The taxi brakes too fast, too hard, with a sound like a shriek of pain.
Violet lurches with the motion, jaw clenched. Her one free hand comes up to brace herself against the headrest, the other still tucked firmly to her side. The rapid spasm of her heart spikes higher, leaves her nearly breathless as she slides a bill to her driver, says, "Thank you-" perhaps too softly, pops the door, and leaps onto the wet pavement before the car truly stops.
Outside, there's a chaotic hum of activity. The sidewalk is glossy with rain, looks frosted and faulty. It reflects her surroundings in odd puddles (string lights blinking from the road to the large front doors of the opera house, headlights swiping the ground like twin spotlights, the summer gloam a sinking, draining purple-).
People clutter the doors, waiting in line. They chatter happily, making conversation she cannot hear. The noise blends together in a vague collection of city bustle and clamor. It's an anonymous noise. If there was a familiar voice amongst the tangle of it all- her mother's quick delivery of a clever jab, her father's stark, affectionate crack of laughter- Violet doubts she would recognize it.
Only a handful of moments pass as her eyes skitter over the crowd, waiting, watching, yet they feel heavy and slow. Already, the sky has changed, the sun sinking. Violet adjusts the wooden box beneath her jacket, holds it closer than necessary. Cars pass at her back. Lights flare and fade. Several more moments pass, her gaze growing slightly frantic, when a glint of red catches her eye.
Before she truly registers, she's crossing the lot and heading towards the shadowy side alley, that narrow gap between the opera house and a snarled field cluttered with litter. He stands in the swarming shadows, smiling. Even his silhouette brings her comfort.
That red flash again- brake lights from passing cars catching in his eyes and the wet glint of his teeth.
Warm from being hidden beneath her jacket, Violet grabs the small box and holds it out to him, an offering, a promise, as she hurries to his side. Her thumb presses into the intricately carved B, right near the latch. The lid, well-lacquered, catches the rest of the fading light, gleams slick like an oil spill.
Olaf reacts immediately, eyes going wide and wicked in the dim. He lunges for her, materializing out of the shadows with stark immediacy. The furious scowl on his face nearly makes her stumble. Never before has she seen him wear an expression of absolute fury. The box is ripped from her hands only moments after she had tugged it free.
Olaf turns on his heels, hiding his face from the crowd gathered by the door, and returns to his spot amongst the shadows. Hurt, bewildered, Violet trails him deep into the alley.
He's muttering to himself in the growing dim, harsh grumbles she cannot piece together. Uneven bricks, slick from rain and fuzzed with moss, crunch with grit beneath her heels. A crooked privacy fence borders the opposing side of the alley. Behind that, there's a stretch of unmanaged field- all snarls of thorns and tall dead grasses- before a wide brick apartment complex begins. Through a missing post, Violet can see to the back patios of the apartments, some cluttered with string lights and plants, others completely bare. In the distance, she spots someone smoking on the third floor, leaning against the railing. For a breath's span, she sees the glow of their cigarette flare and fade.
Violet continues, following Olaf deeper into the alley where a towering light post glazes everything in a wicked orange tinge. Her voice comes back to her at odd angles, bouncing off the opera house, the fence, the bricks. She doesn't remember when she started talking. "-should all be there. They were in the secret drawer, right where you said. You didn't need to grab them from me, I was bringing them to you, of course I was, I was heading right to you. You know you have to be careful around here, right? Right? I'm sorry if I- um. That you were angry. I've never seen you so angry-"
That stops Olaf. His back still to her, his dark, fancy suit and trousers stained rusty in the light. A muscle in his shoulder twitches. Even then, frozen and breathless with worry, Violet finds herself admiring the strong line of his throat.
Then, finally, his voice like a low rumble of thunder. "Violet. Right in front of the opera house. You took out a box of poison darts right in front of the opera house."
"I'm sorry," she spits, shrugging, a startled, thoughtless little movement, even though he cannot see it. "I didn't think about that. I just saw you and I was so- so… eager to please. I reacted too soon. My fault. I'm sorry."
He sighs, loud and deep. Violet can see the tension forced from his body. A clap strikes the air as Olaf closes the lid. When he turns to face her, there's an oily grin on his face and a wild, possessive victory to his eyes. None of the earlier corrosive aggression remains. He holds his arms open wide, stalking towards her.
"Of course you were," He agrees. "Little Violet Baudelaire. Always so eager to please."
His arms around her are solid, familiar, reassuring. Violet's hands come to rest on his stomach as she presses her face to his chest, closes her eyes, breathes him in.
"For you," she mutters, soft.
"For me. All for me." Olaf squeezes her too tightly until she squeaks before pressing a kiss to her forehead and leaning back to look her in the face.
"You brought me poison darts." He says neutrally, watching her. "Your father's poison darts."
"I did." Violet says. There's a shine to his eyes from the lamp light, a deep, disarming gleam. It reminds her of herself only hours ago, sneaking into her childhood home once she was sure her parents were out. In the upstairs hall mirror, right before the library, she had caught her own eye.
Seeing herself in action, knowing the result, had been so wretched and humbling she had nearly been sick on the spot. Sick with shame and depthless, anguished love.
Violet pushes the thought from her mind. "You're welcome."
His free hand rises to stroke her cheek. That small touch softens her. Her heart splits in her chest, a quiet carnage.
"It'll be quick," Olaf offers, though there's a telling quirk to his voice. The disappointment she should feel is surprisingly dull. He's lying to her face, she knows it, and yet all Violet can summon is half-hearted displeasure. "If my experience was anything to go by. Painless, even. They won't feel a thing."
"Good." Her voice is small, composed. She knows it's easier to lie right back, to let him think he's being merciful when he's getting all he ever wanted. When she hands him an opportunity for fair, impartial revenge. She remembers her father's steady jaw, her mother's expectant gaze. Your critiques of VFD are unfounded and unnecessary, you should feel no hesitation in joining, especially so late. You should be delighted they want to take you, Violet, really, seventeen is old for a neophyte-. Remembers the resulting panic, the fleeing, finding Olaf and falling straight into his arms and his bed, her frustration and betrayal only growing with the months and the time they spent together. "Thank you for that, at least."
"Oh, Violet." Olaf purrs, pressing their foreheads together with a smirk. "You've been so good. You're very, very welcome."
They stand like that for several minutes. Bodies pressed close, eyes shut, swapping the occasional kiss. The gloam bleeds out to true nightfall. The lamp buzzes. At the front of the opera house, amidst an excited burst of chatter, the grand front doors slide open, dragging across the stone.
Violet's throat is choked with questions she doesn't want to voice.
When should I expect you? She doesn't ask. Are you sure you'll be safe? How's your aim? Which one will you kill first?
Then, deeper, a fear she could barely consider. Will you still want me once everything is over?
Olaf pulls away. When she glances at him, his eyes are on the opening of the alley. Wordlessly, he grabs her hand, walks her to the front. They peek around the corner, smothered in shadow.
He's the first to spot them, gesturing with a grunt and a jerk of his chin. Violet had been letting her eyes go blurry against the line of patrons, hoping not to see. Instead, she follows his direction. Her mother and father stand at the door, the light from inside casting them in gold.
They make witty conversation with the man punching their tickets. Beatrice, casting a teasing glance to her husband, says something to make the man laugh. She's dressed in a long, pale dress, her hair done up in an elegant swirl. Bertrand wears a dark suit, well fitting. His hand on her mother's shoulder- strong, familiar as Violet's own- has a desperate pang of grief piercing to the core of her.
"You don't have to stay." Olaf says, voice quiet yet firm with authority. "Go to my place. Wait for me there."
Her parents enter the opera house. It's the very last time, Violet knows, that she will ever see them alive.
"They hurt you." She shakes her head, bitter. Their surroundings have taken on a too-bright haze, like something out of a fever dream. Her head pounds. There's a vile, metallic film clinging to the back of her throat. "Killed your parents right in front of you. It's… It's only fair."
At her back, Olaf is silent, motionless. Then, once the line is nearly gone, his hand rises to rest on her hip. He leans down, brushes his stubbled cheek against hers, says through a sigh, "I am so in love with you."
Like before, it holds that same strange quirk, pings in her mind like a shock of electricity- a lie. This time, she refuses to hear it.
Violet turns away from the door, presses her face to his neck. Bites her tongue through a nauseating wave of tears.
He peels her off quickly. The glow of the string lights cut the shadows on his face all wrong. He looks like a stranger standing before her, smiling.
"Wait for me in the car. Walk through that gap and it's in the parking lot across the field. I shouldn't be more than an hour." Olaf says, nodding towards the break in the fence she had been eyeing earlier.
"Okay." Violet says. Her voice sounds strange, far away. You want me still? "I'll wait."
"Good." He says, then kisses her once, too quickly. She can practically feel the excited, crackling energy beneath his skin. "Good. Now go on."
With that, Olaf passes her, coattails swinging, tossing his ticket into the doorman's lap without a second thought, the box of poison darts tucked into his suit jacket, lunging into that bright light beyond the doorway.
Violet waits until the front door are closed, only a crack of light shining between them, before she peels herself from the wall. Where the city had once been crowded and bustling, all that remained was silence and overwhelming, unfastened dark.
Head down, empty but for the mess of love and grief in her, she ducks through the gap in the fence, starts across the thorny field, hoping that when those darts take to the air she doesn't feel it like a pinch of intuition. Hopes that, once Olaf slides into the driver's seat, she can welcome him with open arms, with a matching grin full of justice and love and absolute mercy.