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countessviolet · 8 months ago

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Is the better me still around?

A03

Wild Embers: Is the Better Me Still Around?

The Baulderlaire siblings stay on the run from Count Olaf and become dubious criminals to survive. While pilfering gas and supplies, Violet has a run-in with Count Olaf at the Last Chance.

Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another

-Lemony Snicket

Violet Bauldelaire sighed as she continued to drive down what had to be an endless road to nowhere. They—meaning she, her brother Klaus and sister Sunny—had been driving for the better part of the day and it was well past midnight. There had been nothing but endless, dry fields surrounding them, and the light blue Volkswagen Beetle in their possession stuck out terribly. Violet was still surprised Count Olaf hadn’t tracked them down yet.

The eldest Bauldelaire glanced down worriedly at their pilfered car’s low fuel gage—pilfered being a word that simply means stolen.

Yes, the Bauldelaires—raised by parents who practically glowed with goodness and nobility—were stealing cars and other necessary supplies they needed. After Aunt Josephine’s death and after facing the weight of the various petty crimes they committed in order to protect her and themselves from Count Olaf, the Baudelaire’s quickly learn they could survive alone, but they would have to get ... tricky. Thus a few weeks ago, when that truck dropped them just outside a seemingly abandoned lumber mill with a definitely abandoned barn holding the broken down car they were in now, vehicular theft became the Baudelaire’s first official crime with many to follow. It wasn’t a lifestyle they were proud of, but what else could they do? Count Olaf was not going to stop and no one was helping them.

Violet glanced in the rearview mirror, the sight of Klaus and Sunny sleeping in the back seat eased some of the tension in her chest. They were together and safe. They ate every night, had warm, fitting clothes as needed and had their pick of any view they wanted for bedtime. No matter what happened next, that was all that mattered. She would follow through on her promise to her parents to protect her siblings. If that meant the IOU list Klaus started filled up ten notebooks, so be it.

She returned her attention to the gas gage and pondered quickly what to do. They had a small can of gas in the back but that would get them another 30 miles at best, but if they didn’t find a gas pump after that ...

Like a beacon, a faint glow began to come into view. It was a streetlight, Violet realized quickly. Where there were streetlights, there was houses, towns. Gas stations.

Luck would have it, the streetlight indeed belonged to a gas station. Well, a general store with gas pumps. Last Chance, it was called. Violet hoped it was closed. She could rig the pump and fill the car up—another sin for the IOU book. It certainly looked like it should be closed. Or, more appropriately, condemned. Even in the dark Violet could see how the building was leaning to the side, one bad windstorm from total collapse.

She pulled up to the empty pumps, her hopes dashing instantly when she saw eerie fluorescent lights accenting the convenient store. She heard Klaus stir behind her and met his sleepy gaze in the rearview mirror as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Gas,” she said simply, smiling bravely as she always did when they did something against their morals. Well, Klaus’ morals. Violet was learning to silence the voices of doubt and ridicule, and Sunny was becoming a sharp pickpocket. Being a toddler really had its advantages when it came to taking things off the bottom shelf. Klaus nodded, moving Sunny to lie on the backseat. “Want me to go in?”

Violet glanced around. There was only one other car, which she assumed belonged to whoever was monitoring the store. “No, I’m okay, just watch the pump and the door.”

Klaus nodded, stretching as he too stepped out of the car, glancing back and forth at the heavily shadowed road and general store with gas pumps. Violet knew he was constantly on the defense, same as her, and even if he slept he was never truly rested. She also knew he blamed himself for this plight. He wanted to be the kind of man their father was, one who would always protect them. Count Olaf had severely damaged that confidence throughout this whole ordeal, but Violet was going to make things right. Some way.

“Five minutes,” Klaus reminded her as he looked down at his watch.

Violet nodded as she lifted the pump, handing it off to him. “If anything happens...”

“I won’t leave you,” he said firmly, taking it from her. “But, yeah. Drive fast, drive far. I know”

She nodded again, ignoring the lump in her stomach as she walked away. They all got enough driving practice so that each could drive no matter the circumstances. Sunny by far was the best. It was amazing what their little sister could do with just an umbrella and a phone book.

A bell jingled as she entered, the smell of dried beans and cheese hitting her with a wave of warmth. Violet took the greeting gracefully, quickly identifying what would be easiest to hide on her person and any secondary escapes. She turned to locate the general store clerk, wanting to size him up as a foe or innocent bystander. The Baudelaires agreed when they became dubious criminals that they would never take what they didn’t need or take from anyone with less than them, which in hindsight was a rather silly vow to make considering the entirety of their belongings fit in the back seat of a car. Klaus kept more to this vow, but Violet, and occasionally Sunny, bended it just enough to get soft wants, like a teething ring at the superstore or a new bra at that lady’s boutique. Klaus did not need to know about that.

When Violet did turn to the general store clerk’s desk, she wasn’t greeted by them exactly, but rather a large, unfolded newspaper with her and siblings faces on it. MURDERS ON THE LAM – or The Daily Punctilio’s most exhausting blunder yet, as Klaus referred to it. The story accused her and her siblings of killing Count Olaf. While woefully untrue, the story had opened a floodgate of opportunities for the Count and his troupe to move about freely and continue spreading propaganda that pushed her and her family further into his grasp or death, which ever was nearer.

Violet blinked as the clerk began to lower the paper. She searched quickly, finding a floral headscarf and a pair of clear glasses on the counter. She finished putting on the makeshift disguise just as the clerk acknowledged her. She waited, her spine straight. It took everything in her not to bolt out the door right then.

“Little young to be out this late, aren’t you?”

As relief coursed through her, Violet returned his question with the warmest smile she could muster. Constant distrust and fear wore out the face muscles, you know.

“I’m heading home soon, thank you,” she said, picking up a basket to make it at least seem like she was a paying customer.

The man glanced out the window at her car. Klaus had stayed ducked by the pump out of sight.

“Parents with you?”

Violet didn’t mean to stop smiling, she just did.

“Yes. Of course.”

With a nod and a mutter, he returned to the newspaper. Violet wasted no time and sped to the nearest aisle. There were items of all kinds about, most in woven baskets or shoved on shelves. There was no indication of what was where, even though the walls were covered with fading posters that advertised what was sold. Violet quickly pocketed several apricots and other food items, considering pocketing a wad of netting. Maybe she could invent something that would shoot it at Count Olaf.

The bell over the door chimed throughout the store, alerting her that she was no longer alone in this museum of inconvenient and convenient items. She didn’t look up right away, her attention focused on a small rocking horse in the corner. Of course, such a thing was too frivolous and too big for her to even consider taking, but Sunny might like it. Maybe they could come back for it one day, when they had that mansion with a library and a work studio.

When she finally looked up, it was to meet those shining, dark eyes that never left her mind. They were right one her and Violet couldn’t move. He was as still as she was, not greeting her menacingly as he usually would, nor did he make any move to pursue her. Is this how a house mice felt when it was cornered by a cat? She swore then if she lived through this, they would gladly coexist with any pest that made its way to the future Baudelaire home.

But the beast in the figurative scenario never pounced at her. In fact, his attention seemed to be on a row of magazines and newspapers just in front of the exit.

Violet released the air that had been trapped in her lungs, clinging to a shelf as she tried to pull herself together. Okay, Count Olaf hadn’t seen her yet, and he wasn’t actively searching for her so he must not have spotted Klaus and Sunny. Hopefully they were both hunkered down in their little blue bug and would stay there until she could leave.

She hadn’t seen another door, a very serious safety hazard, she thought. She doubted this place was up to code enough to have an emergency fire exit and there didn’t seem to be so much as an air vent she could crawl though. She’d have to walk directly out the door, mere feet from the man who’s touch and gaze filled her with a black feeling she hadn’t placed yet. She’d also have to risk running into his troupe members. Hopefully Sunny and Klaus were staying out of thier sights as well.

Pushing the fake frames higher up her nose. Violet eased around the shelf, her hand grazing over the wooden shelves as she snuck closer and closer to her salvation and doom. She couldn’t see exactly what he was doing or even what he was looking at, but all she cared about was that it wasn’t her and her escape was closer. Her toe just nudged a bucket of umbrellas and sticks, including a simple cane. Violet glanced at the vile count again before picking it up, testing the weight of the untreated wood in her hand before begrudgingly hunching over. Certainly Count Olaf wouldn’t pay any mind to a little old lady. Hopefully the clerk wouldn’t notice either.

She hobbled to the front as believably as she could, keeping her gaze down but still watching Olaf from the corner of her eye. He was rifling through a stack of newspapers, which Violet found amusing and curious considering Olaf’s disdain for reading. The clerk had set down his own paper and now was counting out the day’s earnings from the register, equally distracted.

The knot in Violet’s stomach eased as the exit laid feet from her, unblocked and unmonitored. She dared a final glance at Count Olaf just to reassure herself that she had once more evaded his clutches. She saw that he had settled on a newspaper at last, a slightly more worn version of the one the clerk was reading. Did he plan to frame a copy, she wondered bitterly.

But, as her hand hovered above the doorknob, the bitterness melted into curiosity as she watched his fingers seek along the front page. No, she noticed as her eyes narrowed—over her picture. Her stomach clenched with the realization, and she watched trance-like as his fingers traced over her head, jaw and lips. The sight evoked the phantom feeling of those rough finger pads on her skin. She knew Olaf felt something towards her, but up until now, she hadn’t fathomed it was anything close to genuine affection. To feel affection, one needed to feel empathy and warmth. She was certain Olaf couldn’t feel any of those things. She continued to watch as Olaf, carefully and quietly not to gain the clerk’s attention, tore her picture slowly from the front page. Violet expected him to rip the picture to shreds, maybe burn the pieces for good measure. That seemed more in-character. Instead, he folded the picture neatly and slipped it into his jacket pocket just as easily as Violet had slipped in her own stolen goods.

Obsession. The word rang through Violet’s head, the realization making her feel dizzy. She needed to leave. Now.

“Hey, you paying for any of that?”

Violet’s trance shattered. She looked up and Count Olaf was staring right at her. She opened the front door just enough that the bell chimed lightly. A warm streak of air washed over Violet’s face just before two hands clasped her shoulders.

“Now, sweetie,” he cooed in a sickeningly saccharine town that made Violet’s teeth ache. “I told you, there’s no time to play dress-up.” His grip tightened and he pressed Violet harder against his front. “Let’s step aside and decide what goes with us and what doesn’t.”

Before Violet could move or even think to panic, her arm was in Count Olaf’s grip and she was dragged to a new aisle and shoved against the nearest shelf. Count Olaf leg’s widened to box her in as one of his hands grabbed the collar of her jacket while the other gripped her arm to hoist her to him and back down against the shelf. Boxes of dusty cosmetics and magazines scattered around them as the fake glasses she put on dropped from her face. “Well, well, well,” his voice husked hotly against the bare shell of her ear as he flicked the rag off her head. She tried to ignore the way his fingers caressed down the messy waves about her face. “Look who’s finally paying attention to my acting lessons.”

Violet wrestled with his grip, which Count Olaf retaliated by pressing one of his knees against her thigh, pressing into her like a dull knife. The action made Violet’s entire body sing with heat, like a siren, her venomous song cut short when she collided with the very ship she sought to sink. Count Olaf was a handsy man, but he’d yet to really be physical with her outside of some harsh grabs. His near-intimate grasp sent alarms sounding through her mind as she searched for an escape.

“Don't you dare,” he hissed, the sound so harsh Violet did stop squirming. “I know your brat siblings are nearby and I will direct my troupe to tear them a part if—"

A loud crinkle between them interrupted the villain's rant. He looked down sharply, noticing it was coming from inside Violet’s jacket. He opened the clothing with a single digit, revealing Violet’s pilfered haul of granola bars, wound cream, napkins, and a single bag of chips, all crammed in the secret pockets Violet had sown.

Count Olaf whistled. “Someone really has been paying attention.” He met her eyes and the look on his face was so smug Violet wanted to risk freeing a hand to slap him. “Really Violet," he lectured mockingly. “What would your parents think?”

Violet tensed, just as she did when the clerk asked about her parents. She hated how Count Olaf brought up their loss. What did he gain from being so cruel? She continued to glare at him as he plucked the small, aluminum bag of crisps and shoved it into his pocket. It was going to be a bag of crumbs when he fished it out again.

He pulled back enough to look at her, his spidery hands still boxing her in. “Do I really have that much of an effect on you?”

Violet could feel her cheeks start to flush the more he tormented her. She looked away again, wishing the clerk or even a member of Count Olaf’s troupe would suddenly appear, distract the horrible man enough for her to find an escape. She’d go head-first out a window now if she had to.

Count Olaf lifted her head back and all she could see when their eyes met was black greed shining inside them, endless and ravenous.

“Now, now, sweet orphan,” he spat the final endearment, his grip anything but kind. “I’m flattered. I’ll keep it in mind when I’m deciding what to do with you, after I gain your enormous fortune of course.” He leaned forward until the tip of his long nose touched her cheek. “I believe I could be quite satisfied passing my legacy on to you. I do not want to teach the baby my genius life skills, or gods forbid the boy.”

“I’d never work for or with you.” she spat. Her hands began to carefully slide along the shelf pressing into her back, feeling for anything she could use against him. Her fingertips grazed the edge of something cold and metal, a knife, Violet prayed.

“You’d be so lucky,” he growled, face sliding down her throat as her eyes stayed on his, refusing to back down again. “No, maybe I’ll put you in a cage, one just big enough for you to kneel before me.” Violet had just found was indeed a small parring knife when the count’s thumb reached out to rub along her bottom lip as he had done with the newspaper. “Would you like that, Violet?” he cooed, the way he said her name and the way he caressed her far too intimate for what they were, with how much they hated each other. “Being my caged little pet? I’m sure I could get you sing very nice for me—”

He felt the poke of the knife before he realized who was wielding it. Instinct told him to tense to prevent injury, but he couldn’t help but look down to find Violet of all people pointing an ultimately useless weapon against the opening of his shirt where cloth met skin and hair. Poor girl didn’t know it yet, of course. He didn’t mind playing along. She was learning from him after all.

Meanwhile, he was struck delighted by the sight of a weapon in her hand. Her pale, soft fingers curled around the handle with a firm grip, but her wrist was twisted in a way that he could easily evade. Silly, dear thing. He’d have to correct her eventually.

“The only one who’s going to be put in a cage is you, Olaf, when you finally face justice for all your crimes.” she spat his name, very purposefully leaving off his respectable title. “And I hope it’s smaller than the one you had in mind for me.”

Count Olaf’s eyes widened at her pluck, shining as he barked out a strained laugh. His hand is wrapped around hers at once, the blade smashed between their grips where either of them could access. His grip was stronger, of course, and he instantly gained the upper hand.

"Oh Violet,” Count Olaf cooed, pointing the tip of the blade at her lip and pressing. “You think you to get to walk away after all you’ve been up to recently?” He slowly twirled the tip of the confiscated blade on the curved depression of her bottom lip. He took in the fear and hostility in her forget-me-not blue eyes, noticing that the circles under her eyes were a lighter shade of her namesake. Little brat was tired. Good. She was more malleable that way. Plus, she looked downright pretty with a bit of color on her face. “After all, what kind of girl not only shoplifts but springs out knives on renowed, talented actors?” He kept his eyes locked with hers as he bent her hand hard enough that she had to let go of the knife. He took it from her quickly, waving it in her face with a taunting smirk as he slid it into his jacket pocket. “Naughty girl.”

Violet continued to keep his gaze even as her tongue searches for blood on her lip. There was a faint ringing in her ears and her heart was racing so quickly it hummed between them. It was fear, she told herself; it was just fear. If she made it out of this, she vowed, next time she as getting a taser.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she huffed. He still had a grip on one of her wrists but let the other fall to her side. Embarrassed, she hoped he couldn't feel the racing of her pulse beneath his hand. To her further chagrin, he lifted her wrist up to his mouth, his chapped lips ghosting over the bruised underside of her arm.

“Oh but Violet,” he cooed, the sound of her name on his lips sounding too sultry. Too personal. “I know everything about you.”

Violet’s stomach twisted, the concern she felt now no longer for escape, but for a solid understanding of Count Olaf’s waxing and waning affections towards her. He was a horrid actor, so why could she almost buy there was something there other than her own matched malice? Why did he always need to manipulate and force her into a corner?

“I know you’re not as opposed to walking on the wicked side as much as you say, in fact I think you’re starting to like it very much.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t want to give fuel to his chaotic little flame. Surely he knew they only stole because they had no other choice, right? He’d given them no other choice.

“If fact,” he pushed her back again, his long fingers crawling up her arms to rest on her shoulders, thumbs stretching out to roam uncharacteristically soothingly over her collarbones. “I bet you wouldn’t mind walking a little farther, seeing just how bad you could really be, wouldn’t you?"

She scoffed, trying to block out the heat and weight that came with his presence. He pressed down on her bottom lip, right where he had pressed the knife moments earlier, keeping her attention on him.

But this time, Violet whipped her head away from his grip.

“I’ve ruined myself just fine, thank you,” she laughed, sneering. “There is nothing you can teach me that I need.”

His singular eyebrow rose for a moment before he snarled a heated growl.

“Is that right, miss know-it-all? You think there’s nothing I can teach you?”

Violet knew instantly this was a new trap in his ever-changing game, but she decided to roll her dice anyway. Count Olaf really did bring out the worst in her.

“Yes,” she replied with a click of her tongue, satisfied with the way his curled lip flinched in aggitation. “Now I think—”

And then, quick as the collapse of a building at a demolition site, Count Olaf’s mouth was over hers. Violet didn’t immediately realize what was happening. Of all the invasive attacks she expected – hands, knives, even fire – his lips were not the weapon of choice she thought he would use. But he might as well have used a gun with the explosion that ran through her lips and out the back of her skull, spreading and dividing into countless minuscules of light. Violet allowed her eyes to fall shut, the darkness allowing her mind to catch up to her body’s reaction.

It was fear, she reminded herself. It was one of his mind games, she added. It was...a different sort of manipulation.

He pulled back, slowly enough that Violet could feel every atom that had collided when their lips met break a part. The divide caused a buzzing sensation to run up her brain, then back down to her spine and finally into the tips of her fingertips. She could only stare at him, shocked, the taste of whatever alcohol he was drinking lingering in her mouth.

“Think. Again.” he unnunciated each word with a click of his tongue, the gloating prick.

He took her life, whatever safety and repour she had, and now he just –

“You bastard.” Violet growl, the look of distracted surprise on Count Olaf giving her the in to hit him in the thigh with her knee as hard as she could. The count bellowed in pain—the sound really was theatrical—and hit the floor. Violet made a mad dash for the door, narrowly escaping Count Olaf’s desperate grasp as the gloss surfaces of several knocked over magazines faltered his pursuit.

“What are you two—"

Violet pushed the store clerk aside as well, barely concerned when he hit the counter and then the ground. She yanked the door open, leaping over the steps to hitthe ground, the force of her landing sending painful jolts up her bones. She grit through the pain, thinking only of escape, and narrowly runs head-first into the Hook-Handed Man’s chest.

“Whoa!” he shouted, making a vain attempt to steady her with his hooks. “Are you okay—wait...Violet?”

She shoved him too, hard, and bolted so fast chunks of rocks bit into her legs and ankles. She ran into the darkness were the pumps had been, desperately searching for the blue Volkswagen Beetle. It was cramped, and Violet had spent all night under the hood fixing it up and the back seat had been so gross they had to simply throw it out and scrub the floorboards until their hands were raw...but it was theirs. It was their escape from Count Olaf and a world that refused to protect them. It was where they slept, planned, dreamed and where Klaus was teaching Sunny to read. It was home, and the fact it wasn’t at the pump with her brother and sister instantly broke something in Violet.

She told him to run. She needed them to run. But Klaus said...

They left me.

Footsteps were thundering towards her, barely audible over the hammering of her own heart.

They left me.

Count Olaf won after all. Would he kill her for what she just did? Punish her?

They left me. They left me. They left me. They left—

“Violet!”

The terrified girl’s eyes shot up to meet a pair of headlights, two beacons of hope that grounded her back to rationality, to everything she was trying to protect.

Klaus whipped the car from the road in a heartbeat, skidding to a stop that cut off Count Olaf’s bald associate from grabbing Violet. Sunny stuck her head out the window and nailed the large man’s hand with her two sharp front teeth and he back off instanty as Violet used the distraction to jump in the front seat and slam on gas. Klaus flew across the seat, his glasses tilting when Violet made a full violent circle and sped for the road. The headlights were on full-blast as well and they could see Count Olaf’s troupe members scatter about before the could get hit. All except Count Olaf, who stepped directly in their path, glarring solidly at the fast-approaching vehicle.

“Olaf.” Klaus said and he put on his seatbelt, gulping at the violent picture the count made in the increasingly brighter headlights.

“I see him.” Violet murmured, pressing harder on the gas.

Klaus tensed, gripping the bar above him with one hand and reaching behind him to steady Sunny with the other. Olaf was not moving and Violet was getting closer.

“Olaf!” he said louder, heart and mind freezing. “He’s right there! Violet!”

Despite the accelerated speed Violet was driving, she could see Count Olaf so clearly. The hate glowed off him more fiercely than the headlights. He wanted her to hit him so he could dive head-first into that windshield and strangle her before she crashed and killed them all. And maybe he would have if the Hook-Handed Man hadn’t tackled him head-on into a dried out patch of grass. Violet hoped he landed on broken glass.

“What was that, Violet!” Klaus shouted, understandably upset. Sunny too was just catching her breath. Thankfully there were no other cars on the road and they managed a quick and speedy getaway, leaving only dust behind them.

Any guilt Violet might have felt about scaring her siblings was swallowed by that dark void that had taken shelter in her lately. The only regret she could muster was that Count Olaf’s blood wasn’t painting her windshield.

She could let it rest for now. She said she’d keep her promise no matter what, and if that meant scaring Count Olaf to the brink of death via vehicular manslaughter so be it.

“That,” Violet answered without thinking. “Was a message.”

The troupe regrouped as Fernald helped Count Olaf lean back on the hood of his car, the members in a state of panic as dirt and blood smeared the windshield, the count severely bruised from Violet’s assault, the assault of the now unconscious/possibly dead general store clerk and then his hooked-handed associate’s life-saving body slam into a shallow ditch. The troupe’s attempt to dust the debris off Count Olaf turned into a swift beating. The count regained enough strength to cough the dust out of his lungs and kick and slap them away.

As the ringing in Count Olaf’s ears began to ease away, the nearly deceased greatest actor of his generation could only feel contented failure for what just transpired. Violet Baudelaire—daughter of goddam Beatrice-i-killed-your-father-and-got-away-with-it-haha-Baudelaire and freaking Bertrand of all people—nearly willingly ran him down in the dead of night in her car. Where did she even get a car? Damn clever thing. Little brat defiantly won this one, and he’d only accept his loss because he’d won as well.

Violet Baudelaire was inching into the dark side, and not only was he her prime witness, he was her inspiration. If he could get his hands on her for five seconds—

“Boss?”

Count Olaf growled as his train of thought was interrupted again, by the same person at that.

“What?” he murmured, his head spinning as he sat upon the car hood, feet just hovering over the ground. Fernald handed him an icepack, pillfered from the general store, and motioned toward the rest of the troupe who were staring in the direction the Baudelaires had fled.

“They have a car now?” one of the twins said.

“Wonder if it gets good millage.” the other said.

“Wonder if their cassette player works.” added the henchperson of indeterminate gender.

Count Olaf wiped a trail of blood and mud from his temple, bringing two fingers to his lips to create a comanding whistle.

“Cops or witnesses are one thier way,” he spoke out. “And now we have to chase down the brats. AGAIN.” He glared down his troupe members who had the decentcy to look ashamed that they allowed the Baudelaires to escape again. He of course was blameless, but they should know better. “Grab what you can from in there and move! We leave in five!”

The rest of the troupe sprung into action while Olaf directed Fernald to fill up car. Olaf slipped into the passenger's seat, rubbing his throbbing temple as the lull of gasoline filling the empty tank eased him into a pensive state. With a glance out the mirror, he slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out the now wrinkled but recognizable newsprint photo of Violet Baudelaire. That girl had become a damn enigma in his mind. She never left his thoughts. It was terribly ironic: the longer he pursued her without capture, the longer she would haunt him. Those wide, blue eyes that grew harder with defiance each time he saw her. Those small, soft hands, more often curled into fists, ready to fight. And those plump, pink lips, always parting to release the rudest of insults.

There were other talents to those lips of hers, he thought gleefully. He had only kissed her to scare her, to show her a glimpse at the funniest way she could be corrupted. She hadn’t fought back, which he hadn’t expected, though her parting words to him demonstrated that she still had some fight in her, maybe a grasp on that damned nobility spark he couldn’t snuff out. Yet.

He knew when he first laid eyes on the girl there was something moldable there. Pretty girl with an unfound dark streak? Oh, how delicious. She was rotting before his very eyes and was trying to hide her decay from him. No, no, no. He earned VIP for her ruin, and that elite status was going to grant him that and more very soon.

He stared at her picture a moment longer, preferring the real thing, but the image helped him continue to reconjure that gorgeous moment he proved miss-know-it-all wrong by showing her fall from grace was only just beginning.

Violet, meanwhile, willed her mind to go anywhere else.

When she focused on the night sky, hoping for solace in the sight of millions of twinkling stars as Klaus continued to fume and Sunny encouraged quiet time, her own reflection eclipsed her view. Well, it looked like her reflection at least. But there was something wrong with her eyes.

Sunny’s small hand tugged on her jacket sleeve, pulling Violet from the void where her morality met eternity.

“Ready?” Sunny babbled. The Baudelaire toddler had made it her sort of vow to never let the family go to bed with unresolved issues. Life was short. There was no room for regrets.

Violet sighed. “I’m sorry I did that, with the car and Olaf,” she said aloud. “I just wanted to scare him...so he’d stop chasing us.” she added the last bit, not thinking about his rough fingers on her lower lip.

“I think it worked.” Klaus deadpanned, a flicker of a grin on his lips when he and Violet glanced at each other. “Could we just not...result to murder yet?” Klaus requested, his eyes shining hopefully. “Theft we can come back from...that...not so much.”

Violet thought, just for a moment, that her scholarly brother could actually be wrong. In that moment, hearing and seeing Count Olaf’s body collapse and break apart under the car she put together with her own hands seemed like something she wouldn't lose a second’s sleep over. She could still feel his hands fluttering about her. She wondered if he was touching that newspaper picture of her now. That damn...

Sunny’s light touch pulled her further away from those thoughts. Count Olaf was a wicked man. They knew that the moment they met him. Could she really hate him for being just that? She thought again how easily he had her pinned against that shelf, how he touched and mocked her with a witness just around the corner. Yeah, she could.

“This life is new for all of us, including me.” Violet said. She gripped the wheel harder, her shame mixing in too well with her confession. “I don’t always know what I’m doing and I don’t really know what might happen if we get caught or...”

Klaus’ hand joined hers and it was the safest Violet felt in days.

“It’s okay, Violet,” Klaus assured. “I don’t always know what to do either.” Violet’s eyes pivoted to him for just a moment. Yes, the boy who read more books in his first 13 years that most would read in a lifetime didn’t have all the answers and didn’t always have a plan. "But when I’m with you both, I always figure something out. It’s not all on you to figure this out.”

Klaus’ words sat heavy on Violet’s chest. How wrong her brother was indeed. He knew, of course, that Count Olaf would gleefully kill him or Sunny, but he didn’t yet know he would make Violet a spectator to their demise and he wouldn’t stop there.

There was something boiling inside her that reminded her he had, during his warped marriage proposal, already vocalized his desire to keep her and dispose of her siblings. While those words were strung along with his blackmail attempt to marry her for her fortune, they embedded a fear inside her she hadn’t fully realized until that night. Count Olaf was a man, and he wanted her.

“I know,” Violet said instead. The unknowns of her and Count Olaf’s encounter would stay in the void with her for now, safe and secret. She looked at her siblings, so young with so much life left. She wouldn’t fail them. She wouldn’t lose to Olaf. "We’re going to get though this. And Sunny, someday I’m getting you that rocking horse.”

“Horse?” Sunny inquired.

Klaus shook his head, equally confused. But Violet was smiling. She looked elated, actually, and both siblings decided the matter could rest for now.

After a while—after Violet’s heart stopped pounding and she was certain they had lost Count Olaf—Klaus tucked a sleeping Sunny into the back seat but returned wordlessly to his older sister’s side. He was quiet for a while, simply staring out the same windshield as her, but the stars from his view were crystal clear. Maybe he wanted to ask about the new bruises on her arms and just how they related to her run-in with Olaf, but Violet wasn’t ready to tell him about staring into the darkness and it staring back.

Instead, he opened the glove compartment and slid their IOU notebook from between the registration and the oddly mislabeled map.

“So,” he sighed, clicking his pen to write out the date. “How much do we owe for ... all that?”

Violet’s lip curled, and maybe it was from Klaus’s sarcasm or the adrenaline at yet another escape from Count Olaf and his theater troupe, but she laughed brightly and reached over to close the journal.

“Trust me, Klaus,” she said. “We earned that trip.”

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #violet baudelaire #count olaf #violaf #asoue fic

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