Chapter Text
The stench.
It was the first thing Violet noticed about him when the door opened. Her nose wrinkled as the unpleasant aromas of pungent salt (or maybe onion?) overwhelmed, but there were notes of a sour like grapes sinking beneath it that all together reminded of dinner that was left on the counter overnight and had flies circling it.
It wasn’t the most pleasant impression of their new guardian, thinking that he smelled, but it was when Violet first locked Count Olaf’s flashing eyes did she realize:
Alpha.
The label was immediate. Ever since her first heat last year, she navigated the world differently than many others. And right now, Violet distinctly whiffed Alpha.
Her thighs clenched beneath her dress with just the subtlest motion that Violet pretended it was just a moment of hyper-awareness, and definitely not anything else.
As Mr. Poe, their charge, blabbered on, Violet heard the words between the hacking and wheezes, but if you asked her to recall exactly she wouldn’t be able to because never once had Count Olaf taken his eyes off her, and she off him.
An assessment. Was he smelling her too?
She could not look away. The man had a strange sheen in his eyes of all ice: cold, yet beautiful. But ice was rarely a good thing unless it was in lemonade on a hot summer’s day. No. This type of ice was like a jagged pick, something deadly, and it was keeping her pinned in place.
The saliva was dribbling down her throat, collecting in a dare for her to swallow. She would not.
If Violet knew anything, it was to never look weak as an omega. Mother and Father told her she would have to be vigilant—a word she only learned because of their emphasis of how important it was since she presented.
Her hand gripped the suitcase a little tighter as she suddenly realized that her prescription of suppressants was down to one single pill.
So caught up in the mourning and transition uprooting their entire lives, Violet forgot that she would need a new order filled from the pharmacy. Except… only her parents could request it.
Adults.
Guardians…
“Hello… Veronica,” said Count Olaf, delivering this without a single ounce of warmth, entirely void was that deep voice. The ice in his eyes sharpened needles. Violet had seen eyes like this often since she presented.
Just like how predators looked at prey.
Hungry.
But there was something darker, worse than hunger lurking beneath it. She couldn’t quite place what it was in the moment.
Violet’s lips thinned, but she understood, they were strangers, and it wasn’t right to be irked that he got her name wrong (but shouldn’t he know the names of the children he was adopting?).
“Violet,” she corrected primly. With a quick bounce, she adjusted Sunny on her numb hip, trying to juggle her plump younger sister and a full suitcase. Her pleasant smile started to pull uncomfortably as those eyes of his unnerved.
He gave no acknowledgment.
She tried to think nothing of the rudeness. They were all probably anxious. Still, she knew manners.
Violet didn’t mean to, it just came natural, but she sniffed ever slightly. Her brain deduced: Count Olaf was unmated.
The smallest speckle of heat sat at the top of her cheeks as she wondered: firstly, why she even noticed that, and secondly, why was this older Alpha unmated? Seemed a little unusual according to her research…
While Count Olaf spoke with Mr. Poe, he relinquished the threat of his gaze from her, allowing her eyes to freely wander. A flicker up and down had her noticing how tall he was, standing head and shoulders above her. And though he was thin, he didn’t appear frail. His posture and gestures demonstrated a corroboration of his title. Regal.
He brushed past her, the fabric of his coat catching her long hair in a flutter. The wind from this motion kicked up his scent multiplied. It could only be described as a bloom opening fresh at the back of her brain. Something that should excite… Beneath that weird stench of his sat something musky, distinctly smoke.
It was so quick; she registered the potent appeal in it, one entire second where she almost thought it pleasant.
Her belly dropped. All sick and sour, and leaded guilt.
Smoke was not good. Smoke was bad.
Smoke came from fires that killed parents.
The door clacked shut, rocking Violet on her loafers.
“Welcome home, orphans. I’ll show you to your room.”
Count Olaf led them up the dreadful stairs, his black coat making him look a floating wraith or whatever that spooky thing was Klaus showed her in that scary stories book last Halloween.
Klaus was bumping her elbow, silently calling her attention except Violet locked her eyes at the space between the Count’s shoulder blades because smoke trailed him in a way that pecked at her brain, but she couldn’t itch any answer.
-
The ugly red streak over Klaus’s cheek stared back at Violet. Each time she glimpsed it, she felt the reverb of the slap against her own cheek.
It took some time to bring up her personal problem after the storm of tonight.
“I need a refill of suppressants,” she said quietly inside their dinky room.
“Maybe we can go into town tomorrow?” suggested Klaus, stretching his legs across the creaking floorboards.
Violet hugged Sunny, who was sleeping as the sun had dipped below the horizon. “I need a guardian to place the order.”
A crease appeared behind the bridge of Klaus’s glasses. He opened his mouth as though almost to suggest it was even conceivable to ask their new guardian for such a thing.
He must’ve realized it was pointless after what happened because his mouth promptly shut.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, feeling the bed frame digging into her spine. Her legs were numb from sitting folded over the floor with Sunny’s limp weight in her lap, but Violet had no strength to get up right now.
The seed of hope inside, to try to see the good in all this, was growing smaller and smaller with each minute, threatening to blip out of existence. She was just tired.
“We could figure something out,” said Klaus lightly. “Get out of this house, at least.” And he said the word house with disdain followed by a yawn.
Violet nodded, straightening shoulders as though to psych herself up back into the optimistic girl she was twenty-four hours ago. Before Klaus was slapped. Before Sunny was frightened. Before it all fell like a pile of bricks upon them.
It’s all they could do.
She set Sunny in the crumple of tattered curtains and curled up on the cold dirty floor. The bed creaked as Klaus scooted around. They both whispered goodnight.
Violet shut her eyes. She was tired of thinking. The muscles in her face dragged down with a heaviness she hadn’t felt since walking around the husk of a place once called home.
Klaus’s breath eventually slowed but she was awake.
The stench of omens caressed her nose, so subtle, but Violet tore her eyes wide open. Her heart pounded, pulsing waves in the darkness, and for some reason she stiffened perfectly still like it mattered for something. A cool prick washed over her neck in a slow crawl. Her glands buzzed an awful sort of tickle that made her want to scratch and itch.
The stench was nearby, and it lingered for several minutes until it extinguished.
-
“No.”
Violet stared dimly at the pharmacist with the name tag ‘Brent’ who was slumping behind the counter and looking like he had been working since the crack of dawn.
“But—but, it’s already been prescribed, I just need a refill.” Sunny shook a fist, garbling out a babble to echo Violet’s sentiment.
“Class A drugs cannot be administered without your doctor’s approval,” droned Brent, the pharmacist.
“Well, I do have the approval, I just need a refill.” Violet hated how nothing was easy, how useless and tiring the adults had been lately.
The pharmacist proceeded to inform that Class A drugs only have a year’s validation before expiring and must be re-approved through a doctor. Apparently hers expired a month ago.
“That’s stupid,” Violet accidentally spilled out then she blushed. Sunny giggled.
“I don’t make the rules, ma’am. You’ll have to speak with your doctor,” said Brent, the pharmacist, face appearing cross, eyes flickering to the long line of people waiting behind the Baudelaires who had been grumbling in Violet’s ears.
Klaus stepped forward. “Surely you can make an exception. This is an emergency—our parents recently died—”
“Kid,” interrupted Brent, the pharmacist. “You’re holding up the line. I’ve already explained—now skedaddle.”
Klaus turned beet red, glasses falling to the tip of his nose, his jaw shifting. Violet herself was also red but mostly because she hoped no one had heard the entire conversation. By the trailing eyes from the people in line as they passed to leave, it confirmed little doubt. Being an omega was embarrassing; she couldn’t even hide it. Anyone with a special class could whiff her identity.
Violet wanted to tuck herself away and die of mortification.
“Well, you can just set up an appointment when we get home,” said Klaus as they were on the sidewalk.
“Teh,” said Sunny, suggesting to call right away.
“Yeah…” said Violet with a coated vibrance, but a plum-shaped dread sat in her belly.
It was surprising that the dust layered, sticky phone in the living room of Count Olaf’s home even had a dial tone. Violet pressed the brrr to her ear and stuck her finger in the dial to wind up the doctor’s phone number she found in a moldy phone book.
It rang.
“Hello, Doctor Faust’s office. Amanda speaking. How can I help you?”
Violet glanced at Klaus who was holding Sunny as she gnawed on a rusted door hinge. “Yes, hi, I need to make an appointment. It’s urgent.”
“Uh-uh. What’s the name?”
“Violet Baudelaire.”
“One moment.”
There was a click then upbeat jazz music muffled for a full minute. Violet gnawed on her tongue, tapping her foot, entirely fazing out the annoyance of phony elevator music.
“Miss Baudelaire?”
Violet stood straighter, pressing the phone to her ear. “Yes?”
“You said you needed to make an appointment?”
“Yes.” Violet nodded even though it couldn’t be seen. “It’s urgent,” she emphasized.
“Soo, it says in our system that you’re still a minor; therefore your parents will have to call or come in person to schedule an appointment.”
Violet’s throat constricted as she tried not to panic. Her free hand found the wire of the phone, finger lodging through the coil. “But, you see, our parents passed away recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Baudelaire. Do you have a guardian that you can put on the phone for me?”
Just then the front door opened.
A chill ran sick and cold down Violet’s back, and she froze as though doing something wrong. Perhaps she was. There was no telling with Count Olaf what he would yell at from one moment to the next. Simultaneously, all Baudelaires turned to the shadow stood perfectly still by the doorway. Count Olaf’s face was glacial.
The receiver slowly hovered away from Violet’s ear.
Count Olaf glided toward her, halting to stoop over her. The stench of stale coffee and smoke wafted over her, and she willed her face to show no reaction as her belly trembled. Count Olaf’s face melted from ice to curling smile as his warm hand set over Violet’s cold, shaking one that was slowly losing grip on the receiver.
“Veronica, dear, hang up the phone. It’s much too late of an hour to be taking calls.” His voice was cloying in its collected firm that hinted the quietest threat.
“But—” she started, but his hand guided her to click the phone into its hook.
“Can’t run up the phone bill, now. Do you think I’m made of money?” he said, his calloused fingers dragging across the veins of her hand as he let her go. Violet’s belly twisted into a spiral that quickly unfurled itself as Count Olaf drew away to look at all the Baudelaires.
“Are you going to explain why you are using my things without permission?” he asked calmly, a simmer burning beneath it.
Violet gulped, finding her voice: “I was trying to make a doctor appointment.”
Count Olaf wrinkled his face in what looked vexation before it smoothed out. “Ah… anyone under the weather…? Terminally ill, perhaps…?”
The flush of embarrassment curled from her neck to her cheeks. He must have caught it because his smile twitched near imperceptible which only deepened the scorch.
“No, we are all very healthy,” she replied. “I just need to set up something urgent.”
“Urgent, you say?” He turned away. “It’s too bad all the chores you must finish first.”
Klaus was glaring at the Count’s back, looking like anger was sitting behind the tight stitch of his lips.
“W-well, that’s the thing…” Violet started, taking a step forward. “I really need to make this appointment. It can’t wait.”
Count Olaf paused at the bottom steps. “Do you think all these very important chores I’ve assigned can be neglected in favor of another plot of cahoots?”
Violet’s teeth trembled as she pressed them together. “We’re not planning anything! I just need to set up an appointment, but I need my guardian to do it!” she snapped in an impatient outburst.
“Pity. I’m far too tied up at the moment,” said Count Olaf as he began to climb the stairs.
Violet’s heart sank and sank. Every fear bobbled to the surface. She would go through the horror of heat. Violet remembered the single day of terror that eclipsed her every sense of faculty: the gut wrenching nausea, clawing out of her skin, the burn that trickled uncontrollably between her legs, but the worst was being trapped in her mind, wanting, needing release, for someone to take—
She would be forced to endure that here, in front of her siblings, in front of him.
“Wait! Please! I’ll do anything. I’ll do extra chores or—”
Count Olaf swiveled to face with such a smooth breeze, eyes shining razor alight from across the room. “Anything?”
The way he pronounced such a word in a drawn-out, implicating syllable threatened a shudder at the tail of Violet’s spine.
The room was silent and still. Upstairs, a loose window shutter echoed a distant clank.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Anything.” Klaus whipped his face at her, but she wouldn’t look at him.
Count Olaf broke out in a smile that should relieve Violet’s worries but instead she felt herself sinking in the sticky muck of dread.