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09 April 2008 @ 08:58 pm
Me Down to a Tee  
Title: Me Down to a Tee
Pairing: Count Olaf x Beatrice (Baudelaire mother)
Fandom: A Series of Unfortunate Events
Genre: Romance, General
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 443

Me Down to a Tee
 
There is a chord rising in his voice, strident and unclear, and not him at all. At all.
 
Beatrice is amused, thinking of him now, and how he could compensate for all the lackings that she was. Embodied, like gauze over a mummy, he could shield her too. Away from the world, from VFD, from "we". And here, Beatrice is still thinking this, patting her swollen womb and belly. And dreaming of wild strawberries tasting like gritty sand.
 
"I know you," so he says.

"Yes, I know me too." And Beatrice smiles back. This is a clever repartee, that she will admit. He is clever, like her too, like him too.
 
"No, I know you. Does he know you?"
 
"Does who know who? Who is who, and who are you?"
 
At this, his face falls down flat, and he is laughing with her too. But it is more like a wheeze, dry, raspy, the barren swirls of dunes and long-past memories. That she had buried years ago, way back in the desert—dying an arid death, that was her.
 
Over again.
 
Now, he is reaching over to touch her stomach, the protruding hill, round and full. Waiting to burst and out springs life (how she wished that it would die, inside her: now and leave—
 
So Beatrice is spared, and the world remains all just an act).
 
"I am an act, and so are you," she says.
And he frowns. No, that's not so, he thinks. And does not ever say. Because that would be heretical, hysterical, and against doctrine, he's got no ammunitions hidden. "Whom do you love? Me or he? Or you and I? Or he and you?"
 
Like a wave that does not fade, and island drifts resounding back, his question hovers in as an ill-veiled curse. "He and you. Both you and he, and me. Me, you have. Down to a T."
 
"Yes, down to a tee."
 
And there is a lethal silence, just for a moment, just enough for Beatrice to realize: She's got nothing on. And she is challenging him with herself.
 
"You know, I've never liked your puns or adages. They annoy me, to be frank."
 
Frank (which here means) that man from the distance, watching and giggling. And thinking he knows about trysts and idles and riddles and twiddles—
 
Sitting there, twiddling his thumb.
 
"And I've never liked your acting."
 
"And I've never liked this dress on you."
 
"What dress?" she asks, really, honestly puzzled. Because this was new, this crux.
 
He smiles, plain and easily (the opposite of what her husband presents). "Exactly."
 
And down, down his throat the rest of her is gorged.
 
 
 
 
Charlie Stonecharlottestone on May 10th, 2008 10:16 pm (UTC)
Very entertaining although, like always, I find myself wanting to hit Olaf.