Archive of Our Own ^beta

     There’s an apartment complex on 12th avenue. An unsuspecting complex with ninety-nine unsuspecting residents and one resident suspected of murder. Each building is full of bustling families, loving couples, and isolated people. Every morning, each resident goes on their way to school or work and returns to the same routine: warm dinner, a cold shower, and a good night’s sleep.

     Lemony Snicket is more or less the same. He returns to a bustling family, a loving couple, and isolation in his one-bedroom apartment. He has a warm dinner, a cold shower, and some resemblance of sleep. Tonight is no different. 

     “I’m home,” he announces to an empty apartment.

     “Welcome home,” someone says from the moth-eaten sofa. A soft but discernible hum from the TV tells Lemony that it’s on and someone is probably watching it. 

     “Hello, K.” Lemony acknowledges the figure on his sofa. Then, he turns to the bedroom door. “Having a smoke there, J?”

     “Calms me down,” Jacques says from the other room. There’s a shuffling sound of footsteps. “You’re home early, L.”

     “What made you so jumpy?” Lemony asks back as he sets his suitcase down on the kitchen counter. “And yes, I suppose I am back early… I need to tell you two something.”

     His brother hums in response for him to go on

     “I’m the last Snicket.” Lemony heaves. It feels oddly good to say it out loud, despite the sour disappointment he feels. Finally admitting it felt like he was outing a well-worn secret that he had longed to tell. In a way, it is. 

     Beatrice Snicket is alive. She doesn’t go by Snicket. The Snicket family name will die with him. And lastly, it was another Wednesday. (Wednesdays are quite horrible.)

     Lemony is almost glad for her; Snicket is a heavy name to carry. It held many sins, fears, and enemies. For her to go by Baudelaire, her legacy is lighter: less gloomy and holds a better inheritance than Snicket can ever give.

      (Bertrand and Beatrice (I) would have said that he was being too harsh on himself but old habits die hard.)

      “Have you gone mad, L?” Jacques laughs at him from the other room. “Kit is pregnant, you can’t possibly be the last one.”

     “I met her,” Lemony turns back to the TV where his sister is sitting. She’s always watching TV nowadays. “Your daughter, she seems nice. Looks a lot like you.”

      Why did you name her Beatrice? goes unasked. He’s a bit afraid to know. Would you have named her Lemony if she was a boy? Or, Jacques? Bertrand? 

     It haunts him to wonder if she died thinking he was dead. Did it make him a good person for protecting her from his enemies? Did it make him a horrible brother for not being there for her in her final moments?

     “I thought you would appreciate the sentiment.” His sister looks up from whatever show she was watching to bat her eyelashes innocently at him. “Didn’t Beatrice almost name Violet after you?”

     “Bertrand was the one who wanted to.” He corrects, pushing down the many emotions that swell within him with those two names before changing the subject. He decides to make tea.  “She goes by Baudelaire. She doesn’t want to be a Snicket.”

     (And he knows this because there’s a letter, worn but well kept in Lemony’s bedside drawer that lies alongside other worn but well-kept letters. L., it writes, perhaps the body buried underneath this soil is yours, but B. and I both think you would appreciate this letter anyway. We’re naming our first child in your honor. B. didn’t quite accept it at first— naming our child after you would be admitting defeat, admitting that you are truly dead and buried six feet under where this letter will lie on your grave, but we miss you both and we must move on. There is never a day when I wake up disappointed that you’re not lying next to us. I hope to see you again in better circumstances someday when the world is finally quiet. Rest well, L. )

     “Pity,” Kit grimaces but her eyes are still glued to the screen. “I thought you two would get along quite well.”

     “Can you imagine? Uncle Lemony. Guess you’ll never get that.” Jacques chuckles, his footsteps barely made any noise on the creaky wooden panels. He’s taking an awfully long time to finish his smoke. 

     “I guess not. Uncle Lemony. Makes me sound like some sentimental, old uncle—” The kettle cuts him off and Lemony finishes making his tea. Against the cold winter air that seeps into his apartment, the tea feels like a fireplace. He gulps the entirety of the tea in his teacup in one long gulp. 

     “But you are old.” His brother points out. “Older than we’ll ever be.”

     “And you are sentimental.” Kit adds. “That’s why we’re still here. Why we exist.”

     Lemony allows himself to look at his siblings for the first time in a very long time. They’re staring at him. The TV hums its static (Lemony had tried to close it completely many times but to no avail) and the smoke in the other rooms lingers (from that one time Lemony tried smoking and then regretted it immediately). 

     Grief can make people’s minds do very, very strange things.

     His siblings' faces were young but blurry. From far away, perhaps their faces would make sense— a vague silhouette. But close up, their faces would make the viewer go mad just by trying to make sense of it. Features faded in and out, ever-changing. Kit’s hair varied between wavy and straight and Lemony knows if he opens the bedroom door, he would see Jacques’ lips that couldn’t seem to agree on smiling or frowning. 

     The youngest of the Snicket siblings looks back at the kettle. 

     “I think I need some fresh air.” Lemony tells them both. They don’t respond. They don’t exist. The seat next to the TV is empty and all he can hear is his own footsteps as he steps toward the door. 

     He leaves their ghosts behind in his apartment and (in a hasty decision that maybe he’ll grow to regret later) throws the apartment key away into the nearest river. It’s raining now, the sudden downpour mixed with the cool night pierced against his shoulders but he trudged on. 

     Lemony’s alone now. Truly. Candidly. A man most acquainted with misery and loneliness. 

     And he goes, running and running and running.

     We Snickets take care of our own.

     Beatrice Baudelaire II isn’t a Snicket— not by a long shot, not anymore— and Beatrice Baudelaire II isn’t his but she’s still Kit’s, a Snicket that should’ve been here in his place to answer all of her daughter’s questions, and Jacques’, a Snicket that should’ve been here in his place to guide his niece into a life, noble yet not as life-threatening as theirs was. 

     Lemony breathes in, then out. The taste of root beer is still on his tongue if he bites down on it enough and Beatrice’s request shifts around in his mind.  I’m going to be a horrible uncle, aren’t I? 

     He’ll help her, he finally decides. For his siblings’ sake, he will share their legacy with a girl— who has adopted a new name in place of a time he was not there for her and a girl— they’ll hopefully not see in a very, very long time. 

     Then, maybe if not definitely, the name Snickets can rest (well).