slamming the door. He went to sleep and dreamt of you again. Both of you were on top of a small hill and the wind was blowing softly.

“Why can’t they see you?” Tom asked you.

“Because I only showed myself to you. I know that we haven’t been really close and I figured you’d want some kind of closure. In truth, I’m only here because of you. The light has been calling me and they want me to leave already, but I can’t because I know you’d be sad. I hate seeing you sad.” You explained.

“Then stay here.” Tom begged, but you shook your head.

“You need to let me go, Tom. It’s time. I can’t stay here forever.” You chuckled lightly.

“I just- I feel like nothing. When you were around, I felt like I had a purpose. Now, I just wish I could be with you.” He admitted.

“Don’t say that. Imagine how everyone will react if you’re gone. They’ll be upset. I’m so proud that you’re alive and well because you’ll get to go on with life and grow old. If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Live the life I never got to live. Trust me when I say that you’ll be happier when you move on.”

“I don’t want to forget you and I don’t want you to think that we’re having fun without you.” He said.

“I won’t think that way because all I ever wanted for all of you is to be happy and healthy. I love you and I miss you, but I want you to have fun and to keep doing everything you love. Don’t stop because I’m gone. Don’t let me be a hindrance because that’ll make me sad and I’ll haunt you forever.” You said as Tom chuckled. “Besides, you don’t have to forget about me. I’ll always be in your heart.”

“Alright.” Tom said. “I think I’m ready to let you go.”

You smiled and nodded as you walked away and stepped into the light. Tom shouted, “Happy birthday, Y/N!”

You looked back and smiled. With that, he knew you were thanking him not just for greeting, but also for everything.

Tom woke up and it was already morning. He decided to get ready and to head to the cemetery. He walked downstairs and saw his brothers eating breakfast.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked before eating his cereal.

“The cemetery. It’s Y/N’s birthday.” Tom said. “I’ll go now. I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

Tom left and the drive to the cemetery was short and quiet. He parked the car and walked to your grave. He smiled when he saw a small, framed picture of you that Harry placed there not too long ago. He sat in front of your grave and smiled, “Hey, Y/N. I know you can hear me.”

“I guess I did look crazy for a while and I now understand how everyone felt. I, um, I read your letter. I’m sorry too, y’know? I’m sorry I never made the effort to spend time with you. I guess it’s because all my life, I’ve only known about having brothers and when you came along, I didn’t know how to act. But I’m really happy that I got to see you grow up and I’m happy with our few moments together.”

“When you were five, I was fourteen. It’s a wide gap and I remember being so annoyed because your toys were everywhere.” He chuckled at the thought. “Regardless, I loved you and I still do. I’m happy that you grew up to be kind and loving. I’m really fucking happy for that.”

“In your letter, you said that I shouldn’t worry about you. Y/N, I’m sorry, but I can’t promise that. I’m your older brother and that automatically makes me sort of like a second parent especially when mum and dad aren’t around. So, I’ll always worry about you even though I know you’re okay and not in pain.”

“I do, however, promise to always dedicate my pranks to you. I know you’d love that. I’d wish that we bonded, but we already did that. You gave me a chance to get to know the sister I never got to know and that, above all, makes me so happy and grateful. That’s enough for me.”

“I don’t want to say cheesy shit and ask for guidance. I don’t want to burden you in heaven. Like, it’s called a resting place for a reason and I want you to rest easy. I just want to say that I miss you so much and I love you. Happy birthday.” He finished.

Just then, he felt the wind blow in his direction and he knew that you were okay.

* * * *

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @celestialholland @alinastarkrovs @piscesparker @prancerrparkerr @spideyspeaches @givebuckyhisplumsnow @blueleatherbag @theonly1outof-a-billion @hollandbroz-n-haz @starlight-starks @webmeupspiderdaddy @studiesinspanish @bi-lmg @minejungwoo @blossomhollands @markhyucksmells @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch

[mccoys-killer-queen]

seeing Elton John in concert

just wanna go off and say first of all- this is the polar opposite of the REO show xD I had nosebleed seats in an arena used for hockey games so Elton looked like a sparkly microscopic raisin- even with binoculars and my glasses I could hardly see him!

this also meant that since I wasn't at the foot of the stage standing up or interacting with the band the whole time, I couldn't get any variety of pictures at all, but I was sitting down what felt like a half mile away and able to record a lot of it. After experiencing both sides of the concert experience, you can bet your ass I extremely prefer being at the foot of the stage.

Still, there were a lot of incredible visual effects that were mesmerizing to see from afar! And the sound definitely had its perks being so far back. Observing the crowd from on high was neat also.

here's some highlights I recall from last night:

he opened with Bennie and the Jets and played the first chord over and over and over again and it was exactly like this post

like 14 seconds into this song I looked over at my sister (whose first concert it was) and she was staring in awe, tears already streaming down her face

the band: *Philadelphia Freedom* us, a pennsylvanian crowd: AGSRBAOFRWEAIOGN50TN25Y82509YN0Q35GAEORIGN0RV5198GNQO3IGNRQEOIG5NQHR5

throughout the whole concert on the jumbotron behind him there were these clips of just... indie... dancers...? like dancers in solid bold colors doing whatever and it was weird

me trying not to sob during I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues bc i was recording the whole thing

Elton dedicating Border Song to Aretha Franklin

them playing Have Mercy On the Criminal and me going feral bc I thought I was the only person who'd ever heard of that song

the fucking guitarist Davey Johnstone who now has my soul and my ass in his hands what a fucking god I'd follow him into hell fuck

Elton coming out in a long bath robe for the encore

Rocket Man making me want to float out of my seat bc the visuals were that hypnotizing

the clips of the Marilyn Monroe lookalike behind him during Candle In the Wind, in which during one her tits came out

the one picture of Diana that came on behind him (I forget which song- Border Song?)

his little!! improvised!!! piano fillers!!!!

the camera on his piano so we could see him play :oo

the drummer Ray Cooper having the time of his life and easily the happiest and most energetic person in the stadium at the age of 74 I would die for him

there being a little 3 minute intermission during which the lights darkened and there were only dark purple lights on the stage, no one on it, lots of smoke being pumped out onto it, and thunder and lightning effects filling the smoke

these effects were the segue into Funeral For a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding, which was, in my opinion, possibly the height of the night. It was like an opera.

Elton's piano moving across the stage

me playing Sad Songs (Say So Much) in the car on our way there and me saying to my sister "they're definitely not gonna play this but I still like it" and them proceeding to play it

when the chorus of Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me hit, the clip of Taron Egerton in the devil costume bursting through the doors in Rocketman came on the screen and the place went nuts

the little drag queen mini movie that played on the screen during The Bitch is Back

the Crocodile Rock singalong

the Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting) singalong

at the end of this song, gold confetti exploded over the floor crowd

Elton beginning the encore with Cold Heart and having us sing Dua Lipa's parts

in Elton's last speech he told us to be kind and spread peace and love each other

he closed with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

he exited the stage by standing on a platform that lifted him up and backwards and he disappeared behind a door in the screen

this:

bonus:

a lot of the workers at Hershey's Chocolate World seeing my shirt and expressing excitement and jealousy that I was going to the concert

one of these people being a middle aged man who saw him in 1972

we got VIP packages, and since we sold the 3rd ticket we got, that meant our 3rd set of VIP merch belonged to whoever bought the ticket

the person was a very nice old lady from Baltimore, and she refused our offer for the merch (even the VIP lanyard I brought for her) but did take the physical ticket

(setlist)

[captainjimothycarter]

What are Steve's wedding vows to Peggy?

Hey i wrote something since like Saturday. kinda proud of myself despite BAD anxiety over this.

--

“Are you ready, Steve?”

The question came from Edwin Jarvis, the man sticking his head in through the curtains to smile at the nervous Captain. Steve just held up the bowtie in despair, trying to hide the shake in his fingers.

“I can mull down hundreds of Nazis. I can fight Hydra to the bone and-and nearly be killed by a frozen tundra, but what defeats me is a god dang bow tie!”

Jarvis laughed as he stepped into the small side room, giving him a comforting smile. “You know,” he mused as he started to do the tie. “When I was marrying my Ana, I was so nervous I fainted right as we got to I do.”

Steve felt himself gap, looking the man up and down. He could picture that, not that he would say it. He felt like he might faint before he even got out to where Bucky and Colonel Phillips were waiting for him.

“When I came to, my head was in Ana’s lap and I insisted she was an angel. She practically is - not that I’ll ever insist anything different. She’s never let me live that down, that rascal. The point is, Captain Rogers,” the man smirked as he finished the tie and smoothed it out along Steve’s neck. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m...Captain America, I shouldn’t be nervous, I wasn’t nervous when-”

“Let me ask you something,” Jarvis spoke over him, patting the guy’s shoulders to get him to sit down. He pulled a comb out of nowhere and started to fix Steve’s mousy hair from his constant fingers combing through it. All Steve could do was look on in the mirror. “When you bulldozed through of Hydra agents or lead your Howling Commandos through countless missions or did whatever you did in what the reports do not say, were you nervous?”

“Of course not, those guys depended on me. I couldn’t afford to be nervous or second think my actions, someone might’ve died.” Plenty of people did, in ways Steve could’ve never stopped or predicted unless he’d been there, but he was one person.

Not that Jarvis was asking about this.

“Exactly. They depended on you. You needed to be ready for anything, to overcome anything Hydra would’ve thrown at you. Yet with Miss Carter, you’re nervous about your wedding? It’s practically a tradition to be nervous. Do you know what that means?”

“That I’ll fumble my vows or drop the rings and it’ll roll into a gutter, never to be seen again?”

Jarvis snorted and lightly squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “No, Captain Rogers, it does not. It means that you love her. You love Miss Carter with every fiber of your being. It means you, my friend, will have an amazing wedding and marriage. Even if you do fumble, you can do no worse than me and fainting.”

Steve covered his face, trying to stabilize his breathing. He did love Peggy - Jarvis was right. There was no doubt about that. He loved her. Loved her so damn much he might explode. He just...was nervous.

“Being nervous,” Jarvis continued as he put the comb away and tilted Steve’s head up to inspect himself in the black and white suit. “Being nervous is a tradition. It means you love her. I’m sure Miss Carter is nervous too.”

Steve’s mouth opened to counter, Peggy couldn’t be nervous - he’s seen her stare enemies dead in the eye and not miss a beat. He’s seen her let herself get shot if it meant saving the hostage. He’s seen her survive countless trails and still stand on top at the end of the day. There’s no way Peggy was nervous. Yet, the second he opened his mouth to say something, Bucky stuck his head through the curtain.

His hair was perfectly parted thanks to his mother’s intervention. He was sure the second his ma wasn’t looking, he would mess it up. The suit he wore was a little on the older side, insisting he got to wear his dad’s suit to this wedding.

“You ready, Stevie? That green isn’t a good shade, bud.”

Steve gently swatted at Bucky’s chest as he adjusted the suit once more, trying to take in a deep breath to calm down.

“Shut up. I’m just...nervous. How’s everything looking? We ready?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be. Ole Phillips is grumbling as ever. Dugan is waiting up there, Angie is ready. We’ve already had to stop the niece and nephew from throwing the flowers everywhere.”

“Oliver and Penny really like those roses, huh?” Steve’s lips twitched into a small laugh at the idea of the kids going haywire with those roses. “And Peggy? Is she…?”

“Ana and Rose and even Howard are in there, it’s alright.” Seeing his friend’s panic look, he smoothed down his suit again, the metallic hand glimmering in the dull light of the chapel. “Let’s get this party started and get you two crazy kids married.”

--

“Always knew you two would end up together,” Phillips grunted as Steve stood nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “From the second she laid eyes on that scrawny form of yours.”

Steve laughed, a more forceful laugh given the nervous state he was in. He watched Jarvis politely sit down after checking in on the girls, Rose already coming up to stand by them. Bucky clapped Steve on the shoulder, squeezing him too hard.

“Told you,” he chuckled. “You two were meant to be…”

“‘cept you shouldn’t have shown up in the bar when we were having your public funeral,” Dugan interjected. “Not the best idea, Cap.”

“You’re lucky Carter didn’t shoot you on the spot, coming up with a soiled uniform, and half that glass in your chest,” Phillips grunted.

“Wouldn’t have hurt as bad, if-”

Steve stopped the second he heard Ana playing the piano, turning on his heels and towards the door.

He watched Oliver and Penny run through with the flowers, throwing them everywhere but the floor. His little giggle and the laugh through the chapel made him relax a little, but the second he saw Peggy, everything was back in full force.

She was...beautiful, spectacular. A thousand words he couldn’t think to say. His mind nothing but a fine-tuned sound of buzzing as he watched her slowly walk through that door. Ana had worked perfectly on that dress, the trim, the lace, every down to the last details of the pearls knitted into the collar.

Steve could feel the tears burning in his eyes as she slowly stood in front of him, hearing in the corner of his mind, Phillips muttering about sap.

He loved her.

“You look…” Steve struggled with the word as he held onto her glove-laced hands, looking down at them and slowly back to those beautiful hazel eyes that he’d fallen in love with before he even knew what color they were.

“I know,” Peggy finished, squeezing his hands. “You look pretty dashing yourself. We-”

“How about we get this show on the road, huh?” Phillips asked, breaking the silence, and the music slowly melted into the background. “We all knew we’d end up here today. It was just a matter of time and if it was legal or not. I expected you two to just waltz into my tent one day and demand to be married, the laws and logic be damned.”

“Almost,” Steve mused, shrugging his shoulders. Phillips’ grey eyes were trained on him, brow rose as if to ask what. “I proposed to Peggy after she’d been shot during the hostage situation of ‘44.”

“Son.” The tone said all and the Howling Commandos laughed the loudest. Steve glanced over to see Peggy’s side of the family, most with pursed lips. They still weren’t pleased that their daughter was marrying a Yankee.

“We told him to do it,” Dugan interjected.

“Dared him, actually,” Jones added.

“Double-dog dared him,” Bucky said.

“Actually, we told him to do it or we would on his behalf,” Pinky reminded them.

“We-”

Phillips’ look silenced Falsworth on the spot, the man clearing his throat and stepping back in line. “We’re no longer at war, boys, you don’t have to keep defending your Captain under insane circumstances. I’ll never forget about the damn goat incident.”

--

It was only a few minutes later before Phillips cleared his throat again and nodded towards the couple. “The couple has written their own vows. Ca-Steve, would you like to go first?”

Steve blinked as he felt Peggy’s eyes on him, trying to calm his racing heart down. “Okay, yeah. Yeah,” he breathed, taking the paper Dugan had passed him. “I stayed up till 4 in the morning working on this. Mr. Jarvis had to eventually take the pen from me so I’d sleep.”

“And he didn’t accept my help,” Howard muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear, making the Captain flush.

“Okay, here it goes,” Steve breathed, unfolding the paper and trying not to let how nervous he was shown. His hands were already starting to shake and he was afraid sweat would ruin the ink.

Peggy’s hand gently closed around his wrist and offered him a comforting smile. “It’s okay, darling. Just us. Not a whole platoon of guys to play Star-Spangled Man With A Plan.”

If he wasn’t blushing then, he was now.

“Peggy, I…” Steve looked down at the paper and back up at her. He could hear Jarvis’s voice in the back of his head telling him that when he got up there, he’d know what to say. Fumbling or not.

“Peggy, I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you and I didn’t know it. I didn’t know what the color of your lips was or the color of your eyes or your hair or even your uniform. I didn’t know the true sound of your voice or the smell of the roses on your skin. I didn’t know much then - hell I don’t know much now -”

A few people laughed and Steve lowered the paper, looking dead into his wife-to-be eyes.

“I didn’t know much then. I just knew you were hell on high heels and damn anyone who got in your path. When you first knocked out Hodge, I felt my breath taken away. When you ran for the grenade too, I wanted my last sight to be of you, swore I was goin’ blow myself up to a million pieces. Our first conversation in that car might’ve been one of our lasts and I was glad it was with you, someone who understood me. Understood what it was like to be discriminated against because we’re us… Because I was sickly and small and you were a woman, a girl, a-”

“You still don’t know how to talk to women, do you?” Peggy asked, blinking the tears from her eyes and making Steve give a wet laugh.

“I”m afraid not, how I managed to get you to fall in love with me is a wonder. The point is, Pegs, I love you, from the bottom of my heart. All through the war, we talked about what we wanted after. I insisted on a white-picket fence, a house in some neighborhood, that we’d build the perfect life together and well...you saw where that lead us. Me to a watery grave and you punching me out when I showed up at that bar. Even if I was late for our dance.

I just...I love you. Life has taken us on insane turns from clearing our friend’s name to-to living in LA for a few months. To...to here. To me finally getting the guts to purpose to you. Or more like catching my breath. I need you in my life and I’m lucky to have you. I’m more than happy to sit on the sidelines and let you work, to raise our kids or tend to a home, to do anything you ask. I’m more than happy to just be yours. I just...I need to be yours like I need to breathe. You are my life, Peggy Carter, and I’ll have no other but you. I’m lucky to be your husband, to be by your side through it all.”

Peggy didn’t bother to hide the few tears running down her face, thankful Angie had fixed her makeup just right to prevent the tear streaks from showing. She cleared her face off with the handkerchief Rose had given her and sniffled.

“Sap,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I stayed up late last night but not writing these vows. I...told myself I knew what I was going to say when I got up here, but I’m mistaken. I can only say I love you, Steve Rogers. You are my life. My soul. When I was young, I insisted I wouldn’t marry. I insisted my life was to slay dragons, rescue knights, be a pirate. To be anything but the lady my mother wanted me to be.

I insisted I knew what I wanted for myself. That I-I wanted to be a codebreaker and I was good at it. I-”

“And saved our lives with it,” Howard said, causing them to laugh.

“Yes, Howard, thank you. I am good at it. I’m great at it. I insisted that’s all I could do to help the war effort, to maybe consider becoming a nurse but my mother and Fred forbidden it. I insisted I loved Fred because my mother did. I insisted that I could do some good by staying home, being the good wife, and keeping my head down. I insisted on a lot of things but for myself…

It took Micheal’s death for me to see there was more for me out there. The SSR was life-changing for me. Getting to serve under Colonel Phillips’ here, getting to meet you, even if you were...different.”

“It’s okay, call him a shrimp like I did,” Phillips interjected, making Peggy give a wet chuckle. “Kid got that sandwich after all.”

He swore the man smiled at him - even if Steve wouldn’t admit it.

“You were different. You stood out from the rest and it was because of your good heart. Yes the grenade incident, but you helped the nurses around the base. You helped collect herbs for them when we ran out of pain killers, you remembered decades-old healing practices that your mother taught you. You gave some of the guys, even if they were bastards to you, advice on how to fix their broken shoelaces or how to even hide the knives better in their clothes. You were kind and sweet-hearted and I wanted you from the start.

Even after your serum, you didn’t change. You saved that kid. You saved me, even if I was quite upset about it.”

“You did yell at me a lot for pushing you out of the way,” Steve interrupted, remembering that chaotic day.

“You were running with no shoes on and shoved me out of the way of an oncoming car. I had to yell about something.” She smoothed down his suit and sighed, shaking the veil. “Even after that, Steve, I...I love you. I loved you from the start. During the war, that love only grew. I thought we hid it well.”

“No,” Bucky snorted. “No, you two did not. Everyone knew.”

“Yes, thank you, James,” Peggy huffed, giving her friend a roll of her eyes. “That love for you grew and I’m only sorry we didn’t act sooner, that we didn’t kiss more or-or risk it to just touch each other in blatant public when we needed the comfort because it was a war. I am sorry that it took this long to get here - but we’re here. Look at us. We’re here, sweetheart. We’re getting married after all in a setting of our choice, with our friends and family. It’s worth the wait.”

“You’re always worth the wait,” Steve whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I love you,” Peggy whispered, squeezing his hands. “I loved you then, to now, and forevermore. I’ll never stop loving you, no part of my soul will be complete without you. You are my light, Steven Grant Rogers, as I am your compass, your true star north. You are my light and I want nothing more from you than a life that we paved together.”

There was no dry eye around them, even the grisled Colonel was sniffing slightly and wiping at his eyes. He squeezed the book in his hand and gave the couple a warm smile. “Aren’t you two kids sweet? Why don’t we wrap this up so you two can kiss like how you did in the supply closets?”

Steve felt his ears burn, turning back to Peggy and holding her hands. He wasn’t sure how he survived the rest of the ceremony. Of Bucky bringing the rings to them, his ma’s old ring that Howard had cleaned up and engraved with their wedding date on it. Peggy’s father’s wedding band.

He wasn’t sure how he barely got the words I do our before Peggy was jumping on him to kiss him and Steve’s arms found a way around her frame to pick her up and kiss the life out of her.

The wedding they dreamed of and feared that they never had.

A life yet to come with many memories down the road.

[airi-p4]

Miraculous escape - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

I wasn’t planning to post this yet, but it’s Lukadrien June and today prompt is ‘escape’ and, even if it’s only Lukadrien friendship (bc it’s Lukanette & Adrigami endgame), it fit so well that I couldn’t stop myself from posting this. Chapter 1 and the final chapter have been finished for months, but I don’t know when I’m going to continue with the rest... 

This fic is based / inspired by Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Some like it hot’ film.

Thank you @alittleshycat for the header and wanted posters pic! ( I hope you’re doing well... I miss you... 🥺💙 )

Thank you @brickercupmasterx3​ for proofreading! 💙

Summary:

Luka helps Adrien escape from his prison-like house and his strict father but Gabriel Agreste is not planning to let them go away easily. They become fugitives and ask Juleka for help, who offers them a very unconventional escape plan: joining a girl band/orchestra to flee the country.

Easier said than done, especially when they find something unexpected in that band: the two most beautiful women they've ever seen.

Warning: includes art

AO3

_________________________

Chapter 1: Fugitives

"My father is going to kill me."

"Your father is going to kill us."

One carrying a guitar on his back, and the other a piano keyboard case on his hand, two musicians were being chased by multiple cars around Paris. Turning corners, going up and downstairs, hiding behind trash containers and cars, the chase seemed far from an end anytime soon. Panting for air, the pair continued running after they turned the corner, just in time not to be seen-  a close call. The loud sirens never seemed to stop, coming from all directions.

"I can't believe I finally escaped from home!", the young blond man exclaimed excitedly. "Thanks, Luka. I wouldn't have made it without your help. You're a real friend."

"Don't mention it, Adrien. That's what friends are for, right?", the blue haired man laughed and patted his back. "It would have been perfect if we hadn't broken half of your father's statue collection while escaping your bodyguards, though. Now he's gonna kill us for sure. We can't let them catch us!"

"We need to run away from Paris. And fast! My father is the devil itself! You don't want to know..."

"I don't!"

Jumping down a wall, and turning another corner, the two friends hid in the back of a funeral car and waited until the police sirens got further away. They had been scolded for being disrespectful with the dead, but it was worth it: they were safe- at least for now.

"We need to leave the city and find a place to stay. Knowing your father, he must have all stations, roads and airports under his control." Luka said, stopping Adrien from crossing the street to firstly check their surroundings.

"How are we going to do it? Our car became 'inoperative' during the chase and our friends and family must be monitored!"

Adrien's panic made Luka grab his shoulders to reassure him of their plans.

"No, look. They know you, but they don't know much about me. Not many people know I have a sister who lives here, in Paris."

"You do?"

"Yes. We need to make it to her apartment and then we’ll figure out how to proceed. Are you ready to run again?"

"More than ready. I'm excited!" Adrien grinned back at Luka, feeling an adrenaline rush.

"Let's go!"

__________________

When Juleka opened the door of her apartment, she wasn't expecting to meet her dumbass older brother and Adrien Agreste, the young man who had been on the news non-stop for the last two hours. She raised one eyebrow and Luka knew she was looking for a reason not to shut the door on their faces.

"Juleka! We need your help! We have to get out of the city. Could you lend us your car?"

"What the heck is wrong with you!? It's been two years and that's all you have to say? What kind of trouble are you involved in now? This flower boy has been in the news for hours! They are even offering a reward for whoever finds him! And one for you! A dead or alive one in your case! They're saying you kidnapped him! So you better have a good explanation or I'm kicking you out."

"I do, I do! Listen: remember dad? I know you were little, but do you remember what being trapped is? That's this man's, Adrien's, everyday life for you. I couldn't bear to see my friend like that anymore so I offered to help him escape" Juleka's eyebrow sank deeper towards her nose, meaning Luka knew that wasn't good news. "I had to help him get his freedom! Can you believe he has never had a burger? Or been to a drive through? He can't even drive a car! He literally crashed my car at a streetlight after mistaking the gas and brake pedals! Have some compassion and help us escape Paris. Please?" he finished, pleadingly.

Juleka's eyes moved to analyze Adrien before answering: blond rich guy, well dressed and innocent looking. The way he was trying to figure out her front door and how his green eyes curiously examined his surroundings made him look like a playful cat, and Juleka had no doubt that he was as dumb, or probably dumber, than her older brother. Which meant Jukeka wanted them out, but also that she couldn't refuse to help- otherwise they would surely not make it out alive.

"Fine. What do you need?" She resigned.

"A car or anything that takes us away from Paris! No, better! Out of the country!"

Adrien was still examining Juleka's old and untidy room when she noticed his eyes paused on a paper on the table. She knew that paper: a girl band/orchestra called "Miraculous" was looking to recruit experienced musicians to perform around Italy for three weeks. Suddenly, she knew what to do.

"Join that girl band, the one in the pamphlet", Juleka suggested, pointing at said paper.

"What? A girl band? We're men, Jules! We can't join a girl band!"

"Luka is right!" Adrien quickly agreed.

"No, it can be done. I'm good with makeup and I'm tall enough for my clothes to fit Adrien. We can use some of Mom's clothes for you. ‘Old style’. Oh, and I have some wigs too.” Juleka continued. "Can this blondie play any instrument?"

"Well, yes. He's a pianist," Luka answered.

"Perfect! I'll find a way for you to cover for the pianist and the guitarist of the band: Chloe and Lila. Nobody likes them anyway, and the band members probably don't even remember their faces well, since they joined recently. Nobody will miss them. And it's perfect that you're blond, just like Chloe. I have the perfect wig for you"

Juleka disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a pair of scissors, two wigs and a box of makeup- oh, and wax. The two male friends could feel cold sweat down their backs.

"Wow, you have such a pretty face!" Juleka exclaimed, taking a closer look at Adrien's facial features. "I'll cut your bangs a bit so they don't show under your wig. Luka: do yourself a favor and go shave meanwhile."

"Are you serious about this, Jules?" Luka asked, moving towards the bathroom sink.

"Of course I am", she glared confidently at him. "Do you want to flee the country or not? I'm getting you out, but you need to trust me."

"Is this really necessary…?" Adrien asked in a trembling voice, seeing how Juleka's scissors were close to his eyes as she was cutting his long bangs.

"It definitely is! The band orchestra is leaving midday tomorrow and we have a lot to do!" Juleka ordered. "I can't wait to wax those hairy legs of yours" she murmured. Adrien could only gasp in fear.

When Juleka finished, she was proud of her results. The disguises were perfect: a long blond wig on Adrien, tied as a long braid, his big green eyes standing out with the mascara on his lashes, and he had pink colored cheeks and cherry lips. His face and hair were perfectly complemented by a white dress to his knees and a short jacket over his shoulders, covering his strong forearms. He also used some pads to simulate not very large breasts. The final touch was a pair of elegant high-heels with diamond looking glass studs on them. He looked beautiful, prettier than many women. So pretty the Couffaine siblings blushed a little at the sight.

As for Luka… well, he was tall, big and manly, and with sharp features: definitely not easy to pass him as a woman. But Juleka was almost a professional and she did an incredible job. He had his hair cut short so his blue hair didn't show under the long dark haired wig - good for covering his wide muscular back. He was advised to wear a hat and sunglasses most of the time, but he was also wearing lots of makeup. Using a full palette of skin tones, Juleka managed to hide his strong jawline and make his cheekbones, chin and nose look smaller and rounder. He wore black eyeshadow and mascara, brownish red lipstick and natural blush. He looked like an unfeminine lady but that could pass as genetics, right? People would maybe look away, but they would understand. As for his clothes: he wore a long wide purple dress tied with a belt and some brown pirate-like high boots (the only ones that would fit him because they belonged to himself). The bottom half of his outfit was complemented by a grey knit poncho. His fake breasts were bigger than Adrien's and he wore a wine red scarf to cover his neck- especially his pronounced adam's apple. He looked… pretty good, considering the base product. And that alone was an amazing accomplishment.

"You're perfect. Ready to go. I've packed a pair of party dresses too. You'll need them for your performances" Juleka said, admiring her amazing work. "Oh, and just so you know. I'm also part of the band, so I'm coming too."

Later that night, just before sunrise, Juleka sneaked to Chloe and Lila's apartment to steal their accreditations and sent them fake cards about the train being delayed so they wouldn't appear at the last moment and ruin everything. Juleka smirked victoriously for having at last taken her revenge on the two women she hated the most.

___________________________________________

After nervously passing the first frontier of the train station- the ticket man, Luka and Adrien, who were disguised as women, moved towards the platform, happy for not having been recognized after the first control. Adrien had trouble walking in heels, so Luka lent him his arm to help him keep his balance.

"Remember: your name is Chloe now, and my name is Lila", Luka reminded his friend as they walked towards the train platform.

"I don't like those names", Adrien complained.

"I don't like them either, but it’s better that we don't stand out". Luka sighed.

Grabbing their baggage and instruments, the two men approached the train car written on the ticket. They were stopped before they could get on the train- just next to one of their 'wanted' posters. The two men didn't notice it, but Juleka did and rushed them to get on the train fast.

"Hey, who are you?" Asked a middle aged woman, the one in charge of the band, they assumed. "I've never seen you before. Are you new?"

"I- I'm Adri- My name is Noirette”, Adrien said, receiving equally surprised and annoyed glares from both Luka and Juleka. Before Luka could speak, Adrien continued. “And she's Lucia. We're the new pianist and guitarist of the band".

‘What. the. heck?’ Luka couldn’t believe his friend as he stared at him in annoyance and shock. His high pitched voice acting was hurting Luka's ears too. 'We're dead', he thought.

The middle aged woman showed orchestra at Adrien’s words: she clearly didn’t like last minute changes. Scanning them under her glasses, she questioned them again. "What happened to Miss Chloe Bourgeois and Miss Lila Rossi?"

While the two men were taking too much to come up with an excuse, Juleka, who was sick of their bad acting, stepped into the conversation.

"The talent agency sent them somewhere else. These two are here to fill in for them."

Still unconvinced, she raised her glasses. "Hmmm... you know them, Juleka?"

"They come from the same talent agency as me", Luka’s sister confidently said.

"Hmmm... that should be enough then..." It seemed like she was convinced at last and the two men could finally breathe. “I'm the band's director. You can call me Madam Mendeleiev. And that man over there is Mister Damocles, the manager. You can introduce yourselves later. Go to your seats now.” Before they could take a first step, the middle aged woman stopped them again and called for someone. "Yves! Come here and carry these ladies’ instruments to the train! Be useful for once!"

Luka and Adrien exchanged looks when a young blond man approached them quickly. "Yes, Madam!" He shouted, approaching the disguised men to get their instruments. He stopped in front of them, intensely staring at Luka’s pupils before trying to complete his job.

"Oh. Hello, there. XY at your service! Can I help you, beautiful? Fancy a drink sometime?" He raised his eyebrows twice, shamelessly flirting.

Luka's face went white in disgust. Juleka's chuckle and Adrien's big eyes made him snap out of it.

"Oh, Just carry this, thank you!" Luka answered, annoyed, as he shoved his and Adrien’s instruments and suitcases into XY’s arms, making the blond man lose balance from the pile of weight on his arms. “And take good care of them because they’re… fragile”

"A- As you wish, beauti- Ah!…" He stumbled, losing his balance and almost falling down. “But later that drink-”

"Yves!! Stop the crap and do your job!" Mendeleiev scolded him.

"Yes, Madam!" He straightened his back. "See you around", he winked at Luka before leaving, having trouble walking properly. The guitarist could feel shivers all over his body, while Juleka snorted, having real trouble trying to hold her laugh in.

"C'mon, hurry up!" Juleka pressured them, adding in a whisper "you better not expose yourselves before leaving."

"Thank you for saving us, Juleka." Luka whispered to her ear while getting on the train.

"You better stop acting stupid if you don't want to get caught!" Her response showed her annoyance and the men gulped in response.

The seats were arranged in pairs, so the two fugitives could sit together and relax a bit. They were also grateful for the lack of contact needed with the rest of the band.

The ‘Miraculous band’ was a dancing orchestra. Similar to a big band, but with vocals, a spectacular stage and completely fine for all ages to enjoy. In this case, its main particularity was how it was formed only by women. The band formation included: a rhythmic section (electric bass, electric guitar, drums and electronic piano), a wind section (saxophones, trumpets and trombones) and two singers. Many of the members were usually multi-disciplined in those bands, which meant they could play more than one instrument, just like Luka with the Lyre. Some of the side instruments were the violin, the flute, the maracas or the tambourine. Another particularity of these kinds of bands was the big range of styles in their repertoire: from rock and popular national or international hits to swings, waltz, salsa- anything that could be danced to.  

If it weren't for the all girls' rule, Adrien and Luka wouldn't have minded joining them for real. But they had something more important to think about now- running for their lives.

"Is everyone here?", Mendeleiev asked, standing at the train car passage.

"Marinette and Kagami are not here yet, Madam" A dark skinned, red haired lady pointed out.

"Those two again… if they weren't so talented and popular I would have fired them already!"

"There they come!' A small blond short-haired lady screamed, startling Juleka in the process. "Sorry! I didn't want to startle you. My name is Rose" she introduced herself.

"Juleka…" and that's all she could say as she lost herself in that petit woman's eyes.

"What do you play?", the little woman innocently asked. "I play the trombone!"

"The electric bass…" she answered, hiding her blush. ‘Cute, sweet and with lungs of steel?’ Juleka gulped. ‘I’m screwed’.

"Finally!" Madam Mendeleiev said, as the ladies arrived, panting from their run there. "You're late! Go to your seats quickly!"

The two ladies who got in the train, bowed their heads in apology for their tardiness, as they walked to the empty seats of the back of the car. And when their faces looked up for a moment, it was the exact moment Adrien and Luka reached heaven. Their eyes couldn't stop staring at the most beautiful ladies they had ever seen, following them with their eyes and faces as they passed just beside them, moving to sit a few rows to the back. They couldn't take their eyes off them until Juleka called for their attention, warning for their discretion. But it was too late: the boys had lovestruck grins on their faces that didn't plan to go away anytime soon.

The two ladies had black hair and asian features. The short haired one was taller, had brown eyes and wore a beautiful white blazer with a red skirt. She looked elegant and confident, while the other woman looked cute, clumsy and innocent, and was shorter. She had blue eyes and dressed in a pink coat. Her hair was long and tied in two curly twin-tails. Their beauty stood out even more when they were together.

When the train started moving, Madam Mendeleiev gave the girl band some instructions- something Luka and Adrien would ask Juleka what it was about later. Later, Rose suggested an introduction game for the new members after the explanation had ended. The ladies excitedly agreed.

"I start!" said the same blond girl. "My name is Rose Lavillant and I play the trombone! I studied at a conservatoire in Paris for 3 years before joining this band recently. I like pink and unicorns and my favorite food is strawberry shortcake. Nice to meet you!"

After a round of applause, Rose signaled Juleka to continue, and she passively proceeded. "I'm Juleka. Bassist. Nice to meet you"

Next to continue was the red-haired woman from earlier, Alya, flautist and trumpeter; the drummer, Mylene; another trumpeter, Alix; and one of the saxophonists, Sabrina. It was Adrien's turn next.

"Hello!" He started, with his high-pitched voice. "My name is Ad-" he paused for a second at Juleka's deathly glare, gulping once before continuing. "My name is Noirette. I play the piano! I'm from Paris Classical School and I'm very pleased to meet you all!" He squealed, moving his arms along.

Adrien's excitement for freedom and new experiences was contagious to the rest of the ladies who energetically (almost hysterically) responded "Nice to meet you too, Noirette!".

It was Luka's turn next. He gulped, nervous, and with his fake high pitched voice and under Juleka's death stare, he started.

"Hi... My name is Lu- Lucia". 'I'm killing Adrien for giving me that name' he thought. "I play the guitar. Nice to meet you"

With their introductions over, Juleka finally relaxed. The rest of the ladies' introductions followed but, to be honest, neither Luka nor Adrien were listening: they were just patiently waiting to know more about the ladies that captivated their hearts. Their turn finally arrived, and the short haired one started:

"Hello. My name is Kagami. I sing and play the violin. I've been in the band for a few weeks. My favorite color is red and my favorite food is katsudon. Nice to meet you" a silence followed Kagami's introduction, so she called for her partner's attention with her elbow. "Marinette, your turn!"

"Oh-! Sorry… I was distracted… He-ello… My name is Ma- Ma- Marinette! I'm a singer but I can also play side instruments like the tambourine, the maracas or the castanets. I've been in this band for a few weeks and I studied in Paris Music School. My favorite color is pink and my favorite food is macarons. It's nice to meet you-", she ended with a nervous high-pitched voice.

Luka and Adrien exchanged excited lovestruck grins: the ladies' names and voices were just as beautiful as their faces. They were going to enjoy their outing with the band better than they could have expected.

______________________________

When the car got loud from the ladies chit-chat, Luka and Adrien found their moment of peace to share their thoughts.

“Luka, did you see that?” Adrien started, signaling at the end of the car, towards the singers of the band.

“Yes…I saw.” Luka answered, with a lovestruck grin on his face.

“That beautiful face…”, Adrien continued.

“Sweet voice…”, Luka added.

“Asian features…”, their mumbles continued.

“Dazzling eyes…”

“Dark shiny silky hair…”

The two men reacted at their exchanged words and looked at each other, surprised and nervous. Adrien gulped, worried.

“Wait- who are you talking about?”

“Who are YOU talking about?” Luka threw his question back at him, slightly aggressively.

“That girl, Kagami, of course!” Adrien exclaimed as if it was the most obvious response.

“Oh, that's good. I was talking about Marinette.” Luka sighed and showed him a relieved smile.

“Oh...” Adrien blinked, sighing and smiling in relief too. “I'm glad we weren't talking about the same girl. I wouldn't have liked to steal a girl from you.”

“What makes you think I wouldn't win her over you?”, Luka confidently grinned.

“Oh- anyway- It's better this way.”

The two men laughed together, trying not to be too loud for their manly voices to destroy their cover-ups.

“Will you help me with Kagami?” Adrien asked his friend.

“Only if you help me with Marinette.” said Luka, offering him a handshake he excitedly returned.

“Count on it, my friend!”

[parkerslatte]

See You Again

MASTERLIST

Platonic!Alex Mercer x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Bit of a crappy ending?

Word Count: 1.6k+

Summary: (Y/N) was best friends with Alex before he, Luke and Reggie died. Twenty-five years later, (Y/N) is friends with Julie's dad, Ray. She goes with him, Carlos and Victoria to see Julie perform at the Orpheum. That's where she see's her best friend again - but he looks alive and seventeen.

A/N: I would say that this is kind of and AU where the boys never go to Caleb and never get stamped but Julie can still touch them as it makes more sense with the story. :)

*****

Growing up, (Y/N) could always rely on her four best friends in the entire world - Alex, Luke, Reggie and Bobby. She could go to them for anything. If she was sad, they would cheer her up. If she was feeling lonely, they would stay with her to make sure that she didn’t feel that way anymore. However out of the four boys, she had always had a special connection with Alex - as soon as they met the two of them clicked. 

(Y/N) and Alex knew each other extremely well - or too well some may say. The pair of them practically spending every waking moment together. (Y/N) was the first person Alex ever came out to. (Y/N) remembered that day clearly. 

......

Fifteen year old’s (Y/N) (L/N) and Alex Mercer were sprawled out across (Y/N)’s bed. It was raining outside so the two friends couldn’t do anything so they were cooped up inside. They had tried to watch a movie but both of them got bored within the first fifteen minutes. The room was silent.

Alex fiddled with his thumbs while staring up at (Y/N)’s ceiling. He wanted to tell her but he was scared. What if she didn’t accept him? What if after he told him she hated him? These thoughts had been running through Alex’s mind for the past ten minutes. Alex knew that if (Y/N) was truly his friend then she would accept him no matter what. But he just couldn’t help but feel this way. 

“(Y/N)?” Alex’s voice broke the silence. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” (Y/N) hummed in response. Alex cleared his throat before asking, “Would you be my friend no matter what?”

(Y/N) turned to him before sitting up in the bed, “Of course I would Alex! Why wouldn’t you think I wouldn’t?”

Alex sighed while sitting up, “Well it’s just, I don’t like-” Alex cut himself off looking around the room. He didn’t understand why this was so difficult for him.

(Y/N) reached forward and took Alex’s hand in hers giving it a gentle squeeze, “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

Alex looked down at her hand for a moment before moving his gaze up to meet her eyes, he took one finale exhale before saying, “I don’t like girls. I like boys.” It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. 

(Y/N) looked at her blonde friend for a moment longer before a smile broke out on her face, “I’m glad you told me Alex.”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad? You like boys, what’s the big deal? Alex, you’re my best friend and I’ll still love you regardless of who you love.” (Y/N) brought Alex in for a hug and the boy hugged her back, trying to prevent the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Thank you, (Y/N).”

...

Of course being friends with all four members of Sunset Curve had its perks. (Y/N) was invited to every gig they played - including their biggest one they ever had. The Orpheum. Of course (Y/N) was extremely excited for the boys and wanted to spend every moment with them up until the performance, until Alex, Luke and Reggie opted to go out and get street dogs. (Y/N) obviously stayed within the Orpheum with Bobby - who had taken the opportunity to chat up the waitress. 

To say the night hadn’t gone as planned would be an understatement. When she woke up that morning, (Y/N) never realised that she would be crying her eyes out over the death of her three best friends. All because they had gone to get those stupid street dogs. (Y/N) had to go to three funerals in the span of a week. 

Of course, for a few years after the death of Alex, Luke and Reggie, (Y/N) had Bobby. The two had gotten through their darkest moment in their lives together. (Y/N) always thought that she would have Bobby by her side until he decided to unexpectedly move away, cutting off most contact. For a few months, (Y/N) was distraught, losing the last piece she had as a reminder of the band that never made it big, but after a few months she met a man named Ray.

The two became friends and (Y/N) became friends with his fiancee, Rose (who (Y/N) realised was the waitress from the Orpheum). She was even a bridesmaid at their wedding. It was also at their wedding where (Y/N) met her future husband, Chris. (Y/N) and Chris were married in 2007 and they welcomed a child a few years later. 

When Rose died, (Y/N) tried her best to help the Molina family through it. (Y/N) had lost three people who she considered her family years ago, so, in a way, she knew what the family were going through. (Y/N) also tried to help get Julie back into music however she failed. (Y/N) thought that Julie was never going to play music again, that’s why she was extremely proud of the girl when she told her that she was playing music again. 

(Y/N) was given a VIP pass for Julie’s performance at the Orpheum. The woman had never gotten the chance to see Julie perform at the Molina’s since she was working and she hadn’t gotten around to watching the video Ray had put on YouTube. She was excited to hear the talented young girl sing again. 

(Y/N)’s heart swelled with pride as the girl she had watched grow up stepped out onto the stage of the Orpheum. When she began to sing, a wide smile stretched across the woman’s face. However, that smile soon fell as the drummer of Julie’s hologram band appeared on the stage. Her eyes widened as the bassist of Julie’s band appeared on the stage and she nearly threw up as the guitarist of Julie’s band appeared on the stage. It couldn’t be, (Y/N) thought to herself.

While everyone around her cheered and clapped along to the song, (Y/N) was standing there in shock, not moving. Her best friends - who were meant to be dead - were performing on stage with Julie and they still looked seventeen. The song ended and everyone cheered. The band walked to the end of the stage and bowed. as soon as they bowed, Alex, Luke and Reggie disappeared and poofed back to the studio. 

After the performance, (Y/N) called her husband asking if he could go and pick up their son from his friend’s house since (Y/N) had something to do and couldn’t get there on time. Of course he agreed. 

(Y/N) drove to the Molina residence and parked outside the house. Knowing the young Molina girl well, (Y/N) knew that she would be in the studio so she made her way there as soon as she shut her car door, not even bothering to lock it. 

“Julie?” (Y/N) called out as she approached the studio. 

“I’m in here.” The Molina girl called back.

(Y/N) wandered into the studio and found Julie standing by the piano, but that wasn’t all she found. (Y/N)’s face dropped as Alex Mercer, Luke Patterson and Reggie Peters stood around Julie. 

“Hey, (Y/N), what’s up?” 

(Y/N) didn’t answer her gaze was locked onto her three former best friends, specifically Alex. Julie followed (Y/N)’s gaze and her eyes widened.

“You can see them?” (Y/N) didn’t respond to Julie, she continued to look at Alex in shock. 

“(Y/N)?” Julie asked, concerned about the older woman.

“Alex?” (Y/N) said. 

A look of realisation washed across Alex’s features, “(Y/N)?”

“How? You- you were- are dead?” (Y/N) said, her voice wavering.

“We- we still are.” Alex answered his best friend. Alex now realised that she hadn’t changed, only gotten older. 

“But, how- how are you here?” (Y/N) questioned, her gaze scanning over Luke and Reggie who had taken a step closer to her.

“We don’t know.” Alex answered, his voice cracking. 

“I missed you guys.” (Y/N) said, tears falling from her eyes. 

“We missed you too.” Alex answered, although it had only felt like a few weeks since he had last seen (Y/N) but he understood that for her it had been twenty-five years since she had last seen him.

Without thinking, (Y/N) flung her arms around her best friend. Alex, expecting her to go right through him, was surprised when he felt her. (Y/N) buried her head into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms back around her. 

Julie, who was watching the scene unfold, looked at the two confused. 

“(Y/N) was our best friend growing up.” Luke said, noticing Julie’s confusion. 

Realisation dawned on Julie, “This was the (Y/N) you kept mentioning?”

Luke nodded and turned his attention back to (Y/N) and Alex who had broken away from their hug and (Y/N) had moved on to hug Reggie, then finally Luke. (Y/N) wiped her eyes after she had pulled away from Luke.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” (Y/N) said.

“So, (Y/N) what have you gotten up to in the past twenty-five years?” Luke questioned.

(Y/N) cleared her throat, “Well, I got married and I had a son.”

“What’s his name?” Reggie asked.

(Y/N) turned her gaze to her blonde best friend, “Alex. My son's name is Alex.”

A smile spread across Alex’s face at (Y/N)’s answer, “You really named your son after me?”

“Of course I did, how could I not?” (Y/N) answered.

Alex smiled at his best friend, she might be older now but she was still the same person who had loved him and accepted him when other people didn’t and he was happy that he could speak with her again.

[bgallen]

Light and shadow, copious amounts of coffee, and sleeping ants

Here we are at the last Friday of February and I for one, am ready for Spring to begin. March in the deep south is usually not an ideal place but I have hope that perhaps the pollen won’t be excessive…that the tornadoes will be few…and that it won’t stay in the 80’s the whole month.

I think that one of the best books ever written is Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. It reminds me of a Gary Marshall film, in that you have multiple stories occurring at once and they are all connected – whether you are aware of it or not. There is a quote in Anna Karenina that I have loved since I first read it, “All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.” When my grandfather died three years ago, he died on the same floor where the babies were being born. As we were leaving the hospital that night, deeply grieving, we passed a family in the waiting room with balloons and gifts getting up to go greet a brand-new baby. And the beauty and sorrow of that moment still resonates with me today. It was such a perfect picture of “light and shadow” for me. This concept that deep joy and deep grief often coexist as well as the light and shade that resides within people is worth remembering as we go about our lives.

I have put together of lists of some fascinating articles that I have found recently, a few videos, and some music.

·      You Can Sleep Suspended Among Big Sur’s Redwoods in a Compound Designed by the Area’s Biggest Architect. All you’ll need are a few pennies to afford this $6.95 million estate, although if you can afford it – it looks well worth the asking price.  

·      Life may actually flash before your eyes on death – new study. Wow, just wow. This is fascinating! Obviously, it isn’t an extensive study and will need more research put into it. Yet the concept that our memories do possibly accompany us in our last minutes is a beautiful comfort.  

·      The Listening Ear Project. This geriatric nurse films videos asking the wisest generation, “what is love?” And the answers are as good as you’d expect.

·      Do Ants Sleep. This is immensely fascinating! Well worth your time reading, and don’t worry – there aren’t accompanying pictures.

·      What is an Affogato Coffee? One of my dearest friends and I have shared a love of coffee and ice cream for as long as I can remember. Living in the upper Midwest, Winter was always our favorite time to get ice cream strangely enough. Several years ago when I visited her in the DC area she introduced me to affogato. And, being mildly dramatic, it was life-changing. What can be better that ice cream with an espresso poured on top? (other than an ice cold coca cola or chocolate – nothing!) It is so good. And she knows all of the best places in DC to find the perfect one. Sadly, I haven’t found any gelato places near me where I can order one but I have found a few recipes that I plan on trying soon. Here’s one if you’d like to take a look.

·      Teddy Roosevelt Drank A Heroic Amount Of Coffee – Even For Teddy Roosevelt. I am such a fan of Teddy Roosevelt. He was an immensely fascinating man. You’ll have to read the article to find out how much coffee he consumed daily, suffice it to say…it’s a lot.

·      Ancient child grave was Africa’s earliest funeral. “A glimpse of human grief, at the loss of a child 78,000 years ago.” Sometimes it seems as though, we believe that deep human grief is a new concept…

·      LOTR The Return of the King – The Ride of the Rohirrim. This specific clip is probably my most favorite from all of the LOTR films. The Rohan Army, coming from the East, when they were not expected to show is such a powerful moment. And the villains showing fear, always “rights” a situation.

·      Victor Borge playing eight pianos in his first film (1937). In his first comedy film, Victor Borge played a piano tuner. Here is a video of him playing the eight pianos, you can hear him in the background commenting on the clip.

·      Canned Cake Vending Machine. A vending machine that has frozen cakes?! And cake in a can! Japan has some of the coolest vending machines.

In May my sister, cousin, and I are going to see these three groups in concert and I am very excited. Here’s some of their music to enjoy:

Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin

Broken by Seether

My Demons by Starset

[sunshinejins]

if i was dying on my knees (you’d be the one to rescue me)

(title from brother by kodaline)

so, hi!  jatp has reignited my desire to write again and this time i think i might actually finish a whole fic.  so uh, here it is :) please let me know if you like it, I’ll hopefully update asap, but i’m in uni so asap may be in like two weeks.  unless people really like it.  then, probably sooner lmao.

pairing: julie molina x luke patterson

fandom: julie and the phantoms

warnings: death bc rose, and i swear once but other than that i think nothing else?

Julie didn’t want to be frustrated, she really didn’t.  In fact, she wanted to be sad, mourning, depressed, or literally anything other than slightly pissed off all the time.  It’s incredibly exhausting to be angry all the time, and she felt like being sad would at least give her blood a break from simmering.

But her mom died.  And apparently her body only knows how to process grief by developing a rather annoying tendency to be irritated constantly.

She tries to forget it though.  Instead of wallowing in the negative feelings that cloud her family in the months following Rose Molina’s death, she throws herself into distractions.  She gets a job at a coffee shop near the USC campus and puts almost all her effort into becoming a top employee.  Her grades don’t drop because thankfully her professors seemed to all inherently understand that she just couldn’t sing anymore.  Like at all.

The world kept spinning.  Julie could only hope to hold on.

That’s how she ended up, six months later, complaining over a milk frother about her very well-intentioned best friend to the only person she knew would listen.

“Flynn just doesn’t understand,” Julie moans, shutting off the machine and dumping the contents unceremoniously into a to-go cup.  Her coworker, Allison, raises an eyebrow and swipes a rag at the milk spill that pools under the cup.

“Did she try to get you to sing again?”

“Surprise karaoke night with her girlfriend and a couple kids from class.  Her intentions were pure though so I don’t even know why I’m upset.” Julie shoves a lid onto the cup and slides it across the counter to a pre-occupied businessman who doesn’t notice the extra milk soaked into the bottom.  Allison nods thoughtfully and starts dumping coffee beans into the espresso machine.  Julie watches her with slight awe.  Allison was one of those people that terrified Julie when she met her; everything about her felt polished and put together down to the blunt cut of her pale blonde hair and the curve of her smirk when she smiled.  Soon enough, Julie discovered that she was as warm as any of her other friends, but it had taken a lot of closing shifts and smoothie runs to come to that conclusion.

Allison sets down the bag of coffee beans and gives Julie one of her solemn looks; it’s the sort of look where Julie thinks Allison could probably read her mind if she tried hard enough.

“Maybe they’re going about it wrong.  You haven’t been around music properly in what?  A year?  What if you just need to sit and listen to music again to just get you used to the environment?” Julie thinks for a moment.  Allison raises a fair point, and it’s the complete opposite tactic that everyone else has been trying, which has been to shove music in front of her to sing and give her expectant and hopeful looks. It’s a trial run.  Something casual.

“Where would I go?” Allison smiles a bit and passes Julie a container of oat milk to put away.

“There’s a bar off Sunset that’s hosting an open mic tonight.  Very relaxed and casual vibes.  I could pick you up from your apartment and take you.  We haven’t hung out since that movie night a while ago.”  Julie hesitates.  It’s not that she’s opposed to spending a night with Allison, but a small part of her feels like she’s cheating on her current circle of emotional support humans by agreeing to go. Not that her dad or Carlos or Tia would mind, but Flynn would possibly take offence and that alone stalled Julie for longer than she realized. Allison clocks the look on her face and amends the statement.

“Flynn is obviously welcome too.”

A mind reader, Julie swears. 

“Hell yeah. Let’s do this.”

***

Julie’s feeling significantly less optimistic when Allison’s car has been driven away by the valet and herself, Flynn, and Allison are all standing in line outside the club. Julie can feel the bass of the songs playing more than she can hear them, but the proximity of music is enough to make her palms sweat. Other than the music the coffee shop plays and the strains of country she hears through Carlos’ wall, Julie hasn’t heard proper music since Tia Victoria sang “Amazing Grace” for her mother’s funeral. Flynn notices her nervous look. 

“Chill, Jules. It’s all very chill. We’re just gonna listen to a couple bands.” 

“Flynn’s right. And if at any point you want to bail, we can go get soft pretzels.” 

“But we should try and stay for the whole thing!”

“However, we’re also going to respect you if you can’t do that,” Allison punctuates this sentence with a meaningful eyebrow raise and Flynn nods vigorously. Julie swallows and tries to mimic the courage she had a few hours ago.  The bartender scrutinizes their IDs for a moment before allowing them to sweep into the bar and Julie’s jaw nearly drops at the volume of people contained inside.  Nearly every seat is filled, and the standing areas are packed with people all jamming to the band onstage that’s currently playing what Julie has to admit is a pretty kick ass cover of “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers.  

Allison somehow discovers a table near the edge of the bar, and disappears off to get them drinks.  Flynn’s rocking out already, and Julie feels a few of the nerves in her stomach even out as the realization that she doesn’t have to sing sinks into her bones.  Allison was right, unsurprisingly.  If she focuses hard enough, she can even push out the memories of coming to these sorts of open nights with her mom.  Flynn shoots her a large and grateful grin and Julie lets herself smile back.  She’s taking a step.  She’s doing it.

Allison returns as the band switches and a new band begins to play a hyped up cover of “Africa” by Toto.  The three girls lapse into quiet appreciation of the music, with Flynn singing along to every song played, Allison bobbing her head to herself and occasionally letting out a few notes in her vocal range, and Julie just quietly appreciating the fact that she doesn’t feel like throwing up.

It’s all very casual, just like her friends said.

Until it’s not.

As the third band of the night begins their last song, Julie retreats to find the bathroom.  It’s hidden nearly backstage, and she’s just about to make it to the door when she hears the panicked shouts of someone from near the curtain which separates the small backstage from the actual performing area.

“Dude, I cannot believe he bailed on us.”

“Are you really surprised?  Bobby was a piece of shit.”

“Hey, he didn’t use to be!”

“Calm down, Reg.  You know he’s been treating us like garbage ever since that record label thought he had a ‘marketable voice’ or whatever they said.”

“Guys he bailed on us, what are we supposed to do?”

Julie, despite all the “stranger danger” lessons running through her brain, backed up far enough to see into the backstage area.  Three guys stood there, two with a guitar and a bass each and one with drumsticks he was nervously twirling.  The one with the guitar had his face buried in his hands and kept swearing heavily under his breath.  The other two seemed frozen in their own panic as well.  Guitar Player removed his hands from his face and Julie caught a glimpse of worried hazel eyes and dark curls.  Bass Player opened his arms and Guitar Player tumbled into them for a hug while Drum Player rubbed his back.  The three guys looked absolutely wrecked.

Here’s the thing: Julie had an uncontrollable urge to help people.  It’s how she got roped into half of Flynn’s schemes, how she ended up teaching Carlos all of his second grade science curriculum herself, and how she somehow became the unofficial backbone of her family after her mom died.  Seeing three guys utterly wrecked because, presumably, their fourth bandmate had bailed on them?  It activated that uncontrollable urge deep in her stomach.

Here’s another thing: Julie hasn’t played music or sang in six months.  She’s had no desire to, and every time she’s tried, the distinct urge to throw up overtook her.  Tonight was supposed to be the baby step that showed her whether or not music was something she could seriously consider again; whether or not she could feel that itch to perform anymore.

“Hey, do you guys need a fourth?”

She felt the itch.  

The three guys looked up in varying levels of shock.  Drum Player recovered first, and stepped towards her hesitantly, wringing his pink hoodie as he did.

“Um, what?”

“It sounded like someone bailed on you.  I can play.  If you need it.”  Guitar Player recovers next and nearly bounds over to her in barely contained excitement.

“You can play rhythm guitar?”

“No,” the three boys deflate, “I can play piano though.”  Guitar Player tilts his head to the side as though playing a melody through in his head.  He turns back to the other two.

“Bright could fit piano.”

“We never wrote the music for a piano component,” Drum Player wrinkles his nose.

“I did,” Guitar Player admits.  The other two don’t look phased, though Bass Player does raise an eyebrow.  “I was bored!”

“Okay, but we don’t want to put you out,” Drum Player turns back to Julie and she swallows.  

“No, I offered.  Let me see the music.”

“Okay, but you have like ten minutes!” Bass Player finally chips in with a surprisingly cheerful tone.  Guitar Player hands Julie what looks like a piece of notebook paper and her eyes skim the words and notes.  It’s feasible for sure, but she can feel the nerves prickling at her stomach.  Guitar Player leans into her space and she clocks how ridiculously attractive he is up close.  He gives her a smile.

“We alternative verses like this, see?  And I don’t know your range, but we can figure that out on the go.”  Julie gives him a small smile.

“Somewhere between mezzo-soprano and soprano.”

“We can work with that.” Guitar Player seems to vibrate with energy.  “Are you sure you wanna do this?”

“No pressure,” Bass Player adds.

“Like seriously, none.  We can just go home and cry,” Drum Player says.  Julie isn’t sure.  She really isn’t.  In fact, she’s pretty sure she should just run away and hope she never sees these guys again.

“I’m sure.”

Well, that’s that.

Guitar Player sends her a smile that looks genuinely like someone has funnelled sunlight into his body and Julie feels the nerves lift for half a second.  Then, they’re called to the stage and all of a sudden she feels like she could puke all over again.  Guitar Player grabs her hand and squeezes it.

“You got this.”

Julie files out with the rest of the band and she’s extremely grateful her friends aren’t sitting in her direct line of sight.  The piano is definitely worn out from use, but her fingers settle naturally on the keys and Julie tries to focus on the budding itch to perform in her stomach rather than the urge to throw up.  She’s supposed to start this song.  This song that she became aware of ten minutes earlier.  She catches Guitar Player’s eye and he nods encouragingly.

She presses down on the keys and opens her mouth. 

Sometimes I think I'm falling down

I wanna cry, I'm calling out

For one more try to feel alive

And when I feel lost and alone

I know that I can make it home

Fight through the dark and find the spark

[tamyrawilliams]

TASK #003: DO NOT GO GENTLE

“Breaking news! From unnamed sources we’ve learned that international superstar, Tamyra Williams’ private plane has not landed at Heathrow Airport in London. According to our sources, the plane was supposed to land hours ago and nobody has seen or heard from the plane since it left LAX at the scheduled time. Authorities declined to comment at this time. Our good wishes go out to Tamyra Williams and everyone else on the plane, hoping for their safe return soon.”

Lanelle Williams was sitting in the living room, the tv quietly going in the background while she was going over her script pages for the next day. She was in the middle of shooting a (relatively) smaller part in what she hoped to be a big blockbuster movie in the theaters next year. If everything would go well, her role in the second movie would jump from a small role to the main character, where she truly would get to shine - the whole arc of the character through the two movies as a whole was what sold her on taking up the role in the first place.

Khalon was somewhere in his study, working. She wasn’t exactly sure what project he was working on, or if he was even working on any project at the time - he just stormed off in the middle of dinner and hasn’t emerged since, something that has been happening more and more lately. She enjoyed the quiet for now, but she knew in an hour, maybe two, either Khalon would emerge from the study to make amends, or she’d go look for him and try to smooth things over. It was never one clear person, who initiated at all times, and Lanelle was okay with that.

She didn’t pay attention to the tv, it was just a background buzz mostly - she couldn’t learn the lines in complete silence, she never could, she needed something. What did catch her attention, though, was Tamyra’s name, and she looked up to see what they were saying about her daughter. She assumed it would be about a new project of hers, or maybe some paparazzi got a shot of her arriving in London on her way to Nakeisha, and they decided breaking her privacy like that was newsworthy.

When she looked up at the screen, though, she frowned. Not the imagery she was expecting. As she started paying attention to what was being said, her stomach started to sink and a cold, indescribable, horrid sensation settled inside of her.

“KHALON!” she called for her husband, but no reply. “KHALON, YOU NEED TO COME OUT HERE.” The desperation and panic in her voice was apparent, but she couldn’t move from where she was sitting.

“For fuck’s sake, Lanelle, I need more time, whatever it is, it can wait!” bellowed, annoyed and frustrated. Lanelle, for once, didn’t care one bit.

“KHALON, IT’S TAMYRA, COME OUT HERE AT ONCE!” She was screaming now, her hands slightly shaking, her brain telling her that it couldn’t be it. It couldn’t be true, that her baby girl was all right and well and it must have just been some kind of delay. Her plane probably landed earlier somewhere else for some technical reasons.

By the time her husband came out, the report was done and the news anchor moved onto something else, nothing at all important or news-worthy, as far as Lanelle was concerned. She wanted more information about Tamyra. The fact that nothing important was on the tv, though, meant that Khalon got even more pissed when he thought he came out of his study for nothing.

“Well? What was so important? She didn’t call, I would have heard the phone ringing, so what could it possibly--”

“They say her plane didn’t arrive.” The words tumbled out of her like a plea, almost as if Khalon himself would whip out all the evidence as to why Tamyra couldn’t be hurt, why she had to be okay, but instead he just stared at her like she lost her mind. Maybe he wasn’t that far away from the truth, especially if this news was true. “The news. They said her plane hasn’t arrived yet. And it should have, hours ago. Hours, Khalon. She would have already called at this point, if everything went okay.”

“She went to see Nakeisha, they probably got lost in catching up and she forgot to call.”

“Then why is the fucking news reporting that nobody can find her?”

Khalon was silent for one, two, three seconds, and every passing moment felt like an eternity of torture for Lanelle, even though she couldn’t think of any other valid, acceptable answer to her question. She could see Khalon’s fingers twitch next to his body, almost as if he was playing the piano, which only made her stomach sink even more. She knew every twitch, every movement of her husband, and that meant Khalon was stressing, panicking, he just had to hold it in. It was something Lanelle only really saw him on a job, when a problem arose that he had to solve, not in their house.

There was a first time for everything, it seemed. A horrible instance none of them ever considered could be a possibility.

“We need to call Nakeisha,“ he decided and strolled over to the phone and Lanelle turned back to the television. They were showing a picture of her daughter from the last event she’s appeared on - even looking at that picture hurt. Tamyra looked put together, ready to conquer the world, as always. It was such contrast to one of her latest memories of her little girl, curled up on the couch she was lying on fifteen minutes ago herself, passed out from tiredness, wearing a casual pj. She shouldn’t have let Tamyra go - but really, what could she have done to prevent this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She didn’t even realize Khalon had finished the conversation on the phone (or if he even had a conversation, really), one second she was staring at the television (which has at his point moved onto other news, but Lanelle could only see her daughter on the screen still), the next Khalon wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close to his chest, gently pressing a kiss to her cheek. And Lanelle knew, before he said anything else, that he didn’t have any good news to tell her.

The tears started streaming.

“It’s been a month since internationally known and loved actress, Tamyra Williams’ plane has disappeared from its scheduled flight from Los Angeles to London. Today the authorities officially announced that they are stopping the search for the remains of the private plane and the people who were aboard on the flight, and declared them, including Tamyra Williams, dead.

The actress’ parents remain silent aside from the single statement they made a week after the disappearance in which they’ve requested privacy and understanding in this trying times for them. Khalon Williams seemed to have postponed a project that would have expected him to be starting work in two days.”

Lanelle was sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, as she watched the television. She had an almost empty bottle of vodka in her hand and she regularly took a swung of it (every single time she’s heard a news reporter talk about her daughter and every time she looked at the clock on the wall and realized that Khalon still hasn’t come home).

She had so many things to do - now that Tamyra has been officially declared dead, she needed to organize the funeral, she needed to actually go over to her place and pack it up, figure out what they wanted to keep and sell the rest, maybe offer it up for some charity or something. Figure out how to go on now that her daughter, her precious little daughter wasn’t around anymore, something that has never supposed to have happened. And the list of things to do could have possibly went on a lot longer.

And yet, she just sat there, in the dark at this point, drinking alcohol and letting the grief take over.

She wasn’t really sure how long she’s been sitting there for when she heard the front door open and then heard his voice. “No, I can’t do tha-- no, I’m not going to. And you have to stop calling me with this, my daughter jus-- Yes, you pointed it out but that doesn’t change the fact that Tamyra has-- I don’t know what you want from me and how else I could explain this. --No, I can’t talk right now, I just got home. --No, I’m not going to go see you, I need to see...”

This was when he walked into the living room and saw what kind of state Lanelle was in - who has since stumbled up onto her feet and was swaying in place, arms crossed, her fingers clutching onto the bottle of alcohol still. She could have thrown daggers at her husband with her eyes in that moment, if it was actually possible.

“Like I said, I have just arrived home, so I’m going to hang up now. I have things I need to take care of,” Khalon said and then hung up the mobile phone he had.

“Am I one of those things you need to take care of?” Lanelle sneered in anger.

“Honey, how long have you been drin--”

“Are we back here again?”

Khalon stopped for a moment, freezing, those fingers twitching just for a single second before he collected his composure. “Back where? You shouldn’t be drinking, Nelle. I know today has been rough, but we’ve talked about it. It’s not leadi--”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been out to get groceries.”

“Then where are the groceries?”

Another pause from Khalon, now an even longer one, before he let out a long sigh. “I ended up going for a drive instead. I needed to clear my head. Think.”

“Think?” Lanelle echoed, the word slurring. “You needed to think? What did you possibly need to think about, Khalon? About losing your daughter or about how to use that to fuck somebody else?”

Even the air froze around them fora moment, and thenk he spoke up again, “You’re drunk, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you haven’t been talking with one of your side pieces?” Khalon paused just for a moment too long. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. You know, I thought we were over this. I looked the other way, you got it out of your system and I figured we could build things up together again. And now? You start this back up now?”

Khalon pinched the bridged of his nose and Lanelle felt a surge of pain hit her heart. Just like Tamyra. “I haven’t been out sleeping with anyone, Lanelle, not now, and not for a while. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, but it wasn’t anything like that.” He stopped for a moment before adding, “You shouldn’t be drinking. Did you open that bottle after I left?”

Lanelle shook her finger in front of him, “No, you don’t get to--” she hickuped, “you don’t get to ask me that. You don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You don’t even get to waltz into this house after-- after everything you’ve been doing off with your women while I am-- while we--”

The bottle slipped out of her fingers and broke on the floor with a loud crash and Lanelle realized she was crying again. She was drunk and angry and grieving and she didn’t even know what to do anymore. She looked up at her husband - probably only on paper, she wasn’t sure anymore, just like she wasn’t sure if she could take another loss -, and he hesitated for a moment before he stepped closer, cradled Lanelle’s face and pressed a kiss onto her forehead before he cradled up into his arms, rocking the two of them back and forth.

“I wasn’t seeing any women, I swear, my dear. I couldn’t do that to you, not since we lost our princess.”He ahs done it before, though, Lanelle knew that, so she was probably an idiot for beliving him this time around, but she couldn’t help it. She got lost in the comfort of his arms and when she could feel his tears streaming down, too, she forgot all the accusations. They were hanging onto each other as if their life depended on it. And maybe it has. Maybe this was the only way they could get through losing Tamyra.

(They could never properly get through it, though, not really.)

“The funeral of Tamyra Williams was held today. The news of the disappearance of the actress has shocked the entire world back in September. The talented woman was declared dead a month after her disappearance, and today her parents, director Khalon Williams and actress Lanelle Williams has held a funeral to say their final goodbye to their daughter. The couple has held an open ceremony for their daughter to allow the public to attend and pay their respects, if they wanted to - and the public wanted to. The crowd was huge, people wanting to say their goodbyes to a person who have made an impact on their lives. Once the official, open ceremony has ended, the parents held a smaller, more intimate gather of just close friends and family.

A woman who spent her entire life in the entertainment industry, delivering us movies that we will remember for years. In remembance of Tamyra Williams, you can watch Women of Life, which is considered to be Williams’ first adult role, later tonight.”

Lanelle found the birth certificate about three months after the funeral. Khalon and her relationship was hanging by a thread, but they were trying to make it work. Only they could understand the pain of losing their daughter, they had to stick together. Or so Lanelle thought.

She was drinking again - she was trying to do it less, but that only meant that she became smarter about it and hid it from her husband -, so when she found the certificate, she thought it must have been the alcohol. It had to be it, right?

But she blinked and She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for in Khalon’s study, she has forgotten about that the moment she’s seen the name on the birth certificate. Because it didn’t hit her immediately what she was holding in her hands, no. Lanelle thought it was Tamyra’s birth certificate first. Why else would any other person have her husband named as the father of the person.

And then she saw the name.

Clementine Ike. Born November 1, 1988. Father Khalon Williams.

Lanelle just stared and stared at the birth certificate, trying to force her brain to work through the haze of the alcohol and put the information together. She knew he has been sleeping around before, they even talked about it finally in the last couple of months, but Khalon has never mentioned a child. Another daughter. He said nothing was ever more than a mistake.

The timeline fit. They had a rough patched around that time, but they bounced back, and Lanelle has decided to not say anything even though she knew about the cheating. They stuck with each other through so much over the years, and they were good together, this was something she could forgive, in the end. Or so she thought.

As she was looking at the birth certificate of this girl she has never known about, she couldn’t stop thinking about Khalon with Tamyra. He was the one who started calling her their princess and it caught on. He adored his daughter as much as it was possible, he was so good and so sweet with her. They both had busy schedules, but whenever they got the chance, he was with her. Lanelle thought it was special. Lanelle thought the one woman he’d never betray was Tamyra.

And now all she could wonder if he was the same with this child, if he went to visit this Clementine more than he has seen Tamyra during her childhood. If he called this girl his princess, too. If he was finding solance in his other, new, shiny daughter after the loss of Tamyra.

This was the last staw. This was too much, even for her. She could forgive so much, she could look the other way, but a child he never told her about - what else was he hiding? How else was he disrespecting her? She couldn’t handle this, she couldn’t take this, she couldn’t just stay after this.

She downed the rest of her alcohol, packed a bag and called herself a cab. Before she left the house, she left the birth certificate and a short note on the coffee table in the living room. It read: “Don’t wait for me, I’m not coming back. Hope you’re happy with your new family. Rot in hell.”

“Lanelle Williams has filed for a divorce from Khalon Williams 8 months after the couple have tragically lost their daughter, Tamyra Williams. Lanelle Williams, in her public announcement, claimed that the reason for their divorce was incompatibility, but the two of them would always be connected through their daughter and would remain supporting friends to each other. Khalon Williams has not broken his silence over the matter yet.”

[lu-undy]

Chapter 90 - SBT

Here it is!

"Mike?" 

"Yeah?" 

"We're out with Micky." 

"Oh, alright, be safe out there, eh?" Mike answered from his sofa, while watching the television. 

"Yeah, I'll be home later, he'll drop me." 

"Fair enough, have fun and watch out for your Mum, Micky."

"Yeah, will do… Uh, see ya, Dad." 

Mundy raised his eyes to his father from the door and sighed. This might be the last time he was allowed in his parents' house… 

"Dad?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Love ya." 

Mundy couldn't see it, but Mike's eyebrows jumped. 

"Love ya too, son." He unglued his eyes from the screen and turned to look at Mundy and Caroline at the door. "You be a good boy and take care of your mum, yeah?" 

"Yeah, don't worry." 

They exchanged a smile and Mundy stepped out of the house. He exhaled a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and his shoulders sank. 

"You ok, Micky?" Caroline's higher pitched voice tickled his ears and made him land back to reality. 

"Yeah… Let's get to the van." 

Caroline followed Mundy and hopped in the van that was parked a few meters away. They both fastened their seatbelts and Mundy started the engine. 

"Is your house far from here?" Caroline asked. 

"Nah, it's a fifteen minute drive, something like that."

"Ah, alright." 

Caroline paid attention through the whole journey and was surprised to see that Mundy stopped and parked in the city centre. 

"You live around here?" 

"Yeah, that black door, that's the place." Mundy pointed and Caroline followed the direction he showed. 

"Oh…" 

They hopped off and Caroline followed her son to the door. Mundy took his keys out and unlocked it. As soon as he pushed it open, a white cloud of fluff and her black companion meowed repeatedly and trotted to Caroline and him. 

"Hey, babies… Mum, welcome home." 

"Ooh…" 

They both stepped in and while Mundy shut the door, Caroline's head was moving left and right, scanning the floor, the walls, the ceiling and the furniture. 

"Here, gimme your jacket and go ahead, have a look."

"Thank you Micky." 

"Meow…!"

"Pearl, baby, go take Soot and play with him, Grandma and I need to talk, yeah?" He crouched down to scratch their heads and the cats left their side. 

"Very beautiful house you have…"

"That's all Lu'." Mundy started and came close to his mother to hold her hand and lead her to the living room. "When we got the house, it was practically empty. He did all the decoratin', he chose the furniture and stuff. He's good at it."

"You didn't take part in that?" 

"He always asks me before buyin' something, but I just trust him. Also, uh, see that corridor with the stairs? It needed a new layer of paint and I did that. I do all the heavy stuff, he does the pretty stuff." 

"Oh, I see…"

"And this here, it's the kitchen." 

"Ooh! Very colourful!" She said. 

"Yeah, again, it's all Lu', I just put a fresh layer of light blue on the walls and white on the ceiling. And then, he bought all the kitchenware." 

"D'you have a garden?" 

"Nah, we don't."

"Ah, makes sense, you're bang on in the centre…! I guess the rent is expensive, eh?" Caroline asked.

"Uh… Mum…?" 

"Yeah?" 

Mundy stopped walking and Caroline turned to him. 

"What is it?" 

"We… Uh… We're not payin' rent…" 

"What? You don't have the money for it? How late are you?" 

"No, no, Mum, it's not that… It's uh… W-we actually bought this house." 

Caroline's eyebrows jumped behind her glasses. 

"You… bought it?" 

"Yeah, with Lu's money… Uh, y'know what? Let me make some tea and we can sit down and I explain everything, yeah?" 

"Alright." Caroline frowned slightly. So she had been right, huh? Lucien did have heaps of money…

Mundy got busy in the kitchen. 

"Let me help you, Micky…"

"Nah, you're the guest here, Mum." 

"I'm your mum, Micky, I'm not a guest!" 

"Fine…" 

They put together a kettle and in no time a tray was ready with tea, milk and sugar. 

"Here, try these biscuits." Mundy put a pack on the tray.

"What are they?" Caroline asked. 

Mundy took the tray and headed for the living room, followed by his mother. 

"They're called something-something, I can't remember the name in French but it means 'cat's tongue'."

"Oh, I guess Lucien showed them to you?" 

They both sat on the sofa and Mundy put the tray on the coffee table. 

"Yeah, he loves them with his coffee, but they work well with tea too." Mundy answered as he started to serve his mother and himself. "Here, milk but no sugar, yeah?" 

"Yeah, thank you sweetie." 

They exchanged a smile.

"So tell me about the house." Caroline asked. 

"Right… Mum, you were right, Lu' is… uh… very well-off."

She nodded to herself proudly. 

"We bought the house with some of his money because… Uh… To be honest, he surprised me with it."

Caroline frowned. 

"One day, he brought me here and made me visit it. I didn't really know why. You should've seen it back then, there was nothing in it, absolutely nothing! But then he said that it could be ours if I liked it too."

"Ours?" Caroline repeated. 

"Mum, there's heaps of things that we didn't tell you because… I didn't want to worry you or Dad and I wanted to just… y'know, get along well with you. And now that Dad sees that I've fixed my life, I don't want to tell him how or why."

Mundy paused and put his cup of tea back on the tray. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. 

"Tell me, Micky…"

"I'll try." He took a deep breath. "Here's the thing, uh… I don't know where to start… Hold on…" 

Caroline put her cup back on the tray and put her hand on Mundy's. 

"Start at the beginning." She said. 

"Y-yeah but… You gotta promise." 

"I swore I won't tell your dad a thing." 

"N-no, you gotta promise to… to still talk to me… after I tell you the truth…" He lowered his head. "Mum, please…?"

"Why wouldn't I? You told us you killed a man, but you're still my baby, you're still the same baby Micky that I held in my arms many, many years ago." She put her hand on Mundy's cheek and gently brushed it. 

"Please, Mum, promise." 

"I promise." Caroline said, thinking that there wasn't much left to be worse than actually killing a man.

"Right." Mundy raised his head again. "Here's the true story of Lu' and me then." He cleared his throat. "Back when I was searching for Johnson's alligators, I had a lead that pointed to the Queen Victoria, y'know, the posh restaurant." 

"Yeah, I know it." 

"Well I went there and uh… Pff, it was ridiculous. I put on the only suit I had, the black one that I had for your funeral. I couldn't pay for food so I got their cheapest dessert, a chocolate cake. I sat there and was observing people, trying to find the bloke I was after, and uh…" 

"And?" 

"And that's where I saw Lu' again, but I didn't know it was him, I didn't realise."

"Wait, this was before you found the alligators, right?"

"Yeah. I saw Lu' on the stage there, singin' and playin' the piano…" Mundy had dreamy eyes and a smile on his lips. "He sang a song about solitude. It was in French but… I don't know, I kinda got the idea of the song even if I understood nothing of what he was blabberin' about." 

Caroline nodded. 

"I realised that I liked it there. It was posh and filled with filthy rich people, but I liked listenin' to him. So I came back a few times… Oh, hold on-!" 

Mundy jumped out of the sofa and went to one of the shelves in front of them. He opened a book and retrieved a sheet of paper. 

"I even wrote to him…" He showed his mother the letter he had addressed to Lucien back then. "And I learnt that letters like these, he was receivin' heaps of them. Sheilas were falling like flies for him, understandably so. He was singin' like he meant it, and he was dressed so nice… Looked like he was born wearin' suits, like his tie wasn't strangling him like mine was…"

Caroline smiled. 

"It is true that he is good looking and he has very good clothing taste, elegant and all." 

"Yeah, he does…" Mundy blinked and landed back on Earth. "But yeah, I took that habit of goin' there, spending my last bits of money on a chocolate cake that was very good, yeah, but I couldn't care less about it. And then…"

"Yeah?" 

"Then… Then there was the alligators' thing where I met Lu', not knowing that he was the same person as that singer, and then we spent our time arguin' and fightin' over who would get Duchemin first…" Mundy sighed. "Until the masquerade ball."

"The what now?" Caroline asked, surprised. 

"Duchemin organised a ball with costumes and he invited Lu', the singer. Lucien got me a costume and we went there dressed like rich people from two hundred years ago… It was ridiculous, Mum, but it got us closer to the man and I actually talked to him…!" Mundy opened wide eyes. "Actually, he talked to me, and I got so confused, I wanted to kill him then and there but I couldn't, the place was full of his goons…!"

"What did you do?" 

"Me? Nothing… I couldn't do anything. I stayed there, like an idiot, paralysed. It would have all gone to shit if Lu' hadn't been there. He talked to the guy, like small talk and all, and when we got alone, he calmed me down." 

Caroline smiled tenderly. 

"Then, Duchemin asked Lu' to sing something, but I was convinced this Lu' wasn't the singer, so I panicked! If Duchemin learnt that we had tricked him, we were good as dead! But Lu' went anyway and sang something and that's when I got it… Him and the singer were one and the same…!" 

"Hold on, you didn't see that it was him?"

"When he was singin', he was wearing nicer clothes. But when we were out there tryin' to get Duchemin, he was wearin' uh… What was he calling it…? Uh, bala-balala...thingy? It's a mask basically, so I never saw his face entirely when we were workin' together. But then he sang and I recognised the voice and the manners and everything… I wanted to beat him up for lying to me, but I couldn't make a scene."

"So what did you do?" 

"We went back to town and in the middle of the desert, on the road, I asked him to stop his car and then I beat him up." 

"Micky!" 

"I did…"

"You… beat him up?!" Caroline exclaimed, astonished. 

"Y-yeah. I beat him up and he didn't fight back. I beat him up but it wasn't even the first time. But that time, he let me knock him out completely. I carried him to the Doc' and stayed with him all night, couldn't sleep." 

"Micky… Since when did you get so violent?"

"Since you and Dad were dead and nothin' made sense, everything was unfair." He frowned. "After that, I got a message from Maurice telling me that Lu' might have… gone." 

"Gone? What d'you mean?" 

"I didn't know what he meant either, so I ran to his hotel and when I got to his door, I heard Pearl cryin' on the other side of it. I broke in and -"

"You broke in?" 

"Yeah, and I found Lu'..." Mundy got shivers and wiggled his shoulders to shake them away. "For a second I thought…" 

Caroline hugged him and brushed his back. 

"In your own time, sweetie…" 

Mundy took a deep breath. 

"He was in his bath, fully clothed… He had an empty bottle of wine in his hand and… His eyes were closed."

"Oh, dear…" 

Mundy nodded. 

"I got him out and dried him out before trying to put dry clothes on him. I slapped him on the face, Pearl curled up next to him to warm him up, his lips were blue… And finally he woke up."

"Whew…!" Caroline exhaled the breath she had been holding and put a hand on her chest. 

"Yeah, he woke up but was hungover like hell. I brought him water and some sugar while he talked nonsense… I asked him if he wanted some food or somethin' and he said he was hungry. So I went to the kitchen and cooked whatever I could find while he put on some more clothes."

Caroline nodded to show she was following. 

"A few minutes later, he popped in, in the kitchen, and he… uh… he was still weak so he, uh, c-clung to me, I mean, just cause he couldn't hold himself up, eh?" Mundy blushed and his mother smiled. 

"We had dinner together and uh… I just made sure he could… Y'know… Go to bed safe and stuff…"

"Yeah, I get it." 

"Then I went back to the van and drove away. After that, I tried to get Duchemin on my own. I went to his palace and hunted him down."

"Yeah, I remember you told us about that." Caroline nodded. 

"But I didn't tell you that the only reason I survived this, is Lucien. He came after me, riskin' his skin as much as I was foolishly riskin' mine, and he got me out of there. He drove me to the Doc' and this time, he stayed with me all night." 

"Why did you go on your own?" 

"Cause he had Pearl to live for. I had nothin', no one." Mundy raised his hands before they landed on his lap again. "Who cared who I was, what I wanted, what I was? No one! You weren't there anymore and I had nothing left!" 

Caroline softened and shook her head, the pinching she felt in her heart showed on her face. She put her hand on Mundy's again and brushed it slowly. 

"When I woke up, I was determined to go back and try again." 

"But you nearly got killed?" 

"Who cared?!" He said, his lagoon, eager eyes riveted on his mother's hazel, soft ones. 

"I…" Words failed her and Mundy sighed before a gentle smile appeared on his lips. 

"He had Pearl and uh… There was a person… He-he fancied someone, I knew that much. And uh, I thought whoever that might be, they'd fancy him back, no doubt about that, right?"

"Oh." 

"Yeah, so I thought to myself, well, if someone has to go kill Duchemin and then die, let it be me cause uh… I-I…" The muscles of his mouth wanted to say it but his head hit a bug repeatedly, like a wall. "I was sure that the uh… the person that… I mean…" He closed his eyes and scratched his head and his cheek nervously. "I-I mean… The-the…"

"You were in love with someone too?" Caroline's eyes snapped wide and Mundy hid his face in his hands. "Micky…" She brushed his back. "I know we never talked about these things but… Don't be shy, eh? I'm your Mum, baby, I love you…" 

"No, Mum, you don't get it…" His muffled voice answered as his hands still covered the shame of the truth. "I fancied someone but… I was sure they didn't like me back…"

"Oh, Micky… Look, it's a heartbreak, it happens, it hurts, yeah, but it’s fine… If it didn't work out, that means she wasn't the right one." Caroline tapped his back gently and leaned on his arm. 

"Mum, I…" He sighed. "I can't bloody say it. I know the words, I wanna say them, but I can't." 

"Why?" 

"Because… I'm sorry, Mum!" Mundy burst into sobs. "I'm so sorry… I wish I wasn't like that, I wish I was born differently, I wish I-"

"Shhh… There, there, baby, I've got you." Caroline hugged him and he sobbed against her chest. 

"You and Dad didn't raise me like that, you… I… I'm sorry…! I'm so bloody sorry…!" 

"What are you talkin' about, Micky?" 

Mundy's tears started to drench his mother's blouse. 

"I swear, Mum, I swear I didn't do any harm to anyone, we're quiet and lead a good an honest life, Mum, I swear that we're good people, we don't look for trouble, we lead a calm life, we're just livin' normally, Mum…!" 

"We? You mean Lucien and you? Yeah, I know that you're not hurtin' anyone, what do you mean?" 

Mundy calmed his hitched breath and wiped his face with his sleeves. His hair was a mess and his eyes were red and slightly swollen.

"We… Lu' and me… W-we live together."

"Yeah, I know…?" Caroline failed to understand. 

"No, no, you don't get it." Mundy sniffled and took a deep breath before he took both of his mother's hands in his. His palms were sweaty, his nerves were buzzing and hurting everywhere. "We live together…!" 

"Yeah, Micky, I know, you already said. What is it? Why did you cry? Why apologise?" 

"Mum! You… Ugh… C'mere…" 

Mundy stood up and pulled his mother by the hand. They climbed up the stairs. 

"Meow?" Perle and Soot peeked out of their room and Caroline stopped sharp. 

"Oh, woah, hold on, Micky…" She pushed the door and her jaw dropped. "Is that your room…?" 

"It's Soot and Pearl's room." He answered. 

"Did you… build all that?" 

He smiled as his mother looked at the shelves on the wall, the ropes and other installations that Mundy had built for his cats. They were all painted with different colours, which brought a vibrant atmosphere in the room. 

"Oh, look at their bed…!" Caroline pointed at the little fluffy bed on which Soot was still asleep. 

"Meow…" Perle trotted to her husband and lay next to him. She bathed him and the black cat opened his eyes before yawning. 

"You really love them, eh?" She said. 

"Mum, these cats are my babies. I raised them, I fed them, washed them…" 

"I can see that, eh. They obey you like they understand your words… Anyway, what is it you wanted to show me?" She asked. 

He took her hand and went through the corridor before he stopped in front of a door. Mundy turned to his mother and put his hands on her shoulders. 

"Mum, before I open this door, you really swear that you're not gonna tell Dad, right?" 

"Yeah, I swore and I swear again."

Perle and Soot trotted to them and brushed themselves on Mundy's legs while meowing repeatedly. 

Mundy took a deep breath and turned to the door. He put his hand on the handle and pushed it down. 

"What is it? Your room?" 

Mundy pushed the door open and let his mother in. 

"Oh, yeah, that's your room. Did Lucien decorate it too? I don't see you like the flower in a vase kind of man…" Caroline stepped in and her eyes directly caught the flower vase on the night tables. "And a big, double bed you have, eh?" 

The cats jumped on the bed and lay on it, bathing each other. 

Caroline's eyes went to the wooden suit valet stand. 

"You wear suits now?" She went closer to it and looked at the brand. "And it's a Lemercier too…!" 

"N-no, that's not mine." Mundy was at the door, incapable of stepping in his own room as if it was forbidden somehow. He fidgeted with his fingers while his knees were wobbling awkwardly beneath him. 

"It's Lucien's? What is it doing in your room? Oh…" Caroline went to the night table and saw on each one, a framed picture was resting. She took one in her hand and adjusted her glasses before inspecting it. Mundy closed his eyes and hid his face in his hands. 

"Micky…? You sure are very good friends with Lucien, eh…? You keep pictures of both of you next to your bed? And what's this one? Oh…" 

It was a picture of Lucien and Mundy hugging each other, on the day that the house was officially made theirs. 

"I didn't take you for the huggin' type, Micky…"

Mundy's whole body was boiling, bubbling on the inside and burning in an uncomfortable way. The clock was ticking and he knew that his mother would understand any second now.

"And the bed sheets… They're silk!" 

"L-Lu' likes them…"

"So this is Lucien's room? Why did you take me here?" 

"N-no." Mundy couldn't move. His heels were anchored in the floor and his legs were threatening to give up. "Go look… in the… cupboard." 

Caroline put the framed picture back on the night table and looked at her son. 

"You're shakin', Micky. Are you alright?" 

He nodded as much as he could. 

"Just… go, please." 

Caroline frowned and did as she was told. She went to the wardrobe and opened it. Half of it was filled with suits neatly hanging and the other half was simple polo shirts and trousers. 

"He wears very diverse stuff, eh?" 

Mundy took the few steps that separated him from his mother and pointed at the suits. 

"That's… his." 

"Yeah?"

His index moved to the polo shirts. 

"That's… mine." 

"Why would you both put your clothes in the same wardrobe?" She raised a curious eyebrow. 

 Mundy moved to the bed. He pointed at Lucien's side, where Perle was lying. 

"His." And then at Soot's side. "Mine." 

"I know Soot is yours and Pearl is his-"

"No!" He exclaimed and the cats moved out of the bed. He pointed again. "His side… Mine…" He turned tearful eyes to his mother. "The bed is… ours…"

Caroline's eyebrows arched high up and Mundy saw it. He saw the precise moment that she saw the truth. Her eyes went to Lucien's suit, then the framed pictures, the wardrobe and finally, the bed. 

"Mum… We live together." 

Her jaw dropped and silence fell.

[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.

[hotchley]

“i think, deep down, we’re all capable of unspeakable things”

morehotchcontent day six: rocky relationship (kinda forgotten anniversary/a big fight)

tagged: @ablogofthecriminalmindsvariety

she knew just what marriage meant to aaron. he’d grown up in south virginia, where tradition was everything. where marriage was everything one could ever hope for. she had grown up in brighton, where people really did not give a flying fuck about any of that. it had never meant much to her, but to aaron it meant everything.

his proposal was so much more than a proposal. it was the final sign that he’d moved on from haley. that he truly loved her. and a part of him would always love haley, there was no point in saying he wouldn’t, but this- this was him saying thank you, i love you, i won’t leave, i trust you, i want to see you in the morning and make you my own all at once.

“i can’t marry you,” she whispered.

keep your tissues handy. that’s all i’m saying.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, references to george foyet, mentions of minor character death, cheating

read on ao3!

Everyone viewed Aaron Hotchner as cold and emotionless. Someone who was constantly stoic and unattached, who saw the horrors that came with the BAU and didn’t even flinch. But what most of them didn’t realise was that the man they saw at work and in the field wasn’t Aaron. That man was Hotch. He knew how to compartmentalise, how to pretend that he wasn’t falling apart, how to keep the tremble out of his voice when all he wanted to do was fall apart.

Aaron was a different man. Aaron would play pretend with his son for hours on end, just to keep him happy and make him smile. He woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily as his body shook and tears streamed down his face as the monsters of his day haunted his night. He would dance with Penelope because he could never say to her.

He was a helpless romantic.

Eleanor- Ellie to her friends, and SSA Birch to local police departments- knew this first-hand.

She had first met Aaron Hotchner during the liaison programme with Kate Joyner. Kate had been unimpressed by everyone there, because the last time she’d done it, they’d all acted like they knew so much better than her. Eleanor had met Aaron first, and immediately wondered where everyone like him had been when Kate first did it.

Because Aaron was lovely. He held doors open, he listened, he smiled at everyone, and he phoned his girlfriend- not his wife, even though they’d been dating since high school and he was now twenty-eight- during every single break they had, regardless of the time difference.

Then she’d fucked up and kissed him. They had both been drunk. A case had gone shit, and she needed something good. But then he called her Haley. And she’d immediately sobered up. He had looked at her with such shame that she almost cried. For some reason, she knew his passcode. The moment he ran to the bathroom to throw up the alcohol, she unlocked it. Phoned Haley. Said that her boyfriend was going to blame himself for what had happened but it wasn’t him it was her.

And Haley… had been lovely. She’d said that she knew Aaron loved her. And that Eleanor seemed like a lovely person but she understood that need for comfort. Eleanor had wondered how people were still so good. She didn’t tell Aaron about the phone call. He left the next day. The programme was finished. She thought that would be the end of it.

Then she transferred over to the BAU. She hadn’t known he was Unit Chief. David Rossi did her interview. It was incredibly awkward at first. She wasn’t used to hiding from her teammates but Aaron had panicked when he first saw her and started pretending he’d never seen her. Her only option was to play along. Haley had just left him at this point.

Kate Joyner obviously recognised her. That was a conversation she never wanted to have again. She thought she’d jeopardised both her place on the team and her dynamic. Then Kate died, Hotch lost his hearing temporarily and she was the only person that Reid would let touch him after the fiasco with Benjamin Cyrus.

She liked Spencer. He was almost like the son she never had.

It was Eleanor that had stayed behind with Aaron after Haley’s funeral and dealt with the phone calls. She told herself it was because she was trying to be a good person and repent for what she had done. Truthfully it was because she knew he was going to fall. And she didn’t want the burden of catching him to fall to the others who had already supported him through so much- Adrian Bale, Vincent Perrotta, Haley leaving.

They’d been getting to a good place. Not quite dating, but not quite friends. She knew he was watching her; there was a reason she was a profiler. He knew she still loved him, but he was grieving Haley. It wouldn’t be fair to her if he suddenly changed their whole dynamic.

But then he faked Emily’s death and it was like they were right back at square one: she would undermine everything he said because she was angry, and he was there, and it was easy to blame him. Her emotions had always been her greatest strength and her fatal flaw.

And then he’d turned up at her apartment, soaked through from the rain, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. She’d been too shocked to close the door on him. He’d immediately started rambling about how he couldn’t live the way he was, and how he just needed to know that she trusted him because everything was falling apart and he just needed her.

Not knowing what else to do, she’d kissed him. It had been messy, and wet, and nowhere near as romantic as either of them liked to pretend it had been. But it had been their first actually sober kiss, so it held a special place in her heart. And after that, it was like everything just fell into place.

Which led to the present moment. She knew what day it was. She knew her present to him was still safely tucked away in the bathroom behind her pads and his spare shower gel which he wouldn’t need for another twenty days. She knew he was excited, because for once, he could guarantee that he would be home.

After his surgery, he realised that he couldn’t keep doing what he was doing because sooner or later it was going to kill him. He hadn’t wanted to place the burden of keeping everyone together on Morgan though. So Emily came back. Her and Dave split the paperwork for lead profiler, and Morgan took over as unit chief. It had been difficult for him, those first few months.

But he’d pulled through, and was now living a much more stress free life as a law professor at the local college. It meant he could go to Jack’s school events and be there for him. It let Jessica have more time to herself.

It also meant he planned nice things for days like these. And Ella knew it was unfair to keep him waiting, but she just couldn’t bring herself to get up and go home, choosing instead to focus on the casefile in front of her. The bullpen was quiet: JJ had her own office and had gone home anyways, Reid had gone to see a piano concert thing- she’d tried her best to follow but had just gotten lost- and Anderson was out of town.

So instead of it being lively and loud, it was just her. And her casefile. Which she’d been looking at for the past ten minutes without any of the information going into her head.

With a groan, she slammed it shut and pushed it away.

“Shouldn’t you have gone home by now?” Dave asked, appearing at either the best or worst possible moment depending on your view, just like he always did.

“Probably. But I just- I can’t bring myself to do it,” she confessed.

Dave sighed. “You need to. Aaron will start to worry if you don’t. And we all already told him that there are no cases, so don’t even think of using the paperwork from that as an excuse.”

She sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you still sound like you grew up in Buckingham Palace.” He picked up the case file. “Nothing’s happened here for six months. I’m sure one night won’t hurt. Now go.”

Eleanor packed her stuff up, giving him a small smile as she closed the door behind her. It immediately faded as soon as she’d turned away from him and her stomach started to twist into knots. She didn’t know if the team knew and weren’t saying anything, or if they were actually following the no profiling rule. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know either.

When she unlocked the front door, there was a distinct lack of noise. It made her feel even worse. Hotch had obviously organised for Jack to go and stay with his grandparents because she remembered that Jessica had a date, which would’ve been awkward enough for him, and here she was, two hours late, not because she’d forgotten, but because she hadn’t wanted to go.

“Hi El,” Aaron said as she entered the living room. He was sat on the couch, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he graded papers. “Just let me write this final comment and then I’m yours.”

“Hi,” she replied, feeling uneasy.

Aaron looked up. “You’re supposed to say: I can’t wait that long and then come over and give me a kiss.”

She rolled her eyes but obeyed nonetheless, legs feeling wobbly as she sat on him, smiling when he let out a soft sound of surprise. She tilted his face so she could kiss him and for the moment where their lips met, everything was fine. Then he pulled away, and she just wanted to get away. But his hand was stroking her hip in a comforting gesture and she wasn’t ready to give that up, so instead she ran her hand through his hair.

“What’s this one about?” she asked.

“They’re supposed to be critiquing and suggesting reforms for the law surrounding murder. I gave them a tonne of advice and access to all the relevant articles but some of them still didn’t even try and word it in a way that sounds like their own essay style,” he said, sighing.

Eleanor smiled slightly and set the paper down on the table. “I’m sorry for being late. But I’m here now. So why don’t you show me how all out you went this year?”

Aaron looked into her eyes and she was once again taken aback by how soft and gentle they were. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that he had once beaten a man to death. She tried to remove that thought from her head. It just was not the time.

“You never have to apologise for being late. I used to do your job, remember?”

She nodded. “How could I forget?”

“Do you want to change whilst I reheat dinner?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Their conversations hadn’t sounded that forced since she had first joined the BAU and had been adding sir onto almost all of her statements in an attempt to rile him up.

As she went upstairs to change into something more casual, she also took the time to wipe off her make-up and splash some water on her face. She only intended to take five minutes. But then she started staring at her reflection, trying to see whether or not her actions were as obvious as she thought they were. But then she became aware of the clock ticking- Aaron hated digital clocks because of the flashing numbers- and realised how long she’d been stood there for.

“I was beginning to worry,” Aaron said. A normal comment. But an invitation to tell him what was wrong.

She shrugged. “It’s our anniversary. And although I technically didn’t forget, I was late and I wanted to make that up to you, which meant going through the wardrobe and finding this dress.”

“The fact that you still say wardrobe will never fail to make me laugh,” Aaron said.

He’d made chicken and mushroom pie. Her favourite. She wanted to be sick. It was just a few hours. She could get through a few hours. Aaron was a half-decent person. He listened when people said no. Then she could go to sleep, and everything would go back to normal. Nobody would know but it wouldn’t hang over her head the same way it was when he was sat opposite her, staring with such adoration.

They ate in relative silence. She didn’t want to explain why she was late. She wanted to let him believe that it was purely because time had gotten away from her and that the meeting she’d had with Cruz about the last case had run over. She didn’t want to explain that she’d deliberately walked slowly so she would miss the train. She couldn’t.

“Your present is something old this year. I hope that’s okay,” Aaron said when they had both finished eating. There was a glint in his eye. One he only got when he was about to do something very romantic.

Eleanor frowned. Something old. Where had she heard that?

He got down on one knee.

She gasped.

“My Ella. You continue to love me day after day and for what reason, I don’t know. We didn’t pass on the best terms. But then you came back into my life when I didn’t even realise I needed you, in this massive explosion of passion and love and hope. You were there for me when I didn’t think I’d be able to survive. And you never once doubted me. I know that I’m far from perfect, and there are times where I get angry instead of being understand. And I know that I’ve upset you, but you helped me realise that as a couple, we don’t have to be perfect. We just have to try. I love you. I love you so much that I can’t even begin to put it into words. So I’ll put it into a question. Eleanor Birch, will you marry me?”

She knew just what marriage meant to Aaron. He’d grown up in South Virginia, where tradition was everything. Where marriage was everything one could ever hope for. She had grown up in Brighton, where people really did not give a flying fuck about any of that. It had never meant much to her, but to Aaron it meant everything.

His proposal was so much more than a proposal. It was the final sign that he’d moved on from Haley. That he truly loved her. And a part of him would always love Haley, there was no point in saying he wouldn’t, but this- this was him saying thank you, I love you, I won’t leave, I trust you, I want to see you in the morning and make you my own all at once.

“I can’t marry you,” she whispered.

The box fell from his hands. He moved back into his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Okay,” he said.

That shocked her back into awareness. “I- what? You just proposed, I said no and all you have to say is okay?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what I want to say. I want to say that Jack won’t have a problem- in fact, he has and always will be my first priority so I wouldn’t have done this without his permission- but you already know that don’t you?”

She nodded. “I do.”

They both cringed at her choice of words.

“If it’s about changing your surname, I may have grown up with traditional views, but you don’t have to do that. Not if you don’t want to. We can combine them. We could be the Hotchner-Birch’s. Or you could just keep your own. I don’t really mind.”

“It’s not that either.”

“Jack isn’t expecting you to be his mother either. He’ll probably still call you El, just like I do.”

“It isn’t Jack.”

“That was my mother’s engagement ring. She gave it to me when I told her I wanted to propose to Haley. She said that hopefully it would bring me better luck than it had bought her. At the time, I hated the damn thing because it had come from my father. So I didn’t give it to Haley. Now I’m older I understand why she gave it to me. So the girl I married would always be able to have a piece of the woman that made me who I am. But if that weirds you out, we can go look for another one.”

“Would you stop being so good and kind for one fucking minute?” Ella snapped, unable to take anymore.

Aaron flinched, even after all the years that had passed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Ella ran a hand through her hair. “God, no. Please don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. It’s just- I can’t. I can’t marry you and it’s nothing you have done. It’s got nothing to do with Jack either. I love that kid. And I’m so proud of how far he’s come. But I just- I can’t.”

“You’ve told me that. Multiple times now. Just tell me why. Tell me what happened and we can work through it. Because I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And if anything happens to me, I want custody of Jack to go to you. Not the state.”

Aaron had never told her that before. They’d spoken at great lengths about children and both agreed that they didn’t want anymore. Jack was enough for both of them. And they’d talked about what would happen if for some reason, Ella had to care for Jack for extended amounts of time. But never like this.

He dropped his gaze when he saw the look on her face. “I’m sorry. You just said you don’t want to marry me, and here I am, dropping bombshells like that on you because that awful part of me wants you to feel guilty. Look, whatever you did, what happened, tell me. We can get through it.”

She hoped that he could abandon his morals long enough for her to not have to say the words. “Aaron, look at me. Please. Please, I need you to look at me.”

Tears were already forming in her eyes when he finally managed to meet her gaze.

“No,” he whispered.

He had seen that look twice in his life. Once when his mother turned to his father and asked why a young lady had phoned asking to speak to her husband. Once when Haley’s mobile had rung and she hadn’t been able to provide the reason behind the call. He knew what that look meant. He knew, and he wished he didn’t because he wasn’t sure he could handle it all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I am so, so sorry and if I could take it back, I would but I can’t and all I can do is apologise and say that I regret it and I had never felt worse than in that moment.”

“Who was it? Was it someone I know?”

“God no. They would never.”

“Did they look like me?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I need to know. I need to know who this man was. I need to know why you were so willing to throw our entire relationship away for one night of pleasure. Or was it more? Has this been going on for a while? Am I just a joke to you? Is that what it is?”

“No! And it was a one-time thing, I swear. It only happened once. And if you really must know, yes. He looked like you. Are you happy now? I don’t want to have to relive that night because it was one of the worst nights of my life.”

“Of your life? I was going to marry you Eleanor. When- when even was this? And why?”

Eleanor’s emotions always got the better of her. “You want to know when? It was that case. That case where all the boys turning up dead and mutilated looked exactly like Jack. Like our son. And then the unsub got away. And I phoned you. I phoned you at least five times that night, but not once did you pick up, because you were at a faculty dinner, even though you promised me that you would always be there, no matter where you were. I needed to hear your voice telling me everything would be all right. I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

Aaron gripped the table tightly, all the colour in his face immediately vanishing. He remembered that night. He too regretted it. When he saw Eleanor’s first phone call, he’d started to excuse himself to answer it, knowing there could only be a few reasons for it. But then one of his colleagues had made a snide comment- one he couldn’t even remember now- and he’d put his phone on silent before tucking it away.

When Dave told him about the case because Eleanor couldn’t, he’d felt like the biggest piece of shit to ever exist. He still did. How had he fucked up so badly that Eleanor had slept with someone else?

No. That wasn’t on him. He’d screwed up, but she, and she alone, was responsible for her actions. It had been her decision to sleep with someone, not his.

“So you slept with someone else? Why not go to one of the team and tell them instead? Why did you have to sleep with someone?”

“I don’t know! I can’t explain what I did and I can’t justify it but I- you were the one that said we could move past this. You were the one that said, whatever I had done, we could work out together because you loved me. I still love you. I never stopped, not even when you went back to Haley all those years ago. We could make it work.”

Aaron laughed, but there was no humour. “No. No we can’t. Because that case was a month ago. You had a month to tell me, and you’re only telling me now because I asked you to marry me. What was your plan? Just not say anything till either I worked it out myself or you stopped feeling guilty?”

Eleanor didn’t have a response.

Aaron ran his hands through his hair, tugging it. Ella wanted to pry his hands away from it so he didn’t pull it out but that wasn’t her job anymore. It never would be again.

“I feel like such an idiot. You know, when you first kissed me, my first thought was: don’t do this. Because the first time you kissed me, you knew I had a girlfriend. And I was just as responsible because I didn’t pull away immediately, I know. But you kissed me. And in the back of my mind, I knew that there was every chance you would do the same again. I just never thought you actually would because I thought you’d grown up. I guess you haven’t.”

That was the problem with profilers, Eleanor thought to herself. They always knew exactly where to strike in order to cause the most pain. She just never thought Aaron would be the one doing it to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because what else could she say?

Aaron shook his head. “I don’t want to hear you say that anymore. You can- I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom until you find an apartment. But once you have, I never want to see you again. I’ll spare Jack the finer details of what happened, but it’ll be his choice whether or not he carries on talking to you. But never refer to him as your son ever again. He isn’t. Not anymore.”

Eleanor did not want his kindness. She wanted Aaron to make her pay. She wanted him to be angry, to hurl insults at her and tell her to get out, that he never wanted to see her again and that she would never be allowed within six feet of his son again.

But Aaron wouldn’t. He was too scared of what would happen if he lost control. He had been since Foyet. And she could mention that. She could mention every fear, every secret, every dream he’d ever shared with her.

She didn’t. She had already hurt him enough.

“I have friends not too far from here. I’ll pack enough for a week and that should be enough time to sort out something more permanent.”

If Aaron heard her, he didn’t say anything.

It only took her ten minutes to pack, which was one of the advantages of living with him. Everything had to be perfectly organised, which meant it was very easy to find things. When she entered the living room, he hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the ground. The ring was on the floor by the dining table, shining despite the darkness of the room.

It was rather ironic, this thing that had led to so much destruction being so beautiful.

“Goodbye Aaron,” Eleanor said, placing her keys on the coffee table.

Only when the door closed behind her for what would probably be the last time did Aaron Hotchner fall to his knees and sob, for the second woman he had loved and lost and for the mother Jack would never get to have.

[youarejesting]

Forever (finale)

Rating: Teen and Up Genre: Mystery, Romance, Drama, Action, Angst, Paranormal. Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Summary: In Bightville there is never any nonsense, the scariest thing one might face is tripping at the roller-disco. But, when you move to the small town, crazy things start to happen. Suddenly people are going missing without any leads. It’s when your neighbor Seokjin goes missing that things get serious because now his friends suspect you!

Announcement: It’s the end and oh my gosh I love it...

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“It’s been decided Jungkook and Jimin will head out quietly and try to find this opening, they will radio back if they find it, and then we will head out in teams of two” Seokjin sighed the man was looking tired the days in the spirit world was causing him to look more tired and withered.

“Wait so some of us have to wait here alone?” Hoseok said concerned he didn’t want to be one of the last, he would definitely be one of the members of the second team.

“We can’t all go at once there would be a higher chance of us being spotted and I don’t think we are all wanting to fight one of those things” Namjoon explained and they nodded.

The two boys got dressed holding their makeshift weapons and headed out walkie talkie in hand, their instructions to only use it when necessary. They moved quickly and quietly down the hall until they turned down the stairs out of sight. The group waited.

Half an hour passed and you sat in the corner laying your head back against the wall, something about this place sucked the warmth from your form. Yoongi slid down the wall pressing his side against yours to keep you warm.

You all almost ran out of hope when Namjoon spoke up, “there isn’t much we can do, until we hear back from them”

“What if we don’t?”

“Then we send another two out to find them or the exit”

“I hate this plan?” Taehyung muttered scuffing his foot through the dirt

“It’s the only plan we have?” Seokjin offered using his calm voice in an authoritative manner. 

“Hey we found it, we are here?” a voice called over static “you need to get around the side of the house and into the cellar the doors are open and you take the stairs down and head through the web. 

“Alright” Seokjin said “Namjoon and I will head out next, Namjoon will need to be careful so we will give him as much time as he needs to get through that web. I will wait near the entrance for the next teams to come along until we are all out”

The next too left and it was barely fifteen minutes before Taehung and Hoseok left kind of rushed. 

That left you and Yoongi with Johnny who looked down at his leg wrapped firmly around a broken table leg. 

“It might be easier to go without me” he scoffed

“Not like anyone really missed me anyway, the hardly even know me”

“You’re Johnny, you play the piano we had the same piano teacher, remember and you can draw really well” Yoongi scoffed “your family is worried and the school has been trying to find out where you went”

“We should get ready to go” Yoongi said helping you up off the ground. He handed you his jacket and you smiled at how his scent lingered in the fabric enjoying the calming effect it had on you. He took the two lapels and slowly zipped them together.

You two grinned helping Johnny to his feet and it was a slow process of traveling through the school and the streets towards your house. It was hard but you were keeping out of sight and traveling. They see the other group moving and Seokjin in the distance signalling for them to wait as Hoseok and Taehyung head through. 

In their haste Hoseok tripped over your younger snot nosed brothers bike -the very same you stressed he clean up every day- bumping the web the two boys race through the web.

You knew they were coming and in a split second you three ran across the lawn, racing your best through the web with Seokjin helping Johnny through in front of you. You could hear them coming, the hands of the boys in the real world reaching out to pull you through the burrow between the worlds. When you felt something grab the jacket, your name softly spoken you turned to see Yoongi. He gave you a forlorn look and he pressed his lips to yours. He kissed you hard and pushed you into the arms. Running from the webs and the siren on the walkie talkie blaring as he ran further away.

The hands were pulling you through the portal and you were a mess of tears struggling, unable to see, you finally found the perfect guy, he didn’t expect you to fit the norms as he definitely didn’t fit them either. 

You were in the basement of your home unable to see as everything was burned with tears, Yoongi’s voice came over the walkie talkie in a pant, he was running still alive, still fighting, “Y/n, did you get through?”

You sobbed scrambling across the floor to get the walkie talkie “I am okay, where are you, you have to come through. You have to get back here and come through -”

“They are filling the web, I don’t know how long we have ?” Jungkook said keeping this end of the web firmly pressed shut clawed arms busting through

“Shut it down” Yoongi said calmly over the radio “I am surrounded”

“No, I will go back in and fight them off” You hissed, the ache in your chest burning and tight making it hard to breathe “You promised”

“I’m sorry” He whispered

“You promised, we were going to see kingkong, you promised” the words were barely legible but he understood.

“I did promise, but maybe some other time love,” He took a shaky breath, “shut it down kook”

They ripped apart the objects around the crawl space in the wall effectively ripping apart the connection between the two worlds.

You were all found in the basement crying, your parents were confused and the police were called, you were all interrogated and you explained everything as it happened sparing no detail on the abnormal. That night you were inconsolable, crying in your bed, the jacket clutched in your hands the words ‘It’s okay not to be okay’, breaking you more.

The police wrote it off as drugs and judging from the injuries and the extensive amounts of mud and dirt on their clothes they assumed the group had ventured into the woods. For some cult business. It took a week before the investigation was called off, they found Yoongi’s boot on the edge of the river and called it an accidental drug related death.

The funeral for Yoongi was small, his parents weren’t upset rather annoyed, you heard them in the next room blaming him. “If he didn’t die, I wouldn’t be here” His father frowned

“I don’t know how he lasted this long,” his older sister hissed

“Can you believe they want me to pay $1,000 for his funeral, he doesn’t even have a body,” His father sighed

“Be thankful he was dumb enough to die in the river, otherwise you would be paying more” His sister called

“Where is that bastards mother?” He sighed “Why am I paying for him, I haven’t even seen him since we split, and yet here I am the one having to pay”

Biting your lip, you were grabbed by Namjoon who lead you out to Yoongi’s car, “we took some stuff from his house, before his family could throw it away and um, if there is anything you like please feel free to take it.”

You found a few shirts and jackets with some slogans that made you feel like he was still supporting you even when he wasn’t here. But it was when you came across a collection of cassettes that you pause in confusion, Jimin laughed. “Yoongi has a tendency to write songs about everyone he meets,”

You watched him fondly touch the cassette with his name on it, you pulled out one with your name on it. The letters written in such unique handwriting that was very yoongi, laid back but simple. Jimin pulled out another titled ‘a night with her and the boys’. “Try this one too, it might be good”

You took his recording system in hopes you could listen to his work in your home and feel that connection with him. Heading straight up to your room ignoring all distractions. Setting up the machine you began by slipping in the cassette and placing on the headphones.

It was beautiful, the sound was beautiful and the song spoke of your beauty, but when the chorus hit, the drums, guitar and synth came in and he spoke about your personality. You were laughing, he summed you up so well, you felt your heart swell in the last line. 

What a bitch.

She’s hot and she knows it.

And I can’t stop thinking about her.

It had you in stitches. You switched the song over to ‘a night with her and the boys’ and you couldn’t help but cry, he told a story about noticing you and the feelings you were trying to hide. He sang about you coming clean of your emotions, said he would protect you even though you didn’t need it, that he wanted to hold you because you looked so cold.

The song ended but there was more space left on the tape, you listened for thirty seconds but their didn’t seem to be anything on it. You took the small microphone and spoke into the machine, “I don’t know um how this works, but I love you” Turning it off you went to the shower, when you came back it was running, the tape had reached the end. Rewinding it you played it through, again while finding something to wear to bed.

When the song reached the end, you had finally found a warm set of pajama pants that you matched with one of yoongi’s shirts. You buried your face in the collar breathing in the scent, you went to turn of the machine which was whirring. “I don’t know um how this works, but I love you”.

You were embarrassed quickly rushing to turn it off, “God I am so embarrassing,”

“It’s so nice to hear your voice, I love you too, are you doing alright?”

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Tags: @valmyarmy​​​​​ @knjkitten​​​​​​ @jooniesdimples70307 @rosita7703​​​​​

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[h2omyeon]

You Were Beautiful (KJM x Reader)

Summary: You had been in love with your classmate Kim Junmyeon for the last year and a half. You finally find the guts to tell him the truth about how you feel, but at the wrong time. (PS: Chanyeol makes a cameo in this story and Junmyeon is an Art History major!)

Pairing: Junmyeon x Female Reader

Tags: College Student Junmyeon, Art Hoe Junmyeon, bittersweet stuff

Warnings: Mentions of suicide towards the end of this chapter

Word Count (in total): 8.5k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first ever story I wrote and published on here. Feel free to leave comments and I will try to publish each chapter weekly! This story is based off of a combination of dreams that I had which included people who weren’t Junmyeon and Junmyeon himself during the beginning of this whole COVID pandemic (AKA: when things began to fall apart). Like the world that I was living in at that time, this story/dream is just as (I hope to believe) chaotic. I also apologize if there are a ton of plot holes in the story because it was based on a dream and I could not think of any filler parts. Enjoy!- PS

PPS: Thank you so much for reading up to this point; I really appreciate all the likes, reblogs and comments by you all and the overall support. I am also honored to tell you all that I will be publishing a story called “Cocoon” (which will pair the reader with Jaehyun from NCT) within the next few weeks, so keep an eye out for that. 

PPPS: Before you read this chapter, I apologize for the way the story ends and feel free to ask, comment or message me about it. I felt like it was the best way to end it. I hope you have enjoyed the story thus far as much as I have enjoyed writing and sharing it. Thank you again!- h2omyeon <3

Read the previous parts here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Epilogue: Universe 

Three days after the accident, the press had confirmed that there were more than 20 survivors; there were 40 altogether, although the names were not stated. Most of the people who had passed on the flight were older people or young children. You had no idea if Junmyeon had survived the crash after the on-site investigation was completed as rescue workers and police officers were still going around to friends and family members of those who may have been on the flight. 

That same week, your family decided to go visit the Kims on Saturday afternoon to keep them company. While you all were enjoying some of Mrs Kim’s comforting homemade food on their patio that day, the doorbell began to ring. Mr Kim immediately got up from his seat and ran to the door; you saw through the net that there were two rescue workers and a tall male police officer talking to him about something; Mrs Kim walked to the door while the rest of you followed. 

You watched a conversation unfold in the front door and the Kims were handed a letter World War 2 style; Mrs Kim opened the letter and read it out loud; her voice had begun to break.

“Good day, we regret to inform you that your family member passed away in the crash that occurred to Flight 496 last Saturday.”

Your heart dropped; the love of your life really was gone. All the memories he had of you were gone, forever. You went into your mother’s arms and began to weep. She sobbed too, as your father consoled the crying women in front of him.

Mr Kim consoled his wife, who asked in Korean, “How will I tell his mother?” Natasha and Molly, not knowing how to react because they were both watching TV, both turned pale after hearing the news and turned off the TV. After a few moments, you and your father walked to the front door. You skimmed through the letter, realizing that there was a mistake; the address and the name were wrong. 

The rescue worker, who you recognized as a guy from your history class, spoke. “Wait, I think I got the letters mixed up,” he admitted, taking the letter from you. He looked at the front and the back to check the name; “Yeah, I got it mixed up.” He went to retape the letter, while the other worker handed you a letter with the right address. 

“How the hell do you get addresses mixed up?!?!?!” Mr Kim snapped at the young man; the young man had a look of confusion. “Y/N, please read the letter.” Mr and Mrs Kim held one another’s hands; your parents held one another tightly and silently prayed as they watched you read the fate of your first love in your hands. 

Your hands shook as you tried to open the letter: “Dear Mr and Mrs Kim, your family member Kim Junmyeon, survived the crash of Flight 496 and is doing well at the hospital; he will be coming home soon.” Along with the brief letter, there was the address of the hospital that he was staying at; it was located in Long Island. Everyone began to happily embrace one another; you couldn’t help but hug your sisters and parents. He was alive; it was a sigh of relief for all of you. You were unable to sleep in fear that he died without wanting to and now for the first time in a week, you could sleep in peace. Mr Kim and your father, two people who initially despised one another, hugged one another for the first time. 

“Thank you,” you thanked the rescue workers and the police officer. The workers watched the brief sadness turn into a sigh of relief and happiness . 

“I apologize for my colleague’s mistake. Have a good day,” the police officer stated and the three of them went off to the next family. You had a smile on your face; “We will visit him first thing tomorrow,” Mr Kim declared. That night, they went to buy ingredients to make some of their nephew’s favorite foods, both Korean and American. 

Later that night, you told Angela the good news; “He’s a brave and very resilient man. I knew he would come out of it alive,” she stated. You two proceeded to talk about how you all were going to meet to go to the hospital the next morning. 

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The next morning, you heard loud banging from the front door, while you were asleep. You could hear your father leave the bedroom he shared with your mother to open the door. You woke up immediately and the rest of your family followed suit and walked to the front door. 

Mr Kim hurriedly entered the house and rapidly spoke as he walked in. Your mother walked to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. You were unable to understand what had happened. 

“What happened?” Natasha and Molly asked; you did not know what was going on either. You didn’t want to bother your parents, so you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. The young girls walked down the stairs to the living room by the time you came out of the bathroom. You walked down the stairs and to the living room; you saw that everyone was crying. Junmyeon was alive, you thought. Why are they crying?

“That letter was a lie,” Mr Kim consoled you. He wiped his tears, took a sip of his water and began to explain that he had received a call from the hospital that Junmyeon had suffered a seizure in his sleep as a result of his head trauma and passed away earlier that morning. Your father looked at you; your heart dropped. You got up to feel if the world you were living in was stimulation; you felt the room spin, then go black and produced a loud thud as your body fell on the floor. 

Fifteen minutes later, you woke up on the sofa, having no recollection of being there. There was a wet towel on your forehead; Angela and Chanyeol had arrived by that time. Angela’s face was red and puffy from crying, while Chanyeol consoled her. He had tried not to cry, but the tears in his eyes were about to come out and he finally cried. Your mother and sisters were all crying, but at that moment, you were confused as to why they were so sad. By this time, Mr Kim and your father had gone to the hospital to collect Junmyeon’s remaining belongings. 

It had suddenly hit you that Junmyeon had passed away; that was the reason you fell on the ground. You hoped to reunite with the love of your life that same day at the hospital but all hopes of reunion died along with your hopes in life.  You didn’t know how to process what had been going on; he wasn’t dead, he was just away for a long period of time, you claimed in your head. You couldn’t eat and refused to move from the sofa for the rest of the day. Your mother sang songs as a way to console you and your sisters sat with you, holding your hand. 

“I know how much you loved him,” your mother consoled. “He’s in a better place now.”

Later that evening, your parents were watching the news when the reporters had confirmed he was the passenger who had died of his injuries. You stared blankly at the television screen; Junmyeon was now a memory embedded in a voicemail, a text message conversation and many pictures taken during your time together. Another thing passed away that day, which was your ability to feel love. It would take a while for you to grow that ability back.

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The funeral was a week after the news broke. It was small and quick, since Junmyeon’s body was flown to Korea that same night. Your sister Natasha and Chanyeol had sung his favorite song, “Universe” by EXO as a way to say goodbye with Molly playing the piano. Along with Angela and Chanyeol and a few of your other friends, your father spoke about how much he saw Junmyeon as the Glue that held two families together. Mr and Mrs Kim spoke, sharing their experiences with him as their beloved nephew, while your mother spoke about how he possessed a rare quality to love unconditionally and spread that love to everyone around him. 

It was your turn to speak. You didn’t prepare a speech and were naturally awkward when it came with words, despite being an English major. You took a breath and finally, after formulating somewhat of a hasty eulogy, began to speak:

“Junmyeon was like glue; he stuck by you no matter what you were going through. Whenever I felt upset, I knew I could always go to him to talk to him about it. He brought two families who initially did not know one another together and formed a trust that will last a lifetime,” you began.

“Most of all, he made me the happiest I had been in a long time. I remember the night before he left, he told me that I made him happy. I never thought I could be the source of someone’s happiness, let alone be happy myself. Happiness is something I don’t think I will ever find in a long time and for most of you, Junmyeon may be just a memory. I know that for you  all, he is memorialized in physical items such as pictures, voicemails and text messages, but for me he is memorialized both in my heart and in my life. I’m glad I got to know Junmyeon; he was the light in everyone’s life that has now extinguished. I will miss him deeply. The sad thing is, I never even got to say goodbye to him at the hospital and tell him how much I really loved him. Now I can finally tell him that I will always love him.”

The attendees clapped as you walked back and sat next to your mother. The rest of the funeral went by like a breeze; you began to wonder how you were going to live your life now that Junmyeon was gone. You could have been able to contact him had he flown to Korea safely, but now you were never going to hear him tell the stories of his life in the military, his admiration for paintings, his stupidly corny jokes and his singing voice; he was gone forever. 

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Stuck like glue no more, your father and Mr Kim got into spats over small things once again. They went back to Korea to live with Junmyeon’s parents after a month. Your family went on to live their lives, but you felt out of place in their happiness and normality. Since the funeral, dark thoughts appeared in your mind that had never appeared before. You had thoughts of joining him above in ways unimaginable; one way was covering your aired out body parts in plastic bags (such as your arms and head), then jumping from the top of the George Washington Bridge into the Hudson River, while another included knives, although thankfully you never acted on these thoughts. You occupied yourself with listening to music, writing, cooking, talking with family and friends, going to museums and walking around the park whenever the weather was nice to get rid of the thoughts; the thoughts were not frequent, but they lasted for days at a time. 

One year after his death, you went to visit Mr and Mrs Kim’s now empty house that was about to be filled with new neighbors and sat on the empty bench at their front porch. You reminisced about the confessions you made to him and he did to you; the liveliness and spark were no longer there. The laughs shared, the kisses shared, the stories told were memories you could no longer experience again. You sat for an hour and stared up at the sky deeply immersed in your thoughts about life as some bass music from your neighbor’s house played in the background. Suddenly, the lyrics to “Rough” by GFriend began to ring in your head: 

If I could run through time and become an adult

I will hold your hand in this cruel world

Grieving is different for everyone; for you, it took a year to accept Junmyeon’s untimely death. You knew that you could not spend your life being sad forever and had to look at the future ahead of you instead of dwelling in the past. No amount of songs, dreams, fantasies, voicemail replays, nostalgia talks with Angela and Chanyeol about him, and re-wearing the sweater he had left in your room after a theater rehearsal could ever bring him back. 

For three years, you held each other’s hands and guided each other through this world in unusual ways and that bond was abruptly broken by his sudden departure. However, you still held it out in hopes that you would reunite with him in the future and now that was no more. You remembered that you had to help your mother cook beef Stroganoff and got off the bench. For one last time, you took a glance at it before the new people were to move into the house and it would be gone forever. 

“Bye,” you whispered, then walked back out into the strange world you were living in, seeking for a new hand to hold and cherish forever.

The End