They find him on her day off.
Weak, feverish, and disgustingly sick, a group of volunteers pull Olaf from from the gouged side of an abandoned ship at the old Rip & Brood Shipyard, long since left to rot.
Nearly two years of running, of almost-successes, culminate into Olaf lying at their feet dirty and pale and too feeble to fight.
"Is that Death come to take me away? He'd asked. Other than that, no talking. No fight. No tricks. He's in need of serious care and is being held here until I can do something more." Jacques tells her over the phone, his voice rough with static and distance.
Violet grips its long, coiled cord in her hand tight enough to strangle. Unseeing, her eyes roam throughout her apartment- taking in her tall shelves of inventing supplies and books and clutter, and the long ladder to reach them all. Soft, happy music plays from a new record by the brick fireplace in the main room which is lit and glowing. She doesn't want to leave, not when she had just returned from tea with Kit only an hour ago, yet the moment Jacques had said "Olaf's been captured," her evening plans were sealed.
He mistakes her pause for relief when it is anything but.
"I know you'll want to speak with him." Jacques says, an unfamiliar hesitance to his tone.
"I will." Violet agrees, quick, eager. "Can I come-?"
But Jacques cuts her off. "You should know, Violet. He's been asking about you. Only you. Repeating your name."
Fear and shame, that toxic mix, burn in her throat like alcohol, like the precursor to vomit. She can feel the color drain from her face, leaving her pallid as the snow outside. "That's all he said? My name and that's it?"
Last summer, the second-to-last time she'd seen Olaf- dapper, masked, a flush of wine to his face- that was nearly all he'd said.
"Violet Baudelaire. What a lucky surprise." He had led her outside, behind the ballroom, where they'd rolled in the elaborate garden, had battered the roses. Nearly six months ago now. She still has the mask he was wearing, (a tiny slip of black around his eyes like exhaustion-) keeps it tied around the bevelled top of her iron headboard. Swiveling on her heels, she glances through an open door, sees it hanging eyeless and hollow and still precious like a dreamcatcher above her pillows.
"That's all. Just asking for you when he was first found. Now he's… silent." Jacques says, obviously disliking the reality of Olaf, always so present and boasting, quiet as the grave. "We're at the old library, third floor. Come soon. I'm not sure how much longer he'll be here. Depends on where we move him."
"Right." Violet agrees, already reaching for her scarf. "I'll leave now." She hangs up with a hurried goodbye and heads towards her calendar hanging slightly crooked on the wall. With a worried sigh, she uncaps a marker with her teeth, draws a small black heart in the margin of the day. The act had become a sort of ritual- every time she saw Olaf she'd mark it down to remember, some coded spot that could be easily overlooked.
It would be easy to miss for any ignorant passersby. Her calendar is already crowded with layered gold-foil star stickers, surrounding her coming birthday three days in the future. Sunny had brought over the stickers when she and Klaus had last stopped by, intent on making birthday plans. Sunny had demanded they dream up an elaborate cake to make together and had slapped her calendar with stickers while they spoke. It had been cozy, fun, a worthy memory to wear out with recollection.
She caps the pen, smoothes a peeling sticker, and stumbles towards the door, pulling up the heels of her boots. The record is left to spin itself out like a constellation on its slow slide away. Against her better judgement, she keeps the fire burning. Thoughts of Olaf fill her mind when she sees it- the fire and the weather summoning a memory from this time last year, right after she had moved in.
"I keep expecting your nobility to appear." He had said, lips brushing the crown of her head, holding her in a heap of blankets on the floor when her furniture had yet to arrive. "For each romp to be our last. For a mess of volunteers to burst through the door and haul me away. But they never do."
At her sleepy silence he had persisted, "Why is that, Violet? Why let yourself enjoy me when you could easily ruin me?"
She had shrugged, sat up to finish the last of her wine. "Because I'm selfish? Because you're my only… indulgence?" She sipped the last of her rosé. Then, quiet, worried, "This will end one way or another. I'll examine my morality then."
The fire stays.
Dutiful, sick with worry, Violet grabs a heavy, dark backpack from the closet by the front door. It feels like a weapon settled between her shoulders, some final tool to pull her through the coming rough reunion and into a future that is somewhat salvaged, if only by her own moral spinelessness. She does not let herself consider this, and walks out the door without a backwards glance.
Block after block of cityscape frosted with snow passes and all she can focus on is the enormous library at the center of town, still halfheartedly gauzed in yellow caution tape and the pounding of the backpack against her with every step, solid enough to feel on the back of her heart.
Violet approaches the rear of the library, where thin sheets of ice blanket the fallen show, almost always hidden from the foggy wilt of the sun. Her boots crunch clean through, leave obvious gaps, but she pays them no mind as she enters quickly through a singed gap in the wall.
She is greeted by gusts of cold wind sneaking through the rot, a shuffle of some scared animal across the large main floor, stale silence. A plaque still hung on the wall beside her, speckled with ash, declares the opening day: ABOVE THE NECK CENTRAL LIBRARY, FOR THE CAUSE OF COMMON LITERACY AND NOBILITY.
Her brother's voice comes to her then, faded with memory, a distasteful criticism evident in his tone. "Above the Neck? Why name a library something so physical?"
Violet had shrugged, unconcerned, had looped their arms as they walked together up the grand front steps and towards the gathering party. "No doubt you'd name it something Latin and hardly pronounceable."
Klaus had rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, a small grin quirking his mouth. "Our colleagues would be able to pronounce it." He asserted, then, fully grinning, "No doubt."
It had caught fire only a handful of months later, under mysterious and inconclusive circumstances. The evidence is still obvious in the crumbling gaps of the stone walls, the large, heavy shelves tipped and empty, the furniture slowly decaying with weather. A fine coat of ash dusts every surface. Violet crosses the room swiftly and hurries to the great marble staircase at the front of the building.
This is where she sees the first evidence of others- several sets of footprints clear a walkway on the stairs, leaving negative marks through the soot. This small detail makes Violet feel uneasy, as if she is being scrutinized, watched. Above her, a tiered chandelier still hangs, tinkling in the drafts. She shivers in the cold, hurries metered and controlled up to the third floor.
Jacques sees her coming, shakes her hand in greeting as he does with any respected associate. Olaf is nowhere in sight and this small fact winds her up a notch tighter, makes her feel as though she might burst from her skin.
She asks immediately, without greeting, "Who found him?"
"The Quagmire boys were out giving some neophytes a tour of the best hiding spots in the city. Of all the places any villain might hide." Jacques answers easily, without suspicion. "I sent them home to recover. Dragging him across the shipyard wasn't easy, I'm told."
"I'm sure." Violet says, disgusted by the images that come to mind of Olaf limp in their arms, begging for her, dead weight.
"I'm glad you're here." Jacques says, leading her through the ruined top floor where volunteers had yet to come retrieve the mountainous piles of books. Floor-length windows line the side walls, giving a majestic view of the city. Several had shattered in the fire, and the floor was covered in flecks of broken glass which crunched like snow as they walked atop it. "Olaf is very sick, like I told you, and despite any bad blood between us, I wish to help him. The medical kit I brought here-" he points to a small end table dragged over, a white, tin first aid kit atop it, "won't cover what he needs."
Also atop the table is a small stack of books, one cracked and placed face-down so the spine rose into the air. The cover was caked with ash, unreadable.
Jacques meets her eyes as if begging for forgiveness. "Do you think you could keep an eye on him while I gather supplies? Won't be gone more than an hour. And he's completely immobile."
Violet pretends to think on it, then nods, says, "Go. I have plenty of things I've always wanted to say. To ask. This is the perfect opportunity. Thank you."
Jacques nods like he had expected that, and lays a solid, comforting hand on her shoulder as he passes to leave. "You're a strong young woman, Violet Baudelaire, and an outstanding volunteer. Your parents would have been so proud. Say your piece. He's right through that door. I'll be back soon."
Violet examines the contents of the little first aid kit until Jacques has crossed the room and she can no longer hear his footsteps. Then, once he is gone, she grabs the book, turns it carefully in her hands, and glances it over. Judging from the gaps of white on the page, it's poetry- sparse, pointed, unrepentant.
She carries it to the windows, glances over the open page.
Let every river envy our mouths, she reads. Let every kiss hit the body like a season.
Then, from the splintered windows, she hears Jacques step into the snow, sees him dark against the pale earth, loping away. It is all the cue she needs. Violet returns the book to its spot, hurries towards the door.
The room is still and colder than all the others, yet brightly lit. White winter sunlight shines in from high shattered windows. Glass glimmers like dew on the floor. Her breath fogs the air.
Olaf doesn't react to her entry, keeps his eyes closed, his chin against his chest. He sits in a metal fold-out chair, tied in several layers of strong rope, knotted around his chest and over his shoulders. His hands are bound behind his back, and his ankles are restricted with a neat little bow.
"Oh-" Violet says, wincing, as she drops the bag to the floor and hurries towards him. He flinches the moment she touches his stubbled, sunken cheek.
"You are sick." She murmurs, horrified, taking in his pale face, warped and blushed with fever. "Really sick."
At her voice, Olaf raises his head, spears her in place with a venomous, bloodshot glare. He jerks his face away from her.
"Violet-" He croaks, clears his throat. "Violet Baudelaire. Charming as ever. Come to gloat about my capture?"
"No," she states simply, returning her hand to his cheek. "We're alone. Jacques left to get you some stronger medicine."
"Ah." The fight leaves him. He places his head in her hand as if she could heal him, as if offering himself. His gaze on her is familiar, warm. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Baudelaire. I'm afraid things haven't gone my way since I saw you last."
His voice rattles, dry, in his throat. Violet backtracks and kneels at her bag, already digging through its contents. "What do you need? Water? I have-"
"Don't trouble yourself. Snicket has been a generous captor. Besides, in my many months running, it wasn't the creature comforts I missed. Come kiss me."
Even after so long, the words still evoke some childish giddiness in her, like hearing a precious and unbelievable secret for the first time. She abandons the bag, stands woeful and stricken with sentiment before him.
"I missed you too." She admits softly. "But why were you at the shipyard? That's close, Olaf, too-"
"Think I'd miss your birthday?" He sneers yet there's no heat to it. "You'll be twenty-two and beautiful and all mine. No matter where they take me. Now come here."
Violet relents, taking his face into her hands, and kisses him. It's forceful and slightly bitter- telling of every night spent missing him, hoping for his safety, dreading the success of her peers on their constant manhunt. When she pulls away, Olaf's weary eyes are still closed. He hums softly, says, "You really did miss me."
"Always do." She murmurs.
"I always imagine the worst things when we're apart." He admits. "You in the arms of some Quagmire brat."
"How boring." Violet mutters with a smile.
"It might be a reality soon. Depending on my sentencing for the many crimes stacked against me." Insistence darkens his tone.
"Sentencing," Violet scoffs. "As if I'll let them get that far."
Olaf smiles but there's something sad at the edges. "My girl. We don't have long. Who knows how-"
"Say no more." Violet murmurs, stepping softly away. She reaches beneath her coat, up under her dress, and tugs until her panties ring her boots. They are pale, transparent, with scalloped, golden trim, a gift from long ago. She kicks them off with quick, practiced precision. "I know how this goes by now."
"I recognize those." Olaf says, desire in his voice like a flint finally sparking. "And you came prepared. Wore a dress."
"Like I said." She murmurs, slotting her hips between his bent knees. "I know how this goes."
Under her hand, the ropes are tough and solid, binding him in place like a loaded trap waiting for a careless hand or a heedless glance. Smiling slightly, she says, "You know I can't untie these just yet. What if Jacques comes back too soon?"
"You can certainly untie me." Olaf insists. "I want to touch you."
Violet ignores that, running her hands teasingly up his thighs while he squirms, growls.
"Wish we had more time," she mutters like an afterthought, going for his zipper.
"Someday." Olaf spits, his raspy voice gone even grittier. "Now untie me. Damn woman."
"No. I think I like you like this. At my mercy." She dips a hand into the split zip, finds him already hard for her.
When they meet eyes, his are glittering with frustration and fondness. "Little Violet Baudelaire. Interested in constriction. Control. Who'd have guessed?"
"Certainly not you." She kisses him. He hisses as she untucks him from his trousers and into the the cold air. His cock in her hand seems to be the only warm part of him. Hiking up her coat, Violet parts her legs, slides onto his lap. The toes of her boots skim the floor, just enough for balance. She cups her hands around her mouth one at a time, breathes hard into them for warmth, and pumps him in the frigid air. Her lips brush his neck as he gasps.
"I don't think there's time for foreplay, my dear." Olaf says when she brushes their cheeks together. "You're killing me. Let me touch you."
"No." Violet says, grinning, enjoying the power in such a single, succinct word.
Outside, there is the familiar bustle and crash of the city- cars, sirens, people. Already, the temperature has dropped since she left her apartment. Her breath no longer fogs the space between them.
"Hurry up." Olaf growls. "You want Snicket to see you gasping atop me? You do make a lovely sight."
"Shut up." Violet hisses, one hand guiding him into her with quick, practiced precision.
They do not waste their time. Violet places a hand on his shoulder and the other atop his bent knee, cold as marble. They kiss with reunion. A quick pace is set, no sweetness lost in it. On a gasp, she breaks away, leans back to look him in the face. Even bound and powerless, Olaf still tries to thrust into her, hips twitching uselessly against the ropes.
"If you would untie me-" He growls, glaring, "I could lay you out. Work you to tears like last time."
For all the times they had touched one another, Violet remembers that instance most often. When she is alone (in bed alone, in the bath alone, always achingly alone-), her hands wandering her body, attempting to imitate the harsh, demanding grip of the man before her, she remembers him like this: Three months previous, right when the weather had truly turned, a formal party was held at the Extant Observatory and Planetarium, one of VFD's many valued associates. Violet had been stalking through an empty back hall, attempting a shortcut towards the heart of the observatory, where the ceiling would soon slide away like a great blinking eye to reveal a host of stars like bullet holes in the sky.
Secretive dark swamped the hall. Violet had been hurrying, hoping not to miss it, when a pair of hands struck out from a corner, spun her by her hips, and pressed her into the nearest wall. Too stunned to scream, Violet had been silent, bewildered, even as the stranger lifted the back of her dress and pressed the bulge of his erection against her. Then, the moment she sucked in a breath, he said, "Edible. You look edible in this dress, Miss Baudelaire."
"You can't be here." Her fear of attack warped into fear for his safety, instant and just as fierce.
"Oh, but I knew you'd attend." Olaf countered, tugging at her panties. "Couldn't stay away."
"We were together just last night." Violet muttered weakly, already feeling the swooping, gutless sensation his presence summoned in her. He took a wild lick up the back of her neck, which immediately made her shudder.
"We can't-" She protested weakly. Then, "Here. Elsewhere. Take me-"
She had followed him up a rickety metal staircase to a long-ignored dressing room, proof of the theatre's existence before its conversion to a planetarium. The space was dusty and cluttered with props and spare seasonal decorations and stacks of boxes. Yellowed light shone from a large vanity mirror, haloed in grimy light bulbs, some dimmed or cracked or flickering like a nervous tick.
He bent her over the vanity, still stained from decades of makeup, forced her to stare into the mirror as he grabbed a handful of her perfect curls in his fist, tipped her head back, let the light strike her throat as she moaned. Violet had watched every movement between them, saw every vicious, desperate thrust of the man behind her, saw the blush dust her face, her chest, saw the way her lips parted for his name like a prayer. Saw her own expression, near weeping, as she came.
When he was through and she could hardly stand on her legs gone weak and trembling, Olaf had kissed her flushed cheek, said, "I'll see you soon," and left without another word.
"I remember-" Violet growls, pushing herself down harder atop him, as if tempting and punishing all at once. "You left with barely a word. Very impolite."
He scowls through a wince, sharp with pleasure. "You were right that I shouldn't have been there. I walked right into the observatory."
"You didn't!" Violet gasps, stunned, for a single moment, into stillness.
"Don't stop." He spits, trying uselessly to jolt her into motion. "I made it out. No one saw me. No one saw me fuck you to tears either."
Violet resumes her previous pace, breath coming in short, heavy bursts. She watches a flush crawl up his chest and presses their cheeks together. Still, his hands twitch and twist and flex at the back of the chair, so eager to touch her she's sure he'll break the skin.
"So desperate to touch me." She teases, breathing soft into the shell of his ear. "I'm right here and you can't lift a finger."
He growls at that, scowls into her neck. "Don't- worry, pretty orphan. I'll get you back. Tie you down. Make you beg."
Violet groans at that, mindless desire making her gut drop and her hands spasm against their perches on his body. Then, quick, he hisses, "Get off. Soon. Go-"
She slides up and off of him easily despite the brittle quality of her knees, her hands at his cock glistening pink in the gray light. It takes only a single touch, one fast jerk, and he comes with a groan like a low note of music. It covers the rope, his lap, arcs wildly down to the floor. The sight of him bound, sickly, flushed and coming with his eyes on her is so erotic Violet stops breathing.
After a moment, the world resumes. There's a shared breath between them, delicate with relief and homecoming.
Already prepared, Violet slips a handkerchief from her pocket and begins to clean him up.
"Now, my dear." Olaf says, mellowed, hoarse. "Cut me loose."
The knife in her pocket is freezing and heavy in her dull fingers, yet she cuts him free with ease. He stands with a groan and Violet is secretly pleased to see raw red rings chafing his wrists. The ropes fall to his feet.
There is only a blink, a heartbeat's span, before he lunges at her. Violet freezes, goes soft. His hands rise to frame her face, fingernails pushing harsh against her skin as he kisses her. Her hands find his chest, cover his rapid, thudding heart. He pulls away too soon, when all Violet wants is to kiss him deeper, heavier, longer. He presses their foreheads together, nails still sharp and biting at her cheeks.
"Next time," He murmurs, threatening, powerful. "You untie me immediately. Deny me the chance to touch you after so long and I will make sure you suffer."
Although his tone has something in her going weak, she takes the opportunity to lean forward and kiss him quick. "Oh, now you're tempting me."
Violet peels his hands away, crosses the room trying not to feel suddenly wounded. At the floor, her bag sits heavy as the sudden stone in her chest. She heaves it into her arms, carries it towards him like an offering. "It's got all the usual. Food, clothes, cash, medicine, a map. Everything you'll need."
Olaf takes it from her, slings it over his back. His eyes are distant with pain and pallor, and he sways slightly on his feet. Violet wants to fold him like a paper star and slip him into her pocket for safekeeping.
"Or," she begins, smiling, the warble in her voice betraying her. "You could go wait at my place. You've still got your key?"
"Seems to be the only thing I can keep track of." He murmurs, leaning forward to press another eager, placative kiss to her lips. "I told you I'd stay for your birthday. And so I shall. How will you convince Snicket of my ultimate escape?"
Violet shrugs, glances around the nearly barren room for source material. "I'll think of something. Don't doubt me."
"Never." Olaf says, fondness erasing some of the weary pain from his eyes. He takes a step towards the door, asks, "Your fireplace?"
"Left it burning." She says, soft.
He nods, turns his back. "I'll be seeing you, Miss Baudelaire."
Olaf goes.
Violet makes sure he is well out of earshot before thinking very resolutely about his voice, his sad eyes. "Things haven't gone my way since I saw you last-" Then, broken, "My girl-"
She takes the metal chair and flings it across the room.
Broken glass skitters as she scuffs her boots against the floor, kicks it to every corner.
Violet thinks of the way he touches her when they are alone, relaxed, as if she is precious and treasured and far too good.
She works herself to bitter, ashamed, loving tears as soon as Jacques returns, bursts from the room sobbing, "He had a shard of glass- cut himself free- threatened me. I couldn't- I didn't- I'm so sorry-"
Jacques accepts this easily, always ready to see the best in others even when it is a lie. Violet sits and cries atop the table, holding the book of poetry and the medical supplies while Jacques makes phone call after phone call. From the book, she catches a line of words, reads through her tears: Show me how ruin makes a home out of hip bones…
She hopes, across town, Olaf is sliding his worn key home, is unlocking her door, is entering weak with relief. The image is so sweet she does not have to force her tears.
A traitor, and so in love she could burst, Violet cries and cries and cries until Jacques (merciful and blind-) sends her home. She goes without complaint, crosses the city so white with snow it looks ready for ink.
After a series of soft, complicated, coded knocks, Olaf opens her door and she falls into his arms drained and frail and lovely.
Let every river, she thinks. Let every season-
He shuts the door behind her, a momentary peace.
"Above the Neck" as the library's name was inspired by Dana Levin's work, as was the name of the shipyard.
The lines of italicized poetry come from Ocean Vuong's collection Night Sky With Exit Wounds.
This work was requested by the lovely, talented OurLittleSecretOkay, who is ever-so dedicated and wonderful and patient.
Please let me know what you think-