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acacia-may · 1 year

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Broken Mirror (Woevember 2022: Day 1)

It was a strange feeling: losing everything—like realizing mid-fall that one’s parachute is nothing more than a backpack. Frank had experienced it twice in his life—as bookends to the story of his life as Frank Denouement: VFD agent. And though he had a new life now as Jack Woolton: Hotel Manager, those memories haunted him almost as much as his own face in the mirror.

Description: Between greying hair, painful recollections, and unexpected guests, Frank Denouement is forced to reflect on his life--on the unfortunate events and difficult choices that led him to this place. Sometimes the most difficult thing to face is one's own reflection.

Rating: T (For discussion of death and darker/heavier topics: grief, survivor guilt, childhood trauma, whatever is going on with VFD...)

Warnings: Death, Grief, Survivor Guilt, Childhood Trauma, & VFD (should go without saying). Mentions blood. Eventually will mention Dewey/Kit. Spoilers for ASOUE & The Beatrice Letters.

Fandom: A Series of Unfortunate Events; Snicketverse

Genre: Hurt/Comfort; Angst (but should be a little hopeful in the end)

Major Characters: Frank Denouement & Ernest Denouement & Dewey Denouement.

Other Characters: S. Theodora Markson, Mrs. Quagmire, Kit Snicket, & Beatrice Baudelaire II.

Tags: @asouefanworkevent

Word Count: 5807

Link to AO3.

CHAPTER 1 of 3! Thank you for reading!!

Grey. It really shouldn’t have surprised Frank as much as it did to see the streaks of silver beginning to pepper his otherwise dark hair. Perhaps surprise wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling at all as he stared at his face in the mirror—aged and weary, with hard lines from growing older. Something twisted and ached deep in his chest. There was something all too haunting about mirrors the older he became—seeing in his reflection everything that his brother could have been, should have been. Dewey would never have laughter lines or pick grey hairs off of his head. He would never grow old, and Frank’s own aging face was a constant reminder of that.

He slammed his fist into his reflection, causing the mirror to crack and splinter. He could scarcely stand to look at himself.

Frank winced in pain as a trickle of blood smeared across the broken glass. Per usual, he hadn’t been thinking. Ernest would likely be furious with him for it, but Frank couldn’t help but wonder if he might be a bit more understanding given the situation. Then again, the burn scar across Ernest’s left cheek could have been a small mercy for him in this way. Perhaps it allowed for a blissful ignorance or at least the opportunity for him not to hate his own reflection. Frank sighed and shook his head. This was a cruel line of thinking. Ernest’s burn scar was a burden of its own—a constant reminder of the day they had lost everything.

*-*-*

“Hey, Ernest, that’s your name!” Frank called as he threw the book with Ernest’s name on the cover down from one of the shelves in their family’s library. His brother scowled as it hit him in the head.

“Ow! Watch it!”

“Are you okay?” asked Dewey, and even though Ernest merely huffed and insisted he was fine, Dewey scurried down from the ladder he was currently climbing to rush over to the armchair where Ernest was sitting. At four years and 364 days old, none of them were tall enough to reach the top shelves of the library so their mother and father had brought a ladder in—followed by two more ladders when it became abundantly clear that they were incapable of sharing properly…or at least that he and Ernest were. That reminded him...

“What do you want for our birthday tomorrow?”

Ernest frowned. “To go somewhere far away from you.”

“Aw…don’t say that…” said Frank crawling down from his own ladder and hugging Ernest—causing him to scowl even more as he squirmed away from him.

“I want an encyclopedia,” answered Dewey as he quietly took a seat on a nearby ottoman. Frank’s brow furrowed. An encyclopedia was a just a really big book and they had plenty of those already so he couldn’t understand why Dewey wanted one so much, but he didn’t say anything about it and instead his face lit up as he thought about the present he had asked for…

“I want a red bicycle with a bell!”

Ernest rolled his eyes. “You can’t even ride a bicycle.”

“I can learn. Dad says he could teach me.” Frank nodded confidently. He had asked his father about it just this afternoon when he and his mother were hanging up balloons.

With a huff, Ernest crossed his arms. Before he argued, however, a strange look passed over his face. His eyes began to dart across the room in confusion or concern. “Do you smell that?”

Dewey and Frank looked at each other with a slight shrug of their shoulders before sniffing the air.

“Smoke …” Dewey whispered with wide eyes, as if he was almost too afraid to say the words aloud.

“Maybe…maybe it’s just some burning food or something?” stumbled Frank trying to stay optimistic as he walked over to open the door. “Mom forgot something on the stove again or—AH!” He screeched and recoiled his hand from the scorching doorknob in pain. Dewey and Ernest both scampered over to him staring down in horror at his palm and fingers—bright red and throbbing. Burned.

“What…what is it?” Ernest demanded, and Frank choked back the tears that began to pool in his eyes.

“It’s too hot. We’re trapped in here.” As Dewey ripped off part of a blanket to wrap around Frank’s hand, clouds of smoke began billowing under the door. The triplets screamed for their parents, for help with no answer until their throats were raw between gasps and coughs as smoke began to fill the library. In the haunting silence, Frank’s stomach dropped—his heart racing in fear. Their parents weren’t coming. There was no one who could help them.

“The house is on fire,” exclaimed Ernest who had never looked so afraid. Frank tried to remember what he knew about fires. Stop, Drop and Roll came to mind. Unless that was only what you did if you were actually on fire...? Calling the fire department might be good, but what was their phone number? He couldn’t think of it…too preoccupied by panic and coughing. He doubled over, gasping for breath and begging, “What do we do?”

“We need to find a way out,” said Dewey. “Then we need to call for help.”

“There isn’t one,” Frank insisted, but Ernest interrupted.

“The window! We can jump out.” Racing over to the window seat where they had spent many an afternoon flipping through picture books or listening to their parents read aloud, Ernest and Dewey turned all of the locks on the window and put all of their strength into pushing it open. Frank helped as much as he could with his one hand, the other too painful to use. The brothers paused, staring down into the bushes under the window.

“It’s too far to jump,” cried Frank, tears streaming down his cheeks. So they really were trapped in here…

“Maybe we can make a rope?” suggested Ernest.

“I read a book once where they tied together a lot of sheets and blankets into a rope and crawled out the window. We could try that.” The triplets turned their attention towards the basket of blankets their mother kept by the armchairs for curling up with good books. Frank’s heart panged. They would never get to do that again.

“Or I can pull you out,” said a voice from outside the window. The triplets crowded around and gasped in unison at a woman with bushy hair and a long coat standing in the landscaping outside their house. “I’m with the Volunteer Fire Department. I’m here to help…”

*-*-*

Frank shook his head bitterly—pushing the thought aside as he stumbled around for a bandage for the cut on his hand. He refused to think of that now—or ever. There was a time in his life when he couldn’t imagine anything worse than being trapped in that burning house or watching through the window of the taxi that rescued him and his brothers as their home went up in flames. Now, he knew better, and ever since the memory of Dewey gasping his last breath and sinking beneath the surface of the reflecting pond had rivaled it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been better if they had just burned with their house.

At the time, however, they had been nothing but grateful to be alive—to be saved from the flames that enveloped their home. They had been too young then to question why they were being taken to live with the volunteer fire department in the mountains instead of with their aunt and uncle. They had been too naïve to realize it was all too convenient that there was a woman waiting for them outside the window when their house caught fire. These thoughts plagued Frank these days—keeping him awake at night, wondering if there was something they should have done differently, but what could they have done? As far as they were concerned at the time, they owed VFD their lives, and they would have done anything they said to try to repay that debt, even if it meant being raised by people like S. Theodora Markson. Though thinking on it now, raised seemed like too strong a word.

*-*-*

“I have wonderful news,” said S. Theodora Markson. Frank sighed. Usually whenever their chaperone said ‘wonderful news’ it was anything but. “I am getting a new apprentice.”

Ernest snorted. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to get a new one when you haven’t even learned our names yet?” Frank stifled a chuckle, though his brother had a good point. S. Theodora Markson had been their handler since they were five—ever since she had rescued them from that tragic fire that had destroyed their home and killed their parents. They were in their teens now, and in all those years she had never bothered to learn their names: instead writing on their foreheads ‘Thing 1’ ‘Thing 2’ and ‘Dashiell.’ Frank and Ernest had used to fight over who got to be Thing 1 and Thing 2, and Frank sometimes agreed to switch them just to mess with S. Theodora and see if she would notice—she never did. Dewey, however, was always, always Dashiell, after some friend of hers who was a librarian.

S. Theodora seemed as amused by Ernest’s quip as the triplets were at her having failed to use their names. She scowled at him and huffed, “This is the kind of impertinence I don’t expect from my new apprentice. Bertrand comes highly recommended.”

Ernest blinked at her with a pointed frown as Frank wondered if Bertrand was even her new apprentice’s name. Even if it was, did he know what he was getting himself into?

“What will happen to us?” asked Dewey quietly.

“I don’t know, Dashiell. That’s none of my concern.”

“But it is a concern of ours,” huffed Ernest who had long given up trying to correct her when she used the incorrect names.

S. Theodora shook her head. “I’ve been told you’ve all been given a special assignment. I think you two"—She motioned to Frank and Ernest—“will be going to study at the university. And they’re sending you to some construction site,” she added turning to Dewey. “That’s all I know.”

Frank’s brow furrowed. This felt wrong somehow. Dewey was a prodigy—far more intelligent than him and probably Ernest as well. If someone was going to be sent to study at the university level, it should be him. Besides none of them were built for construction—all tall and lanky with skinny, spindly arms and legs which were currently too big for their growing bodies, a most unfortunate side effect of teenagerhood.

Ernest scoffed again with a pointed scowl in S. Theodora’s general direction, and Frank wondered if he was thinking the same thing, but instead he asked, “Do you know which university?”

Huffing, S. Theodora rolled her eyes. “I sincerely hope my new apprentice won’t ask so many questions.” As she shook her head slightly in annoyance, Frank was struck by the thought that he wouldn’t miss her much. Eventually she replied, “But if you must know, I think they’re sending you to the Cheeryble College of Commerce or CCC.”

“I see,” said Frank with a lopsided grin, and S. Theodora glared at him.

“Don’t be insolent.”

Frank frowned. Now he was certain that he wouldn’t miss S. Theodora Markson at all. Surely the university had to be better than remaining under her guardianship—right?

*-*-*

Wrong! Wrong! Frank shut his eyes tightly and shook his head. Even after all of these years there were times when he could have sworn he heard the sound of the clock in the Hotel Denouement’s lobby. It always rang out two o’clock—two long, haunting “Wrong! ”s like the ones which had sounded as his brother had died. Dewey had always loved that clock. If the hotel had survived, Frank wondered if he would’ve managed to keep the clock running for him or would’ve eventually crumbled and taken a hammer to it in his grief—unable to listen to it anymore. Perhaps Ernest would have. They would never get to know now.

In his mind, Frank could still walk through the Hotel Denouement’s lobby—could admire the glistening gold of the fountain or lean his elbows on the shiny marble counter of the reception desk, with Ernest’s voice in the background telling him to stop. He could sink back into one of the plush sofas or flip through the large leather-bound guest book. He could hear the sound his shoes made as they clip-clopped across the shiny green floors to attend to one of the many tinkling bells indicating a guest in need of assistance. And even now, when he put on his suit coat and took the elevator up to the lobby of the Hotel Montcrieff, he could almost have expected the doors to open to the Hotel Denouement’s lobby. But it was nothing but ash now.

There were often times when Frank wondered if he would have been better off getting out of the hotel business entirely. Perhaps he could have been a printer salesman or a hand model or a dairy farmer. However, hotel management was all he knew how to do. VFD had made sure of that when they had sent him to the Cheeryble College of Commerce for a dual major in hospitality management and smoke and mirrors— ahem — public relations. He supposed there may have been something else he could have done with that schooling, but by the time the rug had been ripped out from under him and he was looking to rebuild, he was far too old to learn any new tricks.

With a weary sigh, Frank adjusted the shiny nametag that read “Hotel Manager” as the elevator dinged and the doors opened to the Hotel Montcrieff’s lobby. It was clean and bright—everything in sophisticated white marble with bits of color only from a few potted ferns and palms and a couple of throw pillows Frank had eventually, after much pleading, persuaded Ernest to purchase. It was elegant—as Ernest had insisted—but simple. Nothing in it could have been mistaken for the deep greens and golds of the extravagant Hotel Denouement or even its distant memory. Though he had never discussed it with Ernest, Frank assumed that they were both in agreement that it was probably better this way. That may have been one of the only things they had ever agreed on in their lives—well that and the fact that the two of them were only good for one thing which was running a hotel.

When VFD had first given them the task, it had almost seemed like they were cultivating their potential, and he and Ernest both had excelled in ways Frank hadn’t known he could. After years of playing third fiddle to Ernest’s shrewdness and Dewey’s intelligence, he had finally got to show off his own talents and strengths. He got to be important, useful, helpful— good. Frank sighed. He almost wished he could go back to that blissful ignorance—that carefree time of being young and successful—feeling proud to be part of something bigger than himself and not worrying at all that that “something bigger” might not be something good...

*-*-*

“You have to stop flirting with our patrons,” Ernest huffed with a scowl. Frank’s mouth twitched into a lopsided grin.

“I’m just showing them five-star service,” he teased with a wink. Ernest, however, was unamused.

“How we ever get anything done around here is beyond me. You are useless.”

“And you’re unpleasant. If it wasn’t for me running PR for us, you’d scare everyone away by being cold and off-putting.”

Ernest threw up his hands. “Then why do you insist on pretending to be me all the time?”

“Stop it. Please. In-fighting isn’t going to do any good,” Dewey interjected, standing in the doorway with a bottle of champagne. “Besides we should be celebrating. Hotel Denouement is now officially a five-star establishment according to the Daily Punctillio.” Ernest sighed, his tense shoulders visibly relaxing though he still maintained his scowl. Frank smiled but tried his best not to look too smug about it. “I’ve even brought someone to help us celebrate…”

“Glad to see nothing has changed since I saw you last,” quipped their cousin appearing behind Dewey.

Frank could barely keep himself from squealing with delight as he scrambled forward and quickly pulled her into a tight hug. “How was Peru? Tell us everything!” He paused and chuckled. “Well everything that isn’t classified, but we can keep secrets.”

“I can keep secrets—you’re a blabbermouth,” huffed Ernest taking his turn to hug their cousin. “Really, how are you? I trust the mission went well. Is that partner of yours taking care of you?”

“Always,” she insisted before she beamed at them. “Though he’s not just my partner anymore…” She held up her left hand where a beautiful sapphire ring glistened on her finger. She playfully wiggled her fingers at them, and Frank gasped, chuckling in disbelief.

“No way! You’re engaged?”

“Married actually. It was a little impromptu,” she admitted. “But Peru was a nice place for a honeymoon. I wish you all had been able to be there, but…” Her voice trailed, and Frank gave her an understanding nod. Though they were all in VFD together, they rarely got to see each other, especially now that Frank and Ernest were so busy with the hotel. It would have been nearly impossible to organize a time where they could’ve all been together for a wedding—not to mention how conspicuous it would be.

“It’s alright. We can celebrate with you now, Mrs. Quagmire,” he teased, causing her to laugh before he hugged her again, practically lifting her up and twirling her around. “Mazel Tov!”

“I think ‘Mrs. Quagmire’ suits you,” chimed Dewey with a kind smile, but Ernest huffed.

“Well I think you settled and could have done better."

“He’s a good man,” insisted the newly titled Mrs. Quagmire. “If you got to spend more time together, I like to think you’d get along.”

“Ernest doesn’t get along with anyone,” said Frank with a shake of his head. “And as far as he’s concerned, no one will ever be good enough for you.” If Frank was being honest, he almost felt the same way, after all his cousin had been a Denouement long before she was a Quagmire and may as well have been their little sister. Three “older brothers” were naturally going to be protective of her, but from Frank’s point of view at least, what mattered most was that she was happy. Since she was, he didn’t feel it was his place to say anything to the contrary, but that wasn’t going to stop him from teasing her. “You should still bring this husband of yours around though. I’d like to give Mr. Quagmire a talking to.”

“As long as you and Ernest agree not to threaten him, I can bring him by as soon as he finishes his debrief.”

“I’m not making any promises.” Frank shook his head but winked at her. “And is that the debrief from your mission? Anything you’re at liberty to share?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately no, but believe me, it’s not nearly as exciting as the wedding.” Frank disagreed. A top-secret, super spy mission was leagues more interesting than a wedding, even if it was an elopement and a surprise. He almost envied them—getting to be out in the field versus behind a desk working hospitality management all day everyday, but he didn’t see any use in complaining about it. All of his applications to become a field agent had been denied, after all, so he might as well resign himself to the role he was assigned, “hotel manager” and probably Ernest’s babysitter though Ernest insisted that he was the babysitter.

“Well I for one would love to get to know him better,” said Dewey pulling him out of his thoughts. “From what I’ve heard of him, he sounds like an upstanding person and a gentleman. I’m sure he will be good to you, and I hope you two will be very happy together.” He wrapped his arms around their cousin before holding up the bottle. “I think this champagne should be opened in your honor. A wedding is much more exciting than a good review for our hotel.”

“You’re such a romantic,” she teased with an affectionate chuckle before she ruffled his hair. “But who says we can’t celebrate everything? You have good news too, don’t you?”

Frank and Ernest turned to Dewey with inquisitive tilts of their heads. Dewey’s cheeks flushed pink. “It’s really not that big of a deal, and I don’t want to take attention away from you and—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted. “It’s a great honor. You should be proud of yourself and your accomplishments.”

“Okay now you have to tell us,” Frank insisted. “I hate being the last to know everything.”

“Well…it’s nothing really. I’ve just been promoted is all.”

Ernest’s eyes narrowed. “To what exactly?”

“A librarian.” Dewey’s mouth twitched in the corners.

“That’s great! Your dream job!” exclaimed Frank, but Ernest crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

“What’s the catch?”

“Ernest!” Frank scolded, but Ernest scowled.

“Our organization is not in the business of wish-fulfillment, and everything they ever do comes with a price. I want to know what it is.”

Dewey fidgeted, but before Frank could begin to protest, he admitted in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible, “They’re erasing me.”

“What?” asked Frank in confusion.

“They’re going to erase all record of me. Essentially, I won’t exist anymore. In fact, it will be like I never existed.”

“This is ridiculous. What kind of librarian needs to not exist?” huffed Ernest.

“It’s a top-secret project. I’m not supposed to talk about it at all. The project isn’t even supposed to exist so the person running the project isn’t supposed to exist either.”

“Dewey, you can’t just let them erase you…” said their cousin, but Dewey shook his head.

“I appreciate that you’re all worried, but it’s okay. I’ve always wanted to be a librarian, and I’m so shy that I don’t think I’ll mind actually being invisible. Besides, I’ll get to stay here at the hotel when I’m not traveling, so I’ll still get to help you out too.”

Frank tilted his head. “How would that even work though? Are you just going to tell everyone that you’re me or Ernest?”

Dewey shrugged. “I get mistaken for you two all the time. I’m already the brother everyone forgets about, so I don’t think it’ll be too hard.” Dewey paused, but he smiled slightly before holding up the bottle of champagne. “Come on. This is good news. Let’s open this champagne and have a toast. L'Chaim!”

As he poured Frank a glass, however, he no longer felt like celebrating.

*-*-*

In hindsight, Frank should have known then that something was wrong. But he hadn’t or at least he hadn’t wanted to. Ernest, on the other hand, had. He was always so much smarter than him—trying to stay three steps ahead of everyone, even VFD, which a younger Frank would have sworn was entirely impossible. Older Frank knew better—though he still lacked the above-average intelligence and shrewd business sense of his brother.

As he made his way through the lobby towards the reception desk, he supposed he ought to be very grateful for that side of Ernest. After all, without it the Hotel Montcrieff wouldn’t have been possible and who knew where Frank would have ended up after the destruction of the Hotel Denouement?

He paused at the thought. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Frank had died with his brother and had gone up in smoke with his life’s work, and Jack had taken his place. Or at least had taken over whatever was left of him, which on bad days like today seemed to be nothing more than autopilot hospitality management, expert deflections, hollow smiles and the smoke and mirrors that Dewey had always hated.

Ignoring that pang in his chest, Frank shook his head slightly and pushed the thought away. Instead, he greeted a few of the bellhops and concierges he passed with polite “Good Mornings” which were returned with warm “Good Morning, Mr. Woolton”s or even friendlier “Good Morning, Jack”s from those who had been working in the hotel long enough to know that it was his brother, ‘Algernon,’ who had the scar and expected to be addressed formally.

It felt strange to be so easily recognized from Ernest for the first time in their lives. Though there was still no doubt they were identical—identical twins, everyone believed, and neither he nor Ernest had corrected them—the scar across Ernest’s cheek clearly differentiated them more obviously than Ernest’s often sour moods and stern frowns ever could. He was certainly in such a mood today, Frank thought, as he reached the reception desk, and Ernest greeted him with an irritable huff.

“You’re late.” He crossed arms before he frowned at Frank’s bandages. “What happened to your hand?”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

Scowling, Ernest narrowed his eyes with a pointed, “Jack.”

Frank’s mouth twitched in the corners. Though the name might be different, the sentiment was entirely the same as it had always been.

“Are you worried about me, Algy?” he teased, deflecting his brother’s question as he nudged at him. Ernest rolled his eyes.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

Frank just shrugged. He thought it best not to point out that as his brother had insisted on being ‘Algernon,’ it only followed that Frank should be allowed to tease him with that nickname as much and as often as he wanted. He would even allow Ernest to tease him with an equally annoying nickname for 'Jack'—if he could think of any. But then again, Ernest had never been one to tease. Even when Frank had thought they were just being playful with each other, Ernest had staunchly believed they were in a staunch disagreement with each other. And, Frank supposed that was sometimes true—perhaps even mostly true. He and Ernest had never really seen eye to eye on much, but it was almost nice to be fighting over inconsequential things like inane nicknames again rather than ideological differences and possible treachery. In the not-so-distant past, his relationship with Ernest had been marked by so much genuine strife—contention over good and evil, if such distinctions even existed. Frank wasn’t so sure anymore.

*-*-*

“Did you really buy the controlling interest in the hotel out from under them?” Frank asked incredulously. Ernest, however, merely nodded.

With a shake of his head, Frank sighed and leaned his elbows across the reception desk—ignoring that unsettling coiling feeling in his stomach. “They’re going to be furious. Who knows what they’ll do to you.”

“They won’t do anything if they know what’s good for them,” huffed Ernest, scratching notes in his ledger and flipping to another page of the guest book. “This hotel is a major source of their revenue, and they won’t jeopardize that.”

“But they could still—”

“What are they going to do? Burn this place down? Poison me?” He scoffed bitterly. “If they didn’t want me to do this, they should’ve never taught me how.”

“Maybe you can go back to them—talk things over, reach some sort of agreement,” Frank suggested before he jumped at the loud, forceful sound of Ernest slamming the leather-bound guest book shut.

“I’m not negotiating with these people anymore. I’m done with them.”

Frank’s hands began to shake—evidence enough that his usual attempts to remain light and nonchalant were failing him, even without his heart nearly pounding out of his chest. “What—what are you saying, Ernest? Are you leaving VFD? No one leaves VFD…”

“No, they don’t. That’s one of the problems with it.” He shook his head bitterly. “I’m sick of them running my life—demanding blind allegiance when there’s nothing in it for me.”

Frank let out an awkward, breathy laugh, even though nothing about this situation seemed funny. “Ernest, if you keep talking that way, you’re going to start to sound like a fire-starter.”

“Maybe I am. Is there really a difference?”

“Of course, there’s a difference,” Frank argued forcefully—clinching his fists and pushing aside that sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. “They’re murderers and arsonists.”

Ernest rolled his eyes with a cold and callous bitterness that frightened Frank. “What do you think the rest of the organization is? They’re no better—they just have the gall to pretend they’re good people. At least the fire-starters don’t have to answer to anyone and get to keep their hard-earned money.”

“Money? Is that what this is about?” Frank choked—his face growing hot and his throat burning. “You’re going to abandon VFD—abandon your family over money.”

“It’s not just the money. The fire-fighters forced us into these roles, these lives, we didn’t choose for ourselves. All while working us to the bone with no explanation while they get all the rewards.” Ernest met his eyes with such an intensity that Frank fidgeted under his brother’s gaze. “Is that what you want, Frank, to blindly follow orders from people like S. Theodora Markson and give them our hard-earned profits for the rest of our lives?”

“Well…no…” Frank stumbled—staring at his shuffling feet, before he shook his head and added determinedly, “But you honestly can’t be arguing that the fire-starters are any better. They’re criminals.”

“And the fire-fighters aren’t?”

Letting out a long, livid exhale, Frank gritted his teeth and pounded his fist on the reception desk. “The fire-starters started the fire that killed our parents or have you forgotten that?”

Frank was practically yelling now, but Ernest seemed to care very little about that. Instead, he answered with an almost eerie, calculated calm, “How do we know that? For all we know the fire-fighters set that fire and pretended to save us just to turn us into these perfect little soldiers for whatever the hell it is that they want.”

His vision blurred and everything began to spin—whether from anger or confusion Frank couldn’t be sure. He pressed his hand to his throbbing head and barely managed, “I can’t believe this Ernest—”

“And I can’t believe that you can still defend an organization that erased our brother’s existence,” he spat, clinching his fists.

“That was for his safety.”

Ernest leaned across the reception desk—brow furrowing and nostrils flaring. His usually even voice cracked as he raised his tone. “It’s made him lonely and miserable. He’s a ghost now—they made him invisible!”

“Don’t you dare turn this around and say you’re doing this for Dewey. Your defection would crush him.” He was eye to eye with his brother now—staring him down. “Have the decency to call this what it is— selfish!”

“Fine, maybe I am selfish but at least I’m honest,” Ernest hissed through his teeth. “Ask your precious fire-fighters any hard question and watch them try to gaslight you with smoke and mirrors. They pretend they’re all noble when really they’re just as bad as the rest of us. Ask Dewey about it. That’s why they’ve made him disappear, isn’t it? Since he has all the dirt on them.”

Before Frank could even begin to think of an argument for what Ernest had just said, his brother huffed—returning to his usual brand of callousness, “Look, this isn’t an argument about which side is worse or better. All I’m saying is that if we’re going to be wrapped up in criminal activity, we might as well get a say about whether we’re in or out and we should be getting paid for it.” He backed away from him and crossed his arms before picking up his ledger. “And nothing you say is going to change my mind so don’t waste your breath.”

*-*-*

At the time, Frank could not imagine any worse consequence from Ernest’s defection than the fact it had torn their family apart. He had been Wrong! Wrong! as those haunting memories of the clock turned requiem bell were always swift to remind him. Even Ernest himself swore it was what ultimately led to their brother’s death, and Frank could admit that was probably true—just not in the way that Ernest had meant it. If anything, Ernest had been right all along. VFD was dangerous—for them, for everyone they came in contact with, but especially for Dewey, and out of all of the regrets that plagued him the most, one of the biggest was that he had been too naive, too trusting, too stupid to realize it. Unquestioning trust and blind acceptance were far more dangerous than Ernest’s callousness and self-interest, and no matter what he did, Frank could never shake the feeling that if they had just defected with him, Dewey may still be alive.

“What happened to your hand?” Ernest asked again, and Frank averted his eyes to somewhere, anywhere else.

All thoughts of what his newest diversion tactic should be were completely forgotten as he happened to glance over at the guest book on the reception desk. His jaw fell slack as he read one name in particular, and he scrambled over to the book running his hand across the delicate script. Surely… it couldn’t be…

“Ern—Algernon,” he stammered, nearly butchering his brother’s alias. “Did you…did you see her?”

Ernest frowned but nodded slowly, solemnly.

“And is she…?” Frank could scarcely bring himself to finish his sentence, but his face fell as Ernest shook his head.

“No.”

Frank sighed in a strange, perplexing mix of relief and disappointment. After a long, heavy pause, Ernest said, “But I think you should still see her…”

“Why?”

Something softened in Ernest’s eyes—which may have startled Frank even more than seeing the name of an old friend who had been dead for over 10 years. He motioned towards one of the lobby sofas where a young girl was sitting reading a book. “That’s her—Beatrice Baudelaire…the second.”

#woevember #asoue #a series of unfortunate events #work in progress #frank denouement #ernest denouement #dewey denouement #pretty sure the denouement brothers were the beginning of my attachment to problematic/complicated fictional brother relationships #this ended up much longer than I was intending so I was only able to get part 1 completely finished in time #just happy to have been able to get part of it finished #it has been such a long time since I've written anything asoue related so I hope this is okay...#the canon or lack thereof is so confusing...#a delightfully dreadful woevember to all of you #thank you for reading!!

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