Violet/Lemony, admittedly about sex, but by no means a lemon. Just what I'd like to think happened.
He slept with her.
He was grotesque, deluded, filth.
He found her on accident. Years of chronicling, of revisited heartbreak, of trying to piece together the story and he found her on accident.
It was a bar. Of course it was a bar. Every story of regretted sex begins at a bar. His hands were ink stained from a fussy typewriter, and he already drank himself out of the bourbon he had purchase for rainy days-somehow, of course, rainy days turned into sad days, and all his days were sad ones. So, he stumbled into the second-pub (the first-nearest having banned him long ago; no one wants an angry, depressed writer, no matter how much the cinema may romanticize the type) and sat on the seat second-nearest to the end and ordered the second-cheapest gin The Sailor's Slammer had to offer.
It was the ribbon that caught him. A dark ponytail tied with a pale satin ribbon. His drink lowered from his lips, he forgot himself, simply to stare and wonder. The dark hair sat over slim shoulders, pale skin, and a slim waist. Ribbon was not concise, however, and it was a common build. As he dismissed the lunacy of such a coincidence, she turned.
She turned, and her face-that face. Beatrice? Undeniably Beatrice. No, no-Violet. Undeniably Violet. The dead do not raise, no matter how deeply one wishes. All evidence says Violet.
He had never seen a picture of her. They burned, all of them. They burned in the house, they burned in the files, they burned as every precious thing in his life had. He worked from description, from what intuition says the Baudelaires must look like. He knew that she must look like her, perhaps with more angular features, or fuller lips. And she did. Violet was Beatrice, with more angular features, and fuller lips, and it was striking.
She looked at him as if she knew, yet Lemony knew this to be impossible. The only pictures of him were in a crowd, or disguised, or ashes in an empty lot. He held eyes with Beatrice-Violet for only a fleeting second before instinct kicked in, and he ran.
Lemony Snicket was a creature of guilt.
Lemony Snicket was a creature of guilt, shame, selfishness.
Lemony Snicket was a coward, and that's why ran, and that's why he spoke, and that's why he went with her.
He flew from the bar. The gin sloshed on to the counter, the bartender was ready to yell-but there was no time, because he flew. He flew out the door, he flew down the street, he flew so absorbed in himself and his fears and his hopes that he did not hear the drink that sloshed behind him, the bar tender ready to yell once more, the slamming door, the steps that pounded on concrete.
So when she tapped his shoulder, he was unprepared. He turned, and she took him in. He couldn't help but wonder what she saw? A tall, thin man with sad eyes and hair that would soon turn gray, wearing a patchy old suit with ink stains and fraying cuffs. Such a contrast to the young, clean Violet Baudelaire. But they had the same eyes. Either could have said so at first glance. They'd seen too much.
They stood in silence for a moment, before Violet spoke first.
"The world is quiet here."
He shouldn't have told her.
He should have frowned, and ran, because this is where running would be braver.
But he had to tell her. He knew all about her, and so she should know about him.
"Lemony," he whispered, "I am Lemony."
"I was almost Lemony. If I were a boy. But I'm Violet."
And they walked and they spoke and it hurt them both to do so. He told her of his siblings, of his place in the schism, of his supposed death, of his research. His painstaking, meticulous, heartbreaking research. She told him of the island, of his niece, of her life, of the strange normality that had hung over the Baudelaires upon returning to the city.
He did not speak of her, and she did not ask about why she was supposed to be Lemony, if she were a boy, but is called Violet,
She would look at him while he talked, and he would stare straight ahead, and as soon as she spoke the tables were turned. He could not bring himself to study her face. He knew that if he got one more look, one more real look he would see someone else instead. That would break him. Lemony Snicket, was, of course already broken. But that would make him snap.
And as they walked in a new silence (comfortable, because each respected the other's sorrow without pity, and uncomfortable, because each knew a conversation such as this should have happened a long time ago), he realized that he had inadvertently led her to his part of town: a rundown little apartment building with fading brick.
This was the pivotal point. He could have wished her a good night, walked inside, and packed his things up. He could have taken a ferry to another town, sat down inside another bar, and had enough to drink to erase it all, at least for a while.
He could have left her alone.
"Do you want a drink?"
He could smell the liquor on her breath.
He could smell the rum, and he close his eyes and there she was.
Why the hell did he give her a drink?
They sat at the dingy table under a dusty lamp and drank from a dirty bottle of rum. He still had not looked her in the eyes, but he could feel it. And there were the little things. Violet crossed her ankles, not her knees (Beatrice would say it marked the ladies from the girls) and had her elbow by her glass (the one table manner Beatrice had never mastered). The occasional swish of the ribbon from the corner of his eye reminded him not to look up, that it was Violet he was drinking with, and Beatrice was, nor would ever be, at his table.
They spoke only occasionally, with small questions. When had Violet discovered alcohol? What was Lemony writing today? Was Violet working anywhere? This continued, through several drinks, with long, silent (comfortable, as many drinks often make things) pauses in between.
"Why here?"
He was caught off guard, for the first time since his flight from the bar. Why this city? There could only be one reason. Only ever was one reason. With a slight stumble, he took her hand, something he wouldn't have previously dared, and took her, bewildered, to the staircase.
It spiraled to the roof, Violet nearly fell at the top-he gave her an arm, caught her, was so close to seeing her face-and led her to edge. His fingers gripped the spyglass that he kept in his suit coat for moments such as this, and directed her where to look, standing behind her, and steadying the glass.
He took this moment to step back and observe her, again, her eyes safely preoccupied. She was young, so beautifully young. But she was equally as tired, and her posture said so. Everything about her screamed Beatrice-the dark hair, the ribbon, the pale shoulders exposed from a dark dress.
But these little things were different things, too: her hair was too dark, a shade too dark. The ribbon, perfectly like Beatrice, but she would have outgrown it by now. Pale shoulders in a dark dress-never mind, there was no difference, he could have been seeing Beatrice again. He couldn't think like that. No matter how intoxicated, he mustn't think like that.
She passed him the spyglass, and he turned from staring up into the sky to staring through the lens, precisely where he directed Violet. The city lights were bright, and the street lamps shone on the one block that was not illuminated, the still-ashy wreckage of a once-great home. He could have sat for hours, as he often did, but being hyper aware of his company did not encourage such behavior.
He felt one, single tear roll down his cheek. Maybe it was all he could spare right now, or maybe it was all he had left. He wasn't certain.
"You loved her."
He lowered the spyglass, and turned to see her-a single tear rolling past her nose, her silhouette identical to hers looking off the roof and into a city.
"It wasn't enough."
He choked.
She met his eyes.
"It was all you had."
He looked into Beatrice's eyes, and Lemony snapped.
He slept with her.
He was grotesque, deluded, filth.
Guilt and shame and guilt and hope and overwhelming guilt.
He kissed her on the roof. He kissed her and she did not protest, or even slow down. Some part of her wanted him, too. He could finally taste the rum, taste Beatrice's breath. Finally, Oh God, finally he could hold her, have her, love her.
They stumbled down the stairs, too drunk to care about the bruises they might discover later. He pulled her to his bedroom, his dark little cave, not fit for someone so young and so beautiful, and he had her, in a way that he hadn't in twenty-one years.
And when she held him back, and whispered his name, and kissed his neck, he finally felt alive. And when he caught a flash of ribbon, his senses would try to stop him, but could not lose her again.
Violet? All evidence says Violet-no, no, Beatrice. All evidence says Beatrice. His Beatrice in his arms whispering his name.
And when they fell asleep in a tangle, and his shaky hands ran through her hair, he noticed it was too dark, and ignored the thought. He felt the ribbon his pillow-was that too childish for her? No, no. And when he could caress the pale shoulders, glowing in the single thread of moonlight the window gave, it was Beatrice.
He remembered himself in the morning.
She did, too.
She was not Beatrice. She was Violet. Young, beautiful Violet.
And he was not L. He was Lemony. Old, broken Lemony.
Guilt, shame, filth, shame, delusion, monster guilt filthy old man shameguiltfilthguiltmonsterg uiltGUILTGUILTGUILT
Maybe he had snapped a long time ago, and all this emotion was needless he wasn't certain.
But he could not help himself, and when he put on her coat and walked her to the door, he said it.
"I love you."
Because he could still pretend it was her, still cling to that last little delusion.
"You love her."
There was no more pretending.