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morningstargirl666 · 2 months

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WIP WEDNESDAY

So, this is part of some flashbacks of the new chapter 10 of tbbw, first draft but still...I may have dumped the angst glitter on the Mikaelsons. Particularly Elijah. Oops.

[shrugs in a what-can-you-do gesture]

However, the reason this flashback has been added in the edits is because it also helps set up next plot arc I'm going to be writing from chapter 36 onwards. So like, take from that what you will - you guys know I love a good teaser.

Pisa, Marquisate of Tuscany, Italia. Le Estate, 1114 A.D.

“KOL!” Elijah yelled, struggling to rip the sharp, broken chair leg from his brother’s grip, yanking it away only to face another battle - stopping Klaus from grabbing anything else. “HELP ME HOLD HIM!”

“Elijah, please, don’t let them do this to me-” Klaus begged, eyes wild and unseeing, lost to yet another hallucination.

“KOL!” Elijah screamed again, just as their brother appeared around the corner, cursing upon seeing the scene, Klaus’ chambers in disarray, tables and chairs toppled where he had tried to fashion the wood into stakes. Elijah wrapped his arms firmly around Klauss chest, holding him back and leaning forward to hiss in his ear. “Niklaus, we’re only trying to help, you are hurting yourself-”

Kol rushed to Elijah’s side, leaping over the toppled chairs to grab Klaus as he thrashed in Elijah’s arms.

“Please, I can’t! Don’t let her take him from me-”

Kol glanced between his brother and Elijah, grimacing as Klaus tried to slip out of his grip, nearly succeeding - he had always been stronger than his siblings. “What is he talking about?”

Elijah shook his head. “I don’t know, he’s not lucid-” He swallowed, trying to catch Klaus’ eye. “Brother, please, we don’t mean to harm you-”

“NO!” Klaus roared, lashing out and throwing his elbow back, right into Kol’s face, smashing his brother’s nose on impact. In the next moment, he’d pushed Kol with so much force his brother was thrown across the room, slamming into shelves and cracking the wall. Kol fell to the floor, blood dripping from his brow. Eyes wide, Elijah’s grip slipped and his brother nearly managed to flash away but he caught his jacket at the last second, snagging the fabric and hauling Klaus by the neck into the wall behind them.

“NIKLAUS!” he bellowed, pinning him across the stone and shaking him for good measure. “That is enough,” he snarled.

Klaus shrank away, terrified, frantically shaking his head, so terribly unlike him that it made Elijah pause. For the first time, he noticed the tear tracks on his brother’s cheeks.

“I can’t lose him, please, don’t let her take the wolf away-” he begged, but he wasn’t looking at Elijah, but to the side, talking to whatever hallucination standing there. “Please, ‘lijah, don’t let them do this to me-”

Elijah’s grip slackened, his anger exhaling from his body in a single flood of horror. He remembered the night Klaus was currently reliving, remembered the heat of mother’s fires, the roar of Mikael’s orders. His hands pinning Klaus down, enclosing his wrists in tight shackles, and eventually, Elijah doing the same.

Now, Elijah looked down at his hands, clenched around his brother’s shoulders, holding him down and suddenly felt sick, releasing his brother as if burned.

“Brother, I-”

Klaus didn’t give him the chance to work through the ball of emotion in his throat, releasing a yell of fury, grabbing Elijah and flashing them both across the room, slamming him into the opposite wall. Elijah gasped, looking down where Klaus’ hand had impaled his chest, fingers grasped around his heart.

“You took everything from me,” his brother snarled, eyes bleeding red, seeing not his brother, but another enemy entirely. Even so, it felt like he was saying the words to Elijah all the same. His grip tightened, fingers squeezing around Elijah’s heart and in that moment, he didn’t doubt Klaus would tear it from his chest.

Suddenly, hands grasped the side of Klaus’ head and his neck snapped to the side, body falling to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Kol stood behind him, his chest heaving with adrenaline, nose bloody as he stared down at her brother’s unconscious body in shock and horror. Elijah slumped against the wall, a hand over his chest where the wound was already beginning to heal, sliding to the floor.

Neither of them moved for a long while. ______________________________________________________________

Elijah bolted the door to the cell shut, glancing through the barred window of the door to Klaus inside, their brother laid out on the cold, straw-lined floor where they had left him. There was no furniture for him to break and use as stakes, no windows and curtains to open and let in sunlight, the daylight ring on his brother’s finger noticeably absent. Elijah didn’t know where he had discarded it this time. He’d have to search through the wreckage in the room to find it.

“Make sure the door remains locked,” he said to Kol, turning to leave the dungeon, a numbness settling into his bones that felt suffocating. “When he wakes, he may try to escape.”

“If that’s what you think is best,” Kol said as he passed him, lips curled in a bitter snarl.

Elijah stopped in the middle of the cells, his entire body freezing as Kol’s words cut into his skin. He hadn’t known how much Kol had overheard upstairs - they had carried Klaus down here in silence, neither of them knowing how to break it. But now, now he knew.

Skin itching with Kol’s judgement, slowly he turned around, teeth gritted as he looked at his brother, daring him with his glare to speak up. “Do you have something to say to me, Kol?”

Kol looked away from him, fists clenched as he stared instead at the wooden cell door currently locking their brother away.

“Do you know why Finn had to snap my neck to stop me from going after you and Nik that night?” he asked eventually, taking Elijah off-guard. When his gaze met his brother’s, there was agony there that was not unlike Klaus’ own. “Because I understood even then what you were going to help them take from him. Maybe not fully, but I understood enough.”

Elijah swallowed around the ball in his throat, trying not to remember Kol’s wails of grief the night they were turned, and later, Klaus’ screams as his wolf was ripped away. “Losing your magic was not same as what happened to Niklaus-”

“How would you know, Elijah? You were never a witch. And last time I checked,” Kol spat in his face, shoving past him, “You were never one of the wolf-folk either.”

On his way out, Kol slammed the door to the dungeons behind him. Elijah couldn’t stop his flinch.

#the big bad wolf #tbbw #klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #fanfiction #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #kol mikaelson #by golly does this family have a lot of issues #sigh #also like the flashbacks aren't ALL angsty there's going to be some wholesome family moments in there too #also also #can i just say how interesting it is to explore the siblings at different stages of their lives?#like they're almost different people but not #like this is when kol and klaus were probably still quite close #before klaus daggered him so many times all that's left is resentment and fear #and the way the brothers will just LOOSE it when it comes down to protecting each other...#the family feels are strong with this one

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miasmultifandomdump · 7 months

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We could have had it all huh 😭

#the way they look at each other #they are everything to me #niklaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #cami o'connell #camille o'connell #klaus x cami #klamille #the originals #all queued up with nowhere to go

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averseunhinged · 2 months

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wip wednesday! i am returned from the pits of lung ick and doom.

this is for @purplesigebert and @trueromantic1, but idk if this is remotely what you had in mind. it veered off to angstville a teensy bit along the way. it's also klaus/caroline/stefan in its soul, but stefan's hella dead. so.

it's sort of a sanctuary/the librarians/warehouse 13 theme fusion in which caroline is a research librarian in a sentient, extradimensional library. no magic babies. klaus still went to new orleans and got all grabby hands over it. the entire cast of tvd, minus caroline, died at the end of season 5 when the other side collapsed and took mystic falls with it.

He was silent on the stairs as they descended and remained that way as she lead him through the rabbit's warren of echoing hallways lined with closed, barred doors, part of the Library's natural defense system.

At the first checkpoint, she finally broke. “What do you want, Klaus? You did not donate enough to get an all-access pass just for a tour of the Bodleian from me. You don't need a tour of the Bodleian. You probably helped build the Bodleian.”

“I like the hair," he ignored her question. "The glasses. Very clever. Makes you look older. Authoritative.”

“And don't start with the flirting." She pulled her flexible ID chip in its retractable holder with more snap than necessary and held it out to the reader. A row of tiny lights turned green and the door unlocked with a muffled click. She opened the door and felt the distant brush of the Library greeting her, soothing despite its natural inclination to grumpiness and her own Original-induced temper. "I haven't just made myself look older. I'm seventy-four. I have more degrees than anyone can fit at the end of my name and a gaggle of grad students waiting for me. I have a warlock's extensive estate scheduled to begin arriving from Cumbria this afternoon," she opened the door, ushering Klaus through, "in distressingly soggy condition, because he was well over two hundred years old and absentminded about preservation."

He trailed after her at an easier pace than her own, forcing her to slow down if she didn't want to leave him behind. “That sounds like an interesting challenge.”

“Are you making small talk? What the hell, Klaus.”

"I—" he tilted his head toward her, as though to hear her better, but his arms were perfectly still at his sides, hands wooden, “—yes. I am attempting to draw you into conversation about your work."

Caroline once had to remove a dead witch from the Bodleian proper during Trinity reading week in nearly an hour of awkwardly harrowing Weekend at Bernie's reenactment. At one point, she'd had to hurl the body behind a display case to help a first year in crisis over a missing source article that had, nevertheless, been referenced in four subsequent sources. She'd still never been so relieved to see the last checkpoint before the entrance to the Library as she was with Klaus at her side.

She placed her hand in the center of the door's intricately carved medallion and waited for it to acknowledge her. The Library skimmed over Caroline's being, lazy from decades of connection and more than comfortable with her presence. It was less gentle with Klaus, if his sudden, pained breath was any indication, but the door warmed under her touch, a golden glow spreading molten into the runic array, seeping out to the edges until the door shimmered away to nothing, leaving the entrance of a circular, brass cage.

"Interesting," he murmured, discomfort brushed aside by fascination. She'd always enjoyed that about him. It had never been the promises and the gifts and the flattery that made her wish he hadn't been otherwise impossible. His curiosity, the variety of interests and depth of knowledge, had been like no-one she'd ever known. She remembered every conversation she'd ever had with him, a claim that couldn't be shared with anyone else she'd known briefly nearly a century prior.

She stepped into the cage and beckoned him with a hand to her left side. "Coming?"

"What is this, exactly?" he questioned, even though he did as she'd indicated.

"A lift," she answered and swung the curved gate around, completing the circle, "of sorts. Or so we refer to it. It's really a gateway, but people get a little nervous when you start talking about dimensional travel."

Any further questioning was cut off when the brass cage sparked with the same light as the door had, spreading until its occupants were engulfed. Caroline breathed through the lurching tremble of distortion and the squeezing yank in every direction, the terrifying weightlessness of momentarily ceasing to exist in time or space.

When reality reasserted itself, Klaus was crouched, one hand on the ground, gasping. Caroline stood primly, hands clasped in front of her.

"Welcome to the Library," she stated, impassive as any bored tour guide. "The Bodleian entrance was created during World War II, the result of a casual agreement between adversaries to avoid destroying key universities."

Klaus gritted out her name as he stood, unsteady and even paler than typical, veins darkening around his eyes.

Caroline ignored him, staring straight ahead. "I've learned things, gone places, met people even your millennium couldn't have shown you." She unfolded her hand to gesture around in a smooth, practiced motion to the rotunda's warm brass and red-toned wood structure, its mercurial filigree detailing and shifting aurora of the dome above. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm still that little girl you tried to tempt away into the woods."

That barb was one that clawed into him. "It was not like that." He looked away from her, eyes darting around the room without truly seeing, in an attempt to control his temper. "Don't make it sound so tawdry." Caroline slowly turned her entire body to stare at him, unimpressed. He shut his eyes for a moment, longer than a blink, but not long enough to give the impression that she wasn't his entire focus. He made a small, beseeching move towards her, and his eyes were as intense as they'd always been, begging some question she’d never known the answer to. "That afternoon was the happiest I can remember being."

When she laughed, it was an ugly sound. "Good for you. If you'll follow me, I'm afraid you'll have to endure a morning of dull administrative tasks. You are, of course, welcome to leave at any time."

“I'm sorry, Caroline!” he called out after her. He sounded strained and desperate. She halted, lungs seizing and abdomen clenching. “I'm sorry they died.”

Every day. She missed them every day. She missed Bonnie's tenacity. Her quiet grace. Elena's wild, foolish bravery and deep well of compassion. She missed Matt's honesty. His so human morality. Enzo and his halfway-to-crazy attempts to help her grow up, whose death broke her heart far more than she would have expected. She missed her mom's steady practicality. Those moments of kindness bridging the gap between them that never quite went away. Her father, Tyler. They hadn't been very good at loving her in the end, but they had loved her. That’s what she remembered.

She even missed Damon. Sometimes. A little bit. Maybe.

“I'm sorry Stefan died,” he continued, and that one hurt.

Stefan. Stefan. Stefan of the gentle touches and soft, encouraging words. The late-night-early-morning whispers to each other in her bed, forehead to forehead, cuddled up as close as two people could be. Who preferred being the little spoon and understood how afraid she was to love him, because he was just as afraid to love her back. After all, they knew the people they loved would always, always leave them.

Her best friend. Her almost lover. She took care of him, even when he thought she shouldn't. He protected her, even when it was from himself.

Last one standing was a dog shit bonfire of a title to hold.

And he was sorry.

“Don't talk about Stefan.” She walked away from him. Her heels sounded like bullets as they struck the floor. “You don't have the right.”

#klaroline wip wed #klefaroline #technically #sort of #i know where this is going #but the plot is still shall we say inexact #there will be some kind of dangerous retrieval hijinks #with klaus insisting on coming along for the ride #and they will Work Things Out along the way #as you do

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luluwquidprocrow · 6 months

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like a row of captured ghosts

kit snicket

teen

2,568 words

Kit Snicket visits a house in the city.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 2, the baudelaire mansion! featuring my enduring headcanon that the baudelaire mansion was previously the snicket mansion, and b+b get it when they marry lemony. i am 100% willing to admit it is Unlikely, however let us not forget kit saying “our families have always been close”, so, yknow

title from welcome home by radical face

Kit could get in if she wanted. She’d been given lockpicks expressly for the purpose, because the locks on the house were special, but she didn’t need them. She knew the statue in the back of the garden had a hairline crack in one of the hands – she didn’t remember which one, but it wasn’t as if there were many options – that, when pressure was applied, opened a brick in the patio. Under the brick was a lever. If one were to pull the lever, the little window in the hidden attic opened, roof shingles shifting out of the way, and one could wiggle themselves in, with enough effort. Her grandfather had put a number of clever little secrets in the house, and Kit had gone looking for them when she was very, very young, so she knew a decent amount of them. Few others did.

(The lockpicks confirmed that. If they thought that was the only way someone could get into the house, Kit was not going to correct them. And there were worse things, weren’t there, than simple theft, things for which no real defense existed.)

Night air bit at her ankles, her fingers, her neck. She wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for November, having grabbed her blue spring jacket in her hurry, but the cold was of little concern to her. The mansion stood across the street, set back from the road, with that winding brick path up to the front doors, the maple trees scattering their leaves around the yard. It was in the heart of the city but in a place one would never know unless explicitly looked for – a turn off an erroneously marked dead end, then another, to an old avenue along a river with more trees than houses. Her grandparents had picked it on purpose. Presumably safe, but close enough.

They had added to the windows. Neat, decorative ironwork, curled into hearts and vines.

Kit put her hands in her pockets and crossed the street, her footsteps the only noise.

The fence out front had been replaced as well. Kit’s grandmother had done most of the architecture, and Bernadette Snicket had favored a simplistic, practical style in her work, but the new fence matched the intricacy of the window grates. That just-too-big space in the bars a person could slide themselves through if they desired, that Kit had, years ago, when she’d – that was gone. Kit walked the length of the fence twice, considering. She couldn’t linger long. There was a light on in a downstairs window, glowing soft behind the drawn curtains. Kit could not put it past them to eventually see her. She walked down the sidewalk one more time, picking up her pace. There was no way around the fence. Climbing over it didn’t seem like an option. The points at the top of each iron bar looked sharp, glinting in a stray hit of light from the streetlamp over near Kit’s car.

(Kit wondered how much was a choice – how much was a needed decision – how much was meant to erase. She couldn’t judge Beatrice and Bertrand for that. Not without damning herself, which Kit was not, overall, in the habit of doing.)

Of course there was a sewer grate nearby, and of course Kit pushed it up soundlessly and slipped down inside.

Her grandfather had three boxes – one Kit had already taken some years ago and given to Bertrand, for reasons better left unsaid. One had been given to Lemony. The third was still in the house and held a very specific map of the city. Headquarters wanted it, among other things. And if Kit came across one of those other things, she was at her liberty to take them.

(She and Beatrice had argued, Kit remembered. The sewer was dark and icy, and Kit shivered hard, grinding her teeth together. They’d argued about those other things, and Kit had not been able to give Beatrice, or herself, a satisfactory answer. It was one of the last conversations they had, if not the last. Most likely the last, if Kit was honest. Beatrice had made it clear where she and Bertrand stood, and where Kit stood, and that it was no longer in the same place. And it never would be.

Kit told herself over and over that she would never do it. There would always be another option, as long as Beatrice and Bertrand were alive to emphatically refuse. Right now, there was this option – Kit was going into the house. She was taking the box back. Nothing else. And the box wasn’t even going to headquarters. There were other plans for that box.)

The box would be in the downstairs office, under a floorboard. Probably Bertrand’s office. The windows were one of the ones her grandmother had put the stained glass in, and shards of blue fell over the green floor when the sun sat just right in the sky. It was a good room for thinking, and Bertrand likely did a great deal of it there. Kit swallowed and hurried further through the sewers, past the names that didn’t matter, and started scanning the curved ceiling. If one knew where to look, there was a sloped hatch up there that led up into the passage between the house and 667 Dark Avenue. Kit would open the hatch, get inside, go into the house, and then leave the same way. And there it was. Tucked in a shadow, just waiting for her. Kit reached up for the wheel, ready to heave the door open. It was going to stick with so little use.

The wheel turned easy under her hands.

Kit jerked back, her whole body seizing up. Someone had been here. Someone who was not her. Someone who wasn’t just checking. Kit spun the wheel frantically and the hatch fell open.

(She’d brought Olaf here. Her grandparents hadn’t cared who knew the location of their house, but their generation had been different, and Kit’s parents had stressed, when they could, the importance of keeping this secret. Her associates thought it was a safehouse, one they could never quite find the location of, and wrote off as another ruse. She’d driven Olaf, pointing out landmarks the whole way, because she’d thought –

Kit was not foolish enough to think she’d get married. But Olaf was important to her, and she was foolish enough to think he’d stay important, and that when Lemony inevitably married Beatrice and they took the house, Olaf would be there too.

They crept in through the fence. Olaf chased her around the maple trees. Kit took him into the house through the font doors and showed him what her grandparents built. And he understood what the Snicket mansion meant, in the way he had to understand what the Count’s mansion meant. Some time later, Kit realized he had not.

Olaf’s memory was shit, except where it mattered. Except in the things she wanted him to forget. He’d remember where this house was and it was only a matter of time before he – before anyone – got their hands on the Baudelaires.)

Kit hoisted herself up into the passageway. She tugged the hatch closed behind her, then felt around in the black for the dip in the center. Her fingers kept slipping, shaking, pushing into metal that wasn’t right, nicking her nails, her heart thudding faster and faster in her chest and rising to a crash in her ears – where was it? There. She found the button and jammed her thumb into it. The metal hissed as it sealed from the inside. It wasn’t enough, Kit knew. Nothing would ever be enough now. But it would have to do.

She ran along the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall. It came to an abrupt end, and Kit had her hand ready to pull open the trap door into the office when her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and then did it again. Once more. She let the trap door fall open and climbed into the Baudelaire mansion.

The office was dark, as expected. Bertrand kept his desk by the windows, because of course he would. Not because Kit’s grandfather had, but because Bertrand would obviously like the view. The bookcases still lined the walls, but the books must surely be different. Kit wondered what he kept there, but there was no time to get into it. She could see the strip of light hovering under the door. It was poetry, probably. He probably kept poetry. Fairy tales he read to his children. The chair at his desk was different than the one her grandfather had there, perfect for sitting in and telling stories. She turned and faced the wall.

The floorboard was in the far left corner, at the front of the room. Kit moved slowly, quietly, barely breathing. Bertrand had covered the whole floor with a thick, heavy carpet, so at least that was in her favor. She bent down, tugging the corner of the carpet up, and lifted the single loose floorboard.

(She always wound up doing this, she thought, in a voice that sounded stunningly like Lemony’s, wry as he ever was. Sneaking into someplace to steal something important. At least now she had experience.)

There it was. Just as it had always been, another secret waiting for its time. The small, jeweled box with the complicated lock with the code her grandfather had taught all three of them. Kit tucked it inside her jacket and replaced the floorboard.

It hit her like a shot, her breath catching in her throat. The sewer hatch locked only from the inside. She couldn’t go back that way. She whirled around, clutching the lump in her jacket to her chest. The best way to leave – the closest way out – that was through the library, two rooms down, through the passageway in the wall and up to the hidden attic. But that meant leaving the room. Standing in the hallway. Walking to the library, unseen.

(She did not have experience. That voice sounded like Jacques, if Jacques had ever been so straightforward in his disappointment. She had to get out of this house before she kept thinking.)

Kit waited. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything from here in the office. She went through the map of the ground floor in her head, the foyer at the front, into the parlor, the living room to the left, the kitchen to the back, the dining room to the right – the hallway behind the kitchen, with the office, the billiard room, the library. The left wall in the library, where the hidden door was. Conceivably, it was easy. Wasn’t it?

She turned the door handle and left the office.

The hallway was half-lit from the living room at the end of the hall. Now she could hear the phonograph, playing a jazz record she didn’t recognize. Beatrice and Bertrand had to be in there, and it was right across from the library. Unless they were in the library. Unless they were – Kit gave herself a shake. She wouldn’t know anything until she moved. She just had to move. She just had to move. Kit just had to move.

She couldn’t see the green floors. Beatrice and Bertrand had rugs everywhere, in elegant red and ivory. Kit tiptoed over it, hesitating. Paintings hung in groups down the hallway, flowers and little portraits and framed children’s drawings, scribbles of the garden hung with the same care as the art. They must be Violet’s. The jazz record kept going. Kit’s grandmother had liked oil paintings of flowers. She’d had a few in the hallway herself in her time.

(Katherine, Bernadette Snicket had said.

No, Kit insisted. How old was she then? Four? Just Kit. And her grandmother had looked pleased, like Kit had passed a test. Everything was a test and always had been, tests she’d completed perfectly, and why did it hurt? How far had Kit gone down the hall? The box sat against her ribs like another heart, heavy. Everything ached, especially her jaw, clenched shut like her life depended on it. And it did. This life around her she wasn’t a part of anymore, this family, this safety, Kit’s life existing outside of this place, everything depended on Kit, on her walking out of here alone, back to her apartment. The whole series of events spooled out in front of her as a nightmare unraveling. Was she crying? Why was she crying?)

Kit took another step, then another. The library was one foot away on the right, a mile away, mere inches, an eternity. The passthrough to the living room on her left gaped open.

Bertrand hummed a bar of the jazz record. And then –

“What’ve you got there?”

Kit froze.

“I knew I left it somewhere in here – ha! That book I was looking for, for Violet and Klaus.”

“You really want to do the cob, don’t you?” The smile was clear in his voice, and Kit pictured Bertrand leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his chin, gazing at Beatrice and bursting with delight.

“I absolutely do! I get to do a fake death scene and everything. How many kids books are going to give me that kind of opportunity, Bertrand?”

They were alone. Their voices were far enough into the room that they shouldn’t see her at the doorway. They joked like she remembered, exactly like she remembered. Did they joke like that with their children? Would they have joked like that with Lemony, here, like they used to? With her? Would Olaf have – would her grandparents – wasn’t Kit supposed to be here too, not because it was hers, that wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was –

Kit held her breath and didn’t let it out until she’d slipped into the library, until she’d rushed to the wall, until she’d nearly slammed her hand into the door hidden in the dark wallpaper, until she was safe in the narrow passageway. She wanted to run, to keep running. But they’d hear her in the wall. She took it step by step with her chest burning, traveling up two floors to the hidden attic. There was the little window in the roof, waiting for Kit to wiggle her way out. She did. The climb over the roof and down the trellis was harder, with her whole body trembling, but she made it.

She stumbled through the garden, racing over the brick path back to the road, to the fence – she shoved her heels into the ironwork, scrambling over it, the tip of a bar slicing into her calf and her palms. She slipped on the way down the other side and her hip met the sidewalk, pain skittering through her leg and up her side. Get up. Get up, Kit. And Kit did, back to her car across the street, into the driver’s side.

Kit took long and deep breaths. In and out, until her head was back on straight, with the plan set right in her thoughts, as it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. She set the box down gently on the passenger seat. She did not look at the Baudelaire mansion. She would patch herself up later, when she had time. She took another breath and put the key in the ignition.

She had to go back home.

#asoue #woevember #no you do NOT see my unformated dashes shhhhhhhh i am so tired okay :) i'm not fixing them i'm going to bed :)#uh. this fic is a Time. in many ways. like.................#kit snicket and the terrible horrible no good very bad evening of Situations. by lulu vandelay #where is this in canon????? uhhh. tentatively violet and klaus are like toddlers i think. yeah?#i struggled with the title. frantically scrambled for a new one bc my original one. look i thought it was tonally too creepy. i think that #was what was freaking me out about it.#AT. 1:56 IN THE GODDAMN MORNING #the next day 2:23 pm update -- changed some words/smoothed some things/left a lot of the passive voice bc i think it's needed here

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