tabby, 25, uk. admin of asoue-network, perpetually tired ghost, and chronic platonic shipper. trusted associates will be followed back from @callieshipman
Of course, there are always traces of him to be found, if she's paying attention. Or even when she isn't paying attention. She buys a sandwich and Turkish coffee from a vendor on the street, and the vendor mentions that a gentleman with a trench coat bought the very same combination this morning. A newsstand on the street corner is selling today's Daily Punctilio, and she sees his name on the fashion column. She visits the headquarters in The City and sees an unfinished chess game played by him and another associate of theirs. She can recognize he's the one in white. She always recognizes his moves. She visits Dewey at the underwater library, and he tells her that Jacques was just at the hotel earlier, talking to Frank about a mission.
She hasn't seen him in a while, but she sometimes she thinks she sees him everywhere.
It's not as if she's actively avoiding him, she thinks. They just happened to miss each other all the time.
In various senses of the word "miss".
She's not avoiding him. She's certainly not avoiding him because she doesn't want to get in another argument with him about L, about their differing opinions on how to protect L, about what's the safest way to help L, about keeping secrets from each other because of L. That's ages ago. She can't even remember when's the last time they fought about something like that.
Sometimes she catches glimpses of him. On the street, one or two blocks away. In the crowds, 4-5 people between them. A shadow. Tall and lanky, with his trench coat and his hat. Or in a neatly tailored suit, lowkey but high quality. It's very Jacques.
She'd recognize him anywhere.
She'd recognize him everywhere.
She wonders if he sees her too, sees traces of her, clues of her having been some place. Sees her speed down the road with the taxi, catching only a blurry flash of yellow but knowing, instinctively, that it is her driving it. Sees the empty spaces between two books on the shelf of Dewey's library and knows she's the one who took the book in between. Hears from a waitress about "a woman who ordered her tea without sugar because tea should be as bitter as wormwood and as sharp as a two-edged sword" and knows it's her.
She doesn't know, but then again, she thinks he must see her, the same way she sees him.
They are twins, after all.
She's not avoiding him, and he's not avoiding her - they just keep missing each other.
That's all.
Funny how big The City is, how hard it could be to run into someone.
How easy it is to disappear. How you can not run into someone without actively avoiding them.
"What is up with you two?" Frank asks, which is rather uncharacteristic of him because he doesn't usually insert himself into other people's business.
"Nothing," Kit says. "It's not like we're avoiding each other. We're just both busy."
Dewey asks the same thing, but in a less blunt manner, because he is Dewey. She shoots him an apologetic smile, even if she doesn't really know if she needs to apologize for something like this. But she knows he worries about her, and it's sweet. Kind of.
"You see us more often, and we aren't really that much involved in VFD work these days," Beatrice points out when Kit visits her and Bertrand at their mansion, the kids off to school. Kit rolls her eyes at that, because no matter what they like to claim, no matter how they keep their kids away, they themselves are as involved as ever. They're still Kit's associates that she works with, on several matters.
Bertrand takes out the brandy he's bought recently, and in that, Kit sees Jacques too. She thinks Bertrand probably pours him the same thing when he visits. And then Bertrand looks at Kit, their eyes meeting, and she just knows that he's thinking of the same thing. But he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
He only gives her a small, wistful smile, that at the same time looks like a sigh.
Some things don't need to be said, and on some level he's always been able to get her more than anyone else.
They've always been best friends. They still are.
"We're not avoiding each other," Kit tells Beatrice, the same thing she's already explained to Frank and Dewey. She feels it needs to be said, even though the words are already sounding repetitive, the way they fall through her mouth. Does she believe it? It's the truth, anyway.
"You're not seeking each other out, either," Beatrice points out.
Kit blinks, slightly taken aback. No one else has quite phrased it like that to her, but Beatrice has a way of doing such things, saying things that other people do not say, whether they don't wish to or they haven't thought of it that way. It's her talent. She has a way of getting away with it too, because everyone adores her. Kit included.
"That's -" Kit says, cutting herself off abruptly, because she's at loss for words. She shoots Bertrand a glance, a call for help. He doesn't say anything, and just gives her a shrug.
He can be understanding, but not necessarily always helpful.
And then, the doorbell rings.
Suddenly, Kit knows what's going to happen, before it actually happens.
"B, darling, can you get the door?" Beatrice says.
Bertrand gives Kit a look, before saying, "Sure."
"Beatrice," Kit says, warningly.
Beatrice looks back at her, almost defiantly.
Bertrand opens the door. It's Jacques. "Hi B, I brought the report on -" he pauses, and stares at Kit. Then he clears his throat and says, "Hello, K."
"J," she says. "I was just leaving."
"No you're not," Beatrice says. "We're having tea. And brandy. And these cookies I baked earlier today."
Kit sighs. "Fine."
"That sounds .... lovely," Jacques says.
"By the way," Beatrice says. "Happy Birthday!"
"......................." a moment of silence falls in the room, before J breaks it, "That's next week."
"I know," Beatrice says. "But if I choose the exact date it might be too obvious. And your schedules might be too booked. Besides, this way I can give you my presents today and I'll be the earliest one to do so, therefore I win!"
Kit sighs, and says, "I - thanks, B."
"Yeah," Jacques says, softly. "Thanks."
Beatrice smiles beautifully at them. Kit instantly forgives her for everything.
"Nothing from me today," Bertrand says. "I'm waiting for the actual birthday."
Kit turns to him, "Did you know she was planning this?"
He raises an eyebrow at her, "Would you believe me if I say I didn't?"
"You're deflecting, so this means you did know," she points out.
He chuckles.
She rolls her eyes.
And then Kit and Jacques are facing each other, and there's a brief awkward moment before Beatrice says, "Oh, this is killing me, please just hug each other", which breaks all the awkward tension as they do as she says.
"It's good to see you," Jacques says.
"Same," Kit admits. "I read your column recently, by the way."
"Oh?" He replies, teasingly. "Didn't know you're interested in fashion."
"I'm mostly reading it for the Esme slander," she tells him. "It's highly entertaining."
"It's not slander if it's true," Jacques points out.
Beatrice cheers. "I read it every day," she says, loyally. "Both for fashion and the very accurate criticisms of Esme."
Kit looks amused. "I'll drink to that, then."
"Brandy for everyone," Beatrice declares. "I'll get the glasses!"
Jacques looks at her as she disappears into the kitchen. "She hasn't changed at all," he says, thoughtfully.
Beatrice has been inside his office for the past 48 hours. The dark shadows under her eyes hint that she has barely slept, and her hair is messy in a way that her adoring fans will probably still find beautiful but she'll never let them see. Beatrice presents a certain image in public - aside from when she's on stage and performing, that is. She looks like she might've cried, earlier. Much earlier. Now she just looks exhausted.
The concierge Frank has tasked with sending meals to her reported back that the meals were all finished, which is good. Under the circumstances, he thinks it's probably the best they could ask for.
"I finished it," she says, her voice a little hoarse. He looks down at the desk, and sees a suspiciously thick bundle of papers. Bizarrely, his first thought is that "I'll need to remember to buy more" and then, the implications hitting him, he says, slowly, "This is your letter?"
"Yes," Beatrice says simply.
"………….. all of it?"
"All 200 pages," she confirms, quietly.
He stares at her.
It the situation isn't so bleak, he thinks, this whole scene would be rather comedic.
"I owe him an explanation," she explains.
This, he thinks, is not what most people would call "an explanation". He wisely does not say that, and instead asks, "Are you sure about doing this?"
She laughs, a little brokenly, "Not at fucking all. But also yes." She exhales. "I love him. I love him so much but it's - I thought I could wait for him forever, but - every time I see another newspaper reporting his death, every time I -" she cuts herself off. "I can't go on like this. I thought I could, but I can't do this anymore. If I had my way I wouldn't let him run away alone, go on the run alone, doing what he thought was best by leaving me behind, leaving me alone without him. But he made his decision, and I - I'm making mine."
"Beatrice ….." he says, quietly.
She smiles shakily through tears. "I know it must be surprising to find out I'm not actually as brave as I look on the surface. That I'm not brave enough to continue doing this. Waiting for him while the only thing that ever comes anymore is false reports of his death that one day might not be false anymore."
Before he can respond, she quickly continues, "This is of course where you agree and say it's completely surprising. Because I always look so perfect."
He sighs. Even in this state, she insists on putting some kind of an act. Even while admitting truths, admitting her vulnerability to him, she needs to do so in a dramatic way, as if to distant herself, as if it's easier to make it into a performance of some kind. Not that he can point any fingers, probably.
She catches his glance and says, warningly, "Let me have this. Indulge me. I'm just about to be broken up with my boyfriend."
Well, if she doesn't want him to acknowledge her vulnerability, so be it. "You're the one breaking up with him," he reminds her.
"Exactly!" She snaps. "He'll leave my behind but he won't break up with me. So I have to be the one to do it." She shakes her head angrily. "He's so noble, you know? He thinks it's for the best. To protect me. I think J also encouraged this. If only if he's a little worse, if only he's not so noble."
"The Snickets," he says slowly. "Are all very noble." If only Jacques is a little worse, too, he thinks. If only J doesn't think it'd be "stringing Frank along while waiting for Jerome to realize his feelings" to sleep with Frank. Too indecent of a thing to do, in Jacques's mind.
She looks at him, and narrows her eyes. "They really are," she agrees. "Oh, F."
"Shut up," he says briskly. "We're dealing with your problem today."
She huffs. "Get your concierge to send up a bottle of brandy. Wait - two. We're getting drunk tonight. And a carrier pigeon too, so I can get this mailed."
"Are you absolutely sure?" He asks again. "You don't want to send this out while drunk, B."
"It's not an impulsive decision," she says, impatiently. "I've thought it over and I've decided. I just need - to get it over with. Or else I'll never summon the courage." She grimaces. "Plus, I wrote 200 pages. Nobody writes a 200 page letter and not send it out. Then what did I put in all the time for?"
"how could you just - leave like that?" dewey demands. and even though he didn't say it, bertrand can hear that the question isn't really "how could you leave vfd" but "how could you leave me".
bertrand grimaces slightly. "i told you, we want to raise the kids away from the organization. you know that."
bertrand's so reasonable as always, so logical as always, and it infuriates dewey. he's already heard these explanations before, and it's not like he doesn't understand, but -
"yes, i know that. but also - you know how few people know about me. you know how few people i get to see. you know how important you are to me. and now you've left and i barely see you anymore and -" he's fighting back tears and it's not quite successful. he's angry and he's pained and he wants to scream at him, wants to grab his shoulders and shake him and make him stay here, just a little longer.
"i know. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry," bertrand says, pained. his expression is pinched and conflicted and dewey feels a sharp jab of guilt for making this harder for him than it already is. for making him choose. but he supposes he's not really making him choose - not when bertrand has already made his decision.
"you could at least tell me that you'll still visit regularly, even if it's a lie -"
"D," bertrand interrupts him sharply. "you know i'll never make you promises that i can't keep."
dewey glares at him bitterly. "then tell me that you miss me, too. or would that be a lie that you don't want to say to me?"
"i miss you," bertrand says, immediately. firmly. fiercely. "and i will always miss you." his voice breaks, too. "every day i see something and then thinks, dewey will have a poem for this exact situation."
dewey feels his heart breaks, but also the admission somehow calms him down. he lets out a sharp laugh, mixed with a sob. "really?"
"yeah," bertrand says, shakily, smiling through tears. "all the time."
___
later, when he's upstairs, ernest quietly pops up by his side. "thanks for stopping by," he says. "i think he needed that."
"to see me?" bertrand asks.
"to yell at you," ernest clarifies, a ghost of a smile.
"do you want to do the same?"
"no," ernest grins wryly. "but i think can check up frank's schedule and book you an opening for him to do the same - just kidding. i would never put you through that in a single day."
“This stays between us,” Ernest instructs his brother as Frank silently stitches the small but deep wound on his right side. “Seriously. Not even if Dewey asks.”
“I’ve never been accused of being a gossip,” Frank murmurs, finishing his work with surgeon-like precision.
“Come on, you owe me one.” Ernest nudges him with his boot. “That man thought I was you.”
“I always tell you not to do that,” Frank scowls. “You should have let me take the hit.”
“You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me.”
Frank drops the used needle into the tray beside his couch with a clank and a blank expression. “That was different,” he says. “I didn’t know the poison was in the sugar. I thought the violence would start after the tea.”
“You expect too much civility from your side,” Ernest tells him. “They were trying to kill either way. Why let someone finish their breakfast?”
“They were very polite.” Frank pours rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad. “And J always…hey, do not scratch those stitches.”
“My associates just went for the gut.” Ernest winces at the burning sensation of the alcohol. “Didn’t take much of a look at me.”
Frank stares at him. He’s got the kind of stare that goes right through a person.
“What?”
“You’re upset,” Frank states.
“Alright, Captain Empathy.” Ernest rolls his eyes. “I scratched the stitches and it hurt, just get on with telling me off.”
“That would probably make both of us feel better,” Frank agrees. “But I’m asking you why anyway.”
“If you’d been the one who got stabbed, you’d have clammed up until the end of time,” Ernest says bitterly.
“We’re different people.” Frank puts down the cotton pad and folds his hands.
“I wish we were,” Ernest snaps, which he doesn’t mean to say at all, but his side is burning and a not-insignificant amount of his blood is on the floor.
Frank just nods. He doesn’t need any further explanation.
“Do you remember when we were little?” Ernest asks finally. “Before…before everything. And I cried because we all got different colour scarves for our birthday and I wanted red like yours?”
“So we’d match.” Frank smiles a little. “Yours was green.”
“And Dewey’s was yellow.” Ernest nods. “But Father sat us down and he told us that he didn’t want us to just be identical triplets our whole lives. He wanted us all to be as different as we could possibly be. That’s the only memory I have of him.”
“I remember,” Frank’s voice is soft. “I don’t think they ever mixed us up once.”
“I hate that they believed I was you so easily,” he says. Then, “No offence.”
Frank snorts.
“They don’t see a single tell,” he continues. “We’re one person on two sides. Where do you draw the line? What’s me, and what’s me pretending to be you? And what’s me pretending to be you pretending to be me? Are we both just pretending to be a manager?”
“Ernest.” Frank holds out a hand. “Stop.”
“Sorry.” Ernest shakes his head. “Too sincere for you?”
“I read the files on our parents,” Frank says quietly.
Ernest stills. Dewey had handed them each a copy of VFD’s records of their parents some years ago. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read them, and neither had Ernest. He had been under the impression that Frank had never touched them either. The last he was aware, none of them knew a single thing about their parents beyond blurry, unreliable memories.
“How is that relevant?” Ernest says at last.
“Because…” Frank considers his words. “I looked at all these photos. I read people’s accounts of meeting them. Letters they wrote, diary entries. Even their school reports.”
“And?”
“And I’m nothing like them.” Frank smiles grimly. “I’m too neurotic, I was too clingy at school, I don’t laugh much. Our mother loved sesame and I’m allergic. Our father couldn’t focus on anything, but I can’t put something down until it’s finished. And they seemed so fun.”
“Where is this going?”
“Let me finish.” Frank huffs. “Our father questioned everything. He made trouble every single day at school, but it was because he had the strongest sense of justice any of those teachers had ever seen. He was charming and funny and he loved the sauna. He was a terrible dancer but a great singer. He wanted to be a cowboy when he was little.”
“Frank.” He can feel a dam starting to crack, something swelling to bursting in his chest.
“You’re not me,” Frank says sternly but gently. “You’re our father’s son. And that man is so loved and so missed. Which I’m told he would have been cocky about.”
Ernest laughs a little shakily.
Later, when he returns to his own room to rest, he finds a photo tucked into the pages of the book on his nightstand.
The man in it has a squarer jaw and darker hair, but the smile that looks back at him is like staring in a mirror.
Ernest and Dewey talk to Bertrand about number theory, individually.
~0.7k
[ao3] [squidgeworld]
__
"So you know how, like, any two positive integers with a difference of one must be co-prime numbers?" Ernest says suddenly.
Bertrand blinks. "Say that again?"
"Co-prime numbers," Ernest waves a hand. "A pair of integers which their greatest - and only - common divisor is 1."
"Sure," Bertrand says. "I know that."
"Right," Ernest nods. "So, two consecutive integers -"
Bertrand catches on. "- must be co-prime numbers because if n is a multiple of x, then n+1 cannot be - unless x is 1."
"Exactly," Ernest agrees. He pauses for a moment, and then says, briskly, "Sometimes I think - Frank and I are like that."
Bertrand frowns. "Like co-prime numbers?"
"Like co-prime numbers that are only one apart," Ernest corrects. "Seemingly close, almost the same. Just differing by one. By in fact without any common ground. Only common divisor is 1. Just next to each other, and yet -" he breaks off.
Bertrand is silent for a moment. "And how does Dewey fit into that, in your coprime numbers theory?"
"Easy," Ernest says. "He's on the other side of me. Same situation. But in this case, they're both even numbers, where I'm the odd one out. So they share something."
"Both divisible by 2, you mean."
"Exactly."
"You do realize that if the difference between them is only 2, if they're 'the two even numbers to each side of your odd number', as you put it, then their greatest common divisor is also only 2? The only other common divisor aside from one. That doesn't sound like a lot either." Bertrand points out.
Ernest shrugs. "But enough to fundamentally set them apart, give them common ground to bond over without me."
Bertrand looks skeptical. "Even numbers versus odd numbers?"
"Kind of like the schism, wouldn't you say?" Ernest says.
"Not at all - the schism isn't two sides, people just like to pretend it is," Bertrand counters. "VFD has so many sides that this isn't a polygon anymore, it's a circle."
Ernest scoffs.
Bertrand sighs. "Oh, E. Maybe common ground is more than which basic traits you share, if you're so inclined to break yourself down as if doing prime factorization and compare them. Maybe common ground is what you're willing to put in effort to find, all three of you. And - you're all still here, so that has to count for something, right?"
Ernest doesn't say anything.
"Let me make you some tea," Bertrand says.
__
"B," Dewey says. "Sometimes I think they're like twin primes."
Bertrand pauses. "Sorry, what?"
"Twin primes. When two prime numbers that have exactly one composite number between them. Like, 11 and 13. 101 and 103."
"Right," Bertrand says slowly. "I've heard of that."
Dewey continues, "The theory is that there are actually infinite pairs of them, although it gets sparser as numbers get larger. There are mathematicians dedicated to finding them, I think."
"Are we certain there are infinite pairs?" Bertrand asks.
"I don't think anybody knows for sure," Dewey shrugs. "But, as they get sparser - it kind of feels more special when you find one, doesn't it? Famous as the next pair of twin primes as the number keeps going into infinity."
"Sure," Bertrand says slowly. He has a faint suspicion of where this is going.
"But nobody really cares much about the composite number between them, do they?"
Bertrand raises an eyebrow. "The 12 to 11 and 13, the 102 to 101 and 103?"
"And the 140730 to 140729 and140731," Dewey nods.
"I'll take your word for it," Bertrand says dryly.
"My point is, the pair of twin primes is what gets documented, put on a list, go down in history -"
"- and you are the composite number between them?"
"That gets forgotten." Dewey says, nodding.
"I'm not so sure about that," Bertrand says. "Once the number gets large enough - with so many digits - it must be terribly inconvenient to refer to them directly. It's not 11 and 13 anymore. It could be hundreds of digits."
Dewey blinks.
"So, they probably don't refer them in the way of 11 and 13. It'll be, 12-1 and 12+1. In reference to 12. Because 12 is a composite number that can be broken down, can be represented more easily because if has a lovely set of prime numbers making up to it. So to represent the twin primes, they're in fact both referenced using the composite number between them." Bertrand says. He looks at Dewey, and gently takes hold of Dewey's hands. "I wouldn't call that forgotten."
"I ….. I guess haven't thought about it that way," Dewey admits. He sighs. "Thanks, B."
soulmates but not in a soft romantic way soulmates in a destined to change each other for better or for worse, cannot be who they are without each other, unstoppable together but they’re also the only ones who can defeat each other, equals, existences undeniably tied to each other way
Okay, but non-romantic "soulmates", characters who shape and influence each other, who *need* each other, who may love or hate the other, but it doesn't matter because they need each other, whose story cannot be told alone, those are the best characters.
If you are a content creator in the ASOUE fandom, would you consider participating in a fanwork raffle event for Palestine?
Yes
No
I have an alternative suggestion
Voting ended onFeb 8, 2024
Please note: there is no shame in saying no, this is a check of availability and time to participate, not a reflection on your engagement with Palestine as a whole.
Places to donate/resources:
Palestine Children's Relief Fund
Care For Gaza
Medical Aid for Palestinians
Palestine Solidarity Campaign
Gaza Kinder Relief (TW: some upsetting images of injured children)
Motaz Azaiza
Bisan Owda
Hind Khoudary
Twitter thread explaining e-sims and other ways to support Palestinians
Once upon a time, @asoue-network held a charity raffle. I’ve owed @deweysdenouement a fic ever since. Well, here it is, two years later. Sorry about that, my love.
a recovery, an awakening, a love story
Frank Denouement/Jacques Snicket, Explicit, 12k.
Warnings for bloody injuries, an awkward courtship, graphic sexual content, and some self-indulgent quoting of classic literature
AO3 link, if you prefer that
(not beta read, so if you see glaring mistakes, no you didn’t)
getting shot with a harpoon gun would suck so much because with other weapons you can be like oh i was shot i got impaled i was stabbed i was poisoned but there's just no cool way to say "i got harpooned" like no disrespect to any harpoon victims out there but it just sounds so goofy. it would probably leave a really cool scar though so i guess it evens out.
