Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The coffee shop is rather small, but not deserted. It seems popular among the people of the City, really; almost every table is occupied with laughing youths or solemn adults.

They are not who she is looking for.

Esmé scans the premises, eyes flicking quickly over the patrons of Venus' Fine Drinks. Her partner is supposed to be here; in fact, she herself is rather late.

Check for the signs, you'll know them when you see them, her instructor had told her. They are to be your partner for this mission. R is their name. The best of the best; you are lucky to have such a partner, E.

She is rather annoyed that this R seems so perfect, because it is boring to have to talk to perfect volunteers. Perfection is out, as her City friends say, and it will always be. She has never understood the literary culture of VFD, and she does not want to. She does not want to listen to some cardboard cut-out chatter on about books when she could be talking about fashion or mathematics or logic. She wishes very much to find someone who took the same stance as her, but no one ever does; all VFD cares about, she has learned, is books, books, books. Even Olaf, who is tolerable, and Beatrice, who is practically her best friend.

Even the thought of it makes her roll her eyes, before she carefully replaces her neutral expression. She has to be professional, after all.

She would rather R was a rebel, like herself, like Beatrice and Olaf to some extent; they are fun to be around.

There.

The girl with the dark brown curls that obscure her face, reading Anna Karenina . (How presumptuous.) That's the one. She even has an empty seat across from hers.

Esmé strolls over and takes the seat. The girl looks up, dark eyes curious and wary and watchful. She's younger than I am, Esmé realises.

"I didn't realise this was a sad occasion," she says.

"The world is quiet here," Esmé responds.

"E, I presume?" The girl asks, placing the book down the table and eyeing her critically.

"And you are R."

"I am," she says. 

"If we are to be partners, then perhaps you could call me Esmé. Esmé Squalor," she invites.

"There are beliefs we have to follow," R warns.

So she is the sort that sticks to the rules. Hardly anyone bothers, with partners. Boring.

"And what is the point of those beliefs? Some beliefs are made to be challenged, darling."

Her smile does not reach her eyes. This, in itself, is a challenge, and they both know it. Her partner has been drawn into the game, now. Esmé will see how well she can play it.

She plucks the well-worn copy of Anna Karenina from the table and turns it in her hands, examining it. 

There is a knife in her back pocket. She takes it out, now, and the steel surface shines in the light of the café. She eyes herself in it, seeing a smirk, and dark eyes, and fire dancing in them. R is staring at her, eyes flickering from book to knife to Esmé's face.

So she is uncertain. Let her be. This is a test, and Esmé has control, now.

Esmé holds the book up and slices it in half. Straight down the middle.

There is a woman on the front cover, wearing a black dress; her face has been split into two, her eyes on one half and her nose and mouth on another.

She lets the halves fall onto the table, slips her knife back where it belongs, and looks the other girl straight in the eye.

Oh, Esmé is perfectly aware that she is rebelling, that she is probably alienating her perfect partner, and to be frank she really couldn't care less.

Why should she care about VFD? Why should she care for this perfect volunteer?

Her partner quirks an eyebrow, but makes no comment on her now-destroyed book. Her face is carefully, perfectly blank.

And then she smiles, or at least her lips curl into something resembling a smile.

How interesting.

Perhaps she does care about R, after all. 

"Well then, Esmé, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jacquelyn Scieszka," she replies.

That name is familiar to her.

It is familiar to most of VFD.

"The Duchess of Winnipeg's daughter. The girl who was brought up on deceit and trickery. The girl who was trained for this since birth. I didn't know it was you," Esmé says.

And she is breaking the rules, for Esmé. She cannot help but feel strangely touched.

She changes the topic. "So that's your name. Jacquelyn."

"I would prefer it if you did not call me that," R says quietly. "I am R, and I always will be. VFD is my home, now, and I will follow their rules."

"I have heard of you, you know. The perfect volunteer, and you break the rules for me," Esmé muses. "Not quite so… personality-less after all, hm?"

She eyes the girl. "You are quite the enigma. Insisting on calling yourself R, but calling me Esmé."

R smiles. "You are an interesting person, Esmé Squalor. Perhaps I would like to see where this goes."

"Thank you for the compliment," she replies.

They shake hands, and Esmé can just feel that this is going to be a very fruitful partnership, indeed.

Anna Karenina is left on the table as she stands.

The other girl looks down at it.

She does not pick it up.

Esmé Squalor thinks that she might be in love, or infatuated, or obsessed, but she really does want to get to know this R all the same.

Alright, so that was not supposed to happen. But they can fix it.

R is bound in chains, her new partner E, Esmé, beside her. They are spread-eagled against a wall of a cell, clamped to it, and her wrists and ankles are aching from the too-tight chains. It hurts .

They were just supposed to investigate the house on the corner, and why there were people constantly coming and going if it was abandoned. It turned out it was a meeting place. For the wrong sort of people.

And now she and her partner are in prison.

And they have to get out before something terrible happens to them.

"There is always a way," she mutters to herself. And with that, she starts testing the limits of her steel collar.

E, or Esmé, R supposes, snorts beside her. "It's hard to hope for a deus ex machina when we're trapped like this."

"I am a deus ex machina," she replies. I can do this. I can. She does not need to doubt herself, not now. They are, quite literally, about to die.

She is the best.

She can save them.

She just has to reach a little bit more-

She hisses as the collar constricts just a bit too tightly for comfort. Then she tries again.

"Hope only hurts you, in the end," Esmé observes.

This girl is an enigma, indeed. So dismissive, so indifferent to literature (which R actually does enjoy, and does not just read because of VFD forcing them to), and then she turns around and says something like that . 

Esmé Squalor is very interesting indeed; perhaps for the wrong reasons, but challenging the status quo and near- open rebellion is new, and exciting, and R has always loved exciting.

She likes breaking rules.

Of course, VFD does not approve.

She is the best of the best.

And the best of the best do not have feelings, and this is all wrong, and she most definitely should not like this rebellious, angry girl, and she should not be playing this kind of game with Esmé. E. E sounds wrong, somehow.

This is why she calls herself R. She has been trained her whole life for this, and she cannot make a mess of it. R reminds her what she is doing.

"You know, you really shouldn't be doing that. There is not going to be some sort of miracle just because you are trying to bite your collar off, or something. Miracles don't exist," Esmé points out.

"A very true sentiment, but not one I would like to apply right now. I would rather not die, not at the hands of these ruffians. And this is no miracle."

"Ruffians?" Her partner echoes, amused. 

"I am royalty," she reminds.

"I believe that one's circumstances of birth should not define their behaviour; we are all equal, after all. VFD should not make children born into it join them, for example, and royalty does not have to be refined," Esmé says languidly. For a moment R wonders how she can seem languid with her wrists and ankles chained to a wall.

"That is an interesting view, but I am trying to escape, here; perhaps we can continue this conversation later," she tells Esmé.

"You still have not told me how you are trying to escape!" Her partner exclaims, irritated.

R ignores her, in favour of trying again.

She forces her head downwards again and reaches for the skeleton key she knows is in her sleeve somewhere.

Her neck feels bruised. For that matter, her windpipe feels bruised. Perhaps she should stop.

"Not a miracle," Esmé muses. "A weapon, then?"

"A skeleton key," R replies.

"And you did not think to mention this to me earlier?" The older girl sounds irritated. "Let me."

She turns her head, and presses her lips to R's shoulder, and the perfect volunteer freezes.

Esmé does not seem to notice as she feels for the key, and coaxes it out with her teeth, and finally presses it out of her short sleeve.

R lets out a breath she did not know she was holding. Oh. Oh.

She suddenly feels a lot more grateful that she wore the short-sleeved blouse to meet this girl. She does not think she could have handled Esmé moving the key out of a long sleeve.

The older girl turns towards her, key between her teeth, and pushes it into her wrist-lock. She tilts her head up and stretches, turning the key with effort. The clamp around R's wrist falls open and her arm falls before she can control herself.

And she is freed. Her neck aches and her wrists and ankles are so sore she can hardly move, but- her partner has freed her.

(She would not mind getting used to having Esmé as a partner, she thinks.)

R (not Jacquelyn, don't feel, you have to be perfect) takes the key from Esmé's mouth and pulls away hurriedly as Esmé's lips brush her hand. She unlocks her chains in silence, then moves to Esmé's.

Finally the two of them are standing on the ground, and R is trying so hard not to flush red but she has never been so embarrassed in her life.

"Well," Esmé breaks the silence. "Shall we get out of here?"

"We shall," R agrees.

And so she unlocks their cell door, and the two girls walk out of the cell and out of the house and into fresh air. It feels nice.

"Back to Headquarters, I suppose," she says.

Esmé frowns. "You don't have to follow the rules all the time, darling. At least not the silly little ones like that."

"What would you rather do, then?" R asks. She does not know what kind of answer she wants.

She wants Esmé.

She needs to be a good volunteer.

She knows that she should value her needs more but the wanting is so strong and she doesn't know why and her head is spinning with the memory of Esmé's lips on her hand and she cannot think straight.

Esmé's eyes dance with promises of adventure and freedom and laughter .

"I should like to get to know you better, R, love," she murmurs, the words falling from her lips like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"And I you, Esmé Squalor," R replies. "And-"

why is she doing this

Her partner is like a star, burning, bright, brilliant, and R will be perfectly content to be in her orbit.

"-my name is Jacquelyn."

Esmé smiles, genuinely. She has a pretty smile.

"Well then, Jacquelyn," she breathes. "Might I bring you to a favourite café of mine?"

"Of course, partner," says Jacquelyn, and the sound of Esmé's true laugh lingers in her mind for a long time afterwards.

Chapter Text

Esmé moves in with Jacquelyn about three weeks later. Her room is stiflingly small, and Jacquelyn did offer.

The apartment that was given to the Princess of Winnipeg is quite a lot bigger than normal, it turns out. It's practically a fully-furnished apartment from the City- two bedrooms, one bathroom and one half-bath, larger spaces everywhere else.

"I would be jealous if you hadn't taken me in, Jacquelyn dear," Esmé comments as she tows her suitcase through the front door.

Jacquelyn hums thoughtfully as she closes the door behind her, Esmé's backpack slung over her shoulder. "My family has always been VFD," she says. "I suspect they simply want to stay in our good books. My mother had a room like this as well before she left to rule and have me."

"Well, I approve," Esmé says. "My room was tiny and I had to live next door to the junior hypnotist, to boot."

"Oh, G?" Jacquelyn asks as they troop through the corridor. "I'd have thought you would like her."

Esmé sighs melodramatically. "I would," she exclaims, "but she hates me. Quite a bit. And apparently she despises my fashion choices." Which is obviously bad taste, except Georgina Orwell dresses in suits that fit her and fit what's in every single day. She is impeccably dressed and Esmé cannot find anything to insult her about. And Georgina has far too much to insult Esmé about. "She is simply too hard to be rude or kind to!"

"How horrible," Jacquelyn deadpans. a

"It is," Esmé agrees, because she can. "Thank you for your pity."

Jacquelyn sighs loudly. "You really are an idiot sometimes."

"Love you too, darling," Esmé sing-songs, and blows her a kiss as they reach Esmé's new room. Jacquelyn is adorable when she gets annoyed like this. Of course Esmé is going to goad her more. Why wouldn't she?

They have a very nice relationship.

Well. Relationship is an awkward word to use. They have gone out together for leisure, once or twice. And there've been five paired missions assigned to them since the very first date.

(It was not really a date, but-)

(It was, wasn't it?)

Jacquelyn shows her around. Her new room is comfortably snug, furnished with a bed and a desk and a closet. There are a few shelves lining the walls. For VFD, this is luxurious. Esmé silently thanks whatever deities are out there for giving her Jacquelyn as a partner. Of course, there are other nice bonuses, such as having someone to go on missions with who she can actually tolerate. But good rooms? Those are hard to find.

She surveys the room again, and this time she spots something out of place. There's a small paint set on one of the shelves, open and drying up.

Jacquelyn follows her gaze. "Oh, no," she sighs, and hurries to retrieve it. "I did like these."

"You paint?" Esmé inquires. 

"Yes, in fact," Jacquelyn replies. "One of the few pleasures I have." There is a strangely bitter note in her voice, reminding Esmé of hurt and of hatred, somewhat. Esmé turns to look at her. Jacquelyn's eyes are dark.

She tilts her head curiously.

"One of the few I was allowed," Jacquelyn elaborates.

"Oh," Esmé says. 

"'Oh' is putting it rather mildly," Jacquelyn replies dryly.

Esmé drops the subject. She does have some semblance of common decency. At least when it comes to this girl.

Still, that doesn't stop her from wondering: how much does she really know about Jacquelyn? She never broadcasts what she feels. Not like Esmé does.

(She makes a mental note to buy Jacquelyn the best paint set she can find for her birthday. She knows that much, at least. The 14th of July.)

Well. She'll just have to find out more, then.

Time passes. Esmé learns.

She learns that Jacquelyn only has childishly flavoured toothpastes in her rooms. Not one tube of normally flavoured mint toothpaste. It’s endearing, really.

Because VFD has never let them be children. 

But not everything is about VFD, and so Esmé mercilessly teases Jacquelyn, because she can. She usually gets a face full of water in reply, and then that leads to water fights, and shameless cheating, and unsolicited kisses, just to win. Another thing that she learns is that a happy Jacquelyn looks really, really good. More than usual.

(She is never going to live that one time down.)

(Why does she even tell Beatrice things anymore?)

She learns that Jacquelyn, on top of the flavoured toothpaste, is also very much in love with chocolate. The longing looks that she sends at the chocolate coins in convenience stores are a clear indicator of that.

“If you want them, you can just buy them, love,” Esmé points out. “There is certainly nothing wrong with that.”

Jacquelyn shrugs. “Luxuries.”

“Deserved ones,” Esmé retorts.

Jacquelyn changes the subject. Far too fast to be comfortable. “Oh. Look. A-”

Esmé cuts her off by grabbing a bag of the chocolate coins herself. “Look, sweetheart, you can try to make excuses, but is it really that hard to disobey VFD just once for something you want?”

“Fuck off, E!” Jacquelyn cries, exasperated. “You don’t understand- the mission has to come first, it always has to come first-” She snatches the bag out of Esmé’s hands. “We shouldn’t just-”

“Just what?” Esmé challenges, and swipes it back.

“Everything!” Her partner exclaims.

(What the fuck has VFD done to her partner? Teaching her that she can’t even have one luxury because she’s a Volunteer?)

There is something seriously flawed with this system. 

“Well. Think of it as my treat, Jacquelyn dear,” Esmé says, and clutches the bag of chocolate coins to her chest. 

“Esmé, please-”

“Too late,” she sing-songs, and darts to pay for it.

(There are a few coins missing from the bag the next day. Jacquelyn grudgingly admits that maybe she can disobey a few rules. Esmé beams.)

Esmé learns that Jacquelyn is a terrible insomniac, that she stays up late every night to plan and train and be better, even if she’s already the best. It is painful to see her, with dark eye circles and dark eyes, pushing herself further and further to the point of delirium.

She first sees it when she leaves her room, to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. Jacquelyn is sitting at the kitchen table, shrouded in darkness, a small lamp beside her. Papers are strewn all over the table. Pens and ink have been used and discarded and picked up again. And the girl herself seems blank, staring into space, pen clutched loosely in her hand.

Oh. How does she handle this?

(How does she handle this when she’s only just starting to understand?)

“Jacquelyn, sweetheart?” Esmé asks cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Jacquelyn blinks once, twice, and stares at Esmé. “Oh. Hey.” She considers her next words for a long time before speaking. “By my standards, I’m alright. I think.”

“You need to sleep,” Esmé decides.

“I can’t!”  Jacquelyn protests far too forcefully. “There are still things that need to be done.”

There are not, Esmé is sure of that, because she has explored each and every inch of the house and there are no more papers left unfinished, not at all. She scans the pages. Notes on techniques, escape routes, diplomacy.

(In hindsight, she should have realized sooner. But Esmé is not one for emotion, not real, true emotions. She is shiny and fake and too hurtful and hurting.)

(She hurts Jacquelyn. Too much.)

Esmé crosses over to the table and pulls her partner up, ignoring the noise of protest that Jacquelyn makes. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“You don’t understand,” Jacquelyn snaps, and yanks her arm out of Esmé’s grip. 

“Then explain!” Esmé hisses back. Honestly. Human interaction.

“Stop!”

“This isn’t good for you-”

“Because if I don’t sleep I don’t have to feel guilty about Darren Kinara!” Jacquelyn explodes, suddenly and furiously, with all the rage of an exploding volcano. She then proceeds to slap her hand over her mouth and takes Esmé’s shocked silence as a chance to slip back to her seat.

What does a boy have to do with anything?

Wait. Wait.

Murder, her mind whispers, and Esmé recoils slightly, because you know what, she can imagine it. She can imagine Jacquelyn holding a gun and shaking and sobbing and firing all at once, some faceless man falling to the ground with a bloody hole in his side. She can imagine her kneeling and trying to stop the blood but failing, always failing- 

“You’re not alright,” Esmé whispers. “Not at all.”

Jacquelyn laughs bitterly. It is not a sound Esmé thought could ever come out of her mouth, because the sheer venom in it- the tiredness and grief and desperation- 

“No,” she agrees. “I’m really not.” 

There is a short moment of silence, and Jacquelyn turns back to her papers. “Go away, Esmé,” she says.

“I’m not just leaving you here,” Esmé counters. This is as much politics as it is everything else, somehow, and they stare each other down.

“You can’t help anyway, ” Jacquelyn points out, still not looking up. 

“I can try.”

“Can you really, E?” she says, voice hard and unforgiving. “Can you really care that much?”

“I can try,” Esmé repeats, and that much is true, that she has been trying to win Jacquelyn’s favour, that she has been trying to learn how to care.

Slowly, Jacquelyn looks up. Her knuckles are white, fists clenched tightly. 

And then she smiles, shakily, and extends her hand.

“I don’t- I don’t think this will work,” she confesses.

Esmé smiles back.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she soothes, and well. She did not know she could find it within her to soothe. “We can try.”

She takes Jacquelyn’s hand and leads her to her room. The room she’s never been in before. Too late for that now, she supposes.

She still hesitates at the doorway. Jacquelyn brushes past her and abruptly stops.

Esmé takes the hint and follows.

She is… not exactly surprised by the state of the room. Jacquelyn is not a creature of neatness by any means, and there are papers strewn all over the shelves and desk. An easel is tucked in a corner, various sets of paint surrounding it, and a few paintings and sketches are pinned to the walls. They are the only splash of colour in the room.

(Just because it doesn’t surprise her doesn’t mean it does not make her seethe. )

Jacquelyn sits on her bed and stares as Esmé hangs awkwardly behind. 

“I don’t know if I can do this, Esmé,” she says softly.

And then Esmé decides, damn it all to hell, she is so fucking worth it.

She sits down next to Jacquelyn. Who starts to shake, just a little bit.

Who lays her head on Esmé’s shoulder and closes her eyes.

Esmé pulls her closer.

She doesn’t protest.

For a while, or a long time, it’s just them. 

Jacquelyn falls asleep. Esmé moves her, gently, to her bed. She stays there for a while more. 

She cannot help but press a soft kiss to Jacquelyn’s forehead before she leaves. And it might be just her imagination… but she sees her partner smile.

The next morning, Jacquelyn is awake earlier than her.

Jacquelyn is never awake earlier than her.

Oh, yes, it's because she did actually sleep the previous night. Esmé is grateful for that. 

And Jacquelyn is smiling. 

There’s a cup of coffee cradled in her hands, and she takes a sip before she looks up to see Esmé. “Hello, partner,” she says brightly.

Esmé smiles back before trudging over to the coffee machine to make her own drink. Honestly, she wouldn’t be able to function without caffeine.

She does notice Jacquelyn’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t comment.

The next day a steaming cup of coffee is already on the table when she arrives, made just for her, and Jacquelyn is looking at her feet.

Esmé sits next to her, picks up the cup, and takes a sip.

It is absolutely perfect.

(Is this what love feels like?)

Chapter Text

"They're sending us after a notorious arsonist now," Jacquelyn comments as they look over the documents. "Does VFD have no regard at all for our personal safety? We are in no way safe."

It has been six months since Esmé met R, since she started to fall a little bit in love with Jacquelyn. Since then, her partner has grown braver, more willing to speak out against their organization. Esmé likes that very much, really; now she has someone to talk to about how trapped she feels, here, how horrifying VFD really is.

Someone who cares. It's nice.

She contemplates her answer for a while before replying. "When have they ever cared about us? We are sixteen and we know how to lie and cheat and hurt people. This isn't right."

Jacquelyn has changed her, too; six months ago she would have spoken of how VFD is stifling her talent, wasting it. Now she sees the bigger picture of hatred and pain behind VFD, and hates it quite a bit more.

Jacquelyn sighs. "This is all that we have. We are doing good. I have never approved of their methods, I do not like what they are doing to us… but this is good."

Of course Esmé does not like how she still supports VFD. The ends do not justify the means, no matter what happens. And what VFD is doing is taking her life, and Jacquelyn's life, and how can she not be angry at that? 

She does not like R. She likes Jacquelyn, her interesting friend who breaks rules and speaks her mind against VFD, Jacquelyn who calls her Esmé and leans into her on cold nights. Not R, who speaks in codes and always has an ulterior motive, R who is perfect and cold and harsh, R who is a Volunteer first and foremost.

The two sides of her partner mix and match each day, and she does not know how to deal with it.

So she is a little bit harsh, maybe, when she says, "VFD has done nothing for us and you are a fool if you believe otherwise."

Jacquelyn's head snaps up and she glares at Esmé. "They gave us a way to make the world better."

"And why should I care about the world?"

"Because that's the right thing to do!"

Esmé frowns. She has never been interested in devoting time to being a good person. She would rather be herself, be wild and dramatic and free to pursue her dreams. And VFD, with its literature, is really not doing a good job of convincing her otherwise.

Rebellion is always in.

Being different is always in.

She would escape if she could, but- she can't. VFD has kept them isolated from the world; she has nowhere to stay and no way to do anything spectacular, if she leaves them. Yet another bad thing about the firefighters.

But Jacquelyn doesn't think that way, and she would much rather keep Jacquelyn's favour now that they are partners.

So instead of responding she turns to kiss her, seize her partner by the shoulders and press her lips to Jacquelyn's. 

"Let's not argue, love," she murmurs, and Jacquelyn sighs as she melts into Esmé's arms.

They may not agree but they are in love.

And Esmé will do anything to keep it that way. Because out of all the volunteers in VFD- Jacquelyn is the only one who really, truly cares for her.

She will not lose that.

But all too soon her partner pulls away, and looks away from Esmé as she speaks. Her voice is low, soft; melodic in the sort of way a soft lullaby is melodic. It's these little things. The little things that make Esmé realize, every day, just how lucky she is.

Of course, the words themselves are not quite as pleasing.

"You could try, you know," Jacquelyn muses. "Try to be a good person. Wouldn't it make you happier?"

She picks up a worn copy of Romeo and Juliet from the table, lying just beyond the file of Thomas Hansen. "I would not like to be enemies with you, Esmé. I do not think you would, either."

Esmé looks over her shoulder to see the title of the book Jacquelyn is holding. Oh, she knows this one, at least. "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite," she recites, remembering the days when she acted in the local theater's production of it. 

How similar and yet how different, her interests and VFD's. What right have they to criticize her and put her down? What right has R to tell her what to do?

She cares.

That gives her the right. But still. She has always been a creature of dramatics and manipulation. Giving that up will be giving herself up. And she is never, ever, going to let go of her sense of self. 

She touches Jacquelyn again, brushing her fingers over her cheek. "Jacquelyn. We are partners. But there are some things I won't give up, and one of those is my freedom."

Jacquelyn nods, albeit slightly sadly. "Understandable. Still, I would like to see you try."

"I promise I will," she responds in return, and is rewarded with a bright, delighted smile.

"I will love you anyway, even if you don't," Jacquelyn decides, and reaches up to cup Esmé's face and kiss her gently.

"It's who you are that made me love you, and if I ask you to change that, what kind of person am I?" She asks sincerely.

Jacquelyn is brilliant and beautiful and Esmé is very much in love.

They go back to debating over the various plans they have for infiltrating the arsonist's mansion, and if Jacquelyn silently slips her hand into Esmé's… well, she's not going to complain.

"Apparently we have a third partner. And a fourth who has temporarily gone missing," Esmé observes.

"I wonder when they'll come."

And then there's a knock on the door. Speak of the devil and he doth appear. Or she, in this case. 

They move apart, quickly, and Jacquelyn moves to open the door. Her face is carefully blank, no trace of emotion on it.

Oh. Sometimes it is so easy to forget that Jacquelyn has been trained for this, trained for VFD, her whole life. She is efficient, to the point of being almost mechanical. Why, love must be a very large detour on the grand road of her life.

She does not know whether to feel angry, that her partner even thinks like this, or happy that she has chosen her.  

But is she really important to Jacquelyn?

She does not know which is the mask.

It looks so easy to change character when Jacquelyn does it, when she becomes the cold, mysterious VFD agent from the warm, caring girl that Esmé knows. She is an even better actress than Esmé herself.

As Esmé muses, Jacquelyn opens the door, and Esmé raises one perfect eyebrow to the girl who stands in their doorway.

"Beatrice Baudelaire," she greets, not exactly politely. "What are you doing here?"

"Esmé. R," Beatrice replies smoothly. "I'm your third partner, apparently, now can I please come in?"

Jacquelyn steps aside, and there is a hint of a smile on her lips. Not quite pleased, but not displeased either.

Well. Beatrice is better than anyone else.

Esmé pulls out a stool for her, and Beatrice takes her seat at the low coffee table, retrieving her own set of documents from her bag. "I am sorry for being late, but my partner has gone missing, and things are not going very well," she says conversationally.

Esmé frowns. "I haven't seen him in a while. Do you think-"

Firestarters.

Firestarting.

Olaf is her friend. 

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon," Beatrice responds forcefully. "Do you have a plan, yet?"

"Not quite," Jacquelyn contributes. "But we have found a route in. Perhaps your bats could scout, B." Her hands are neatly folded in her lap and everything about her screams perfect.

Has Esmé mentioned how much she despises VFD for making her Jacquelyn into this rule-following, annoyingly personalityless Volunteer? 

"Perhaps," Beatrice considers. "Mine are mostly carrier bats, though I'm sure I could do something."

Esmé leans back and raises a point. "Without Olaf, things will be… difficult. You know how women can be treated sometimes. And we're just children."

"We did just fine on our first mission," Jacquelyn points out.

"This is different," Esmé says. "This is Dark Avenue. Notorious for unsavoury types."

The other two girls wince. They both know what she means by "unsavoury". It is not good. 

"We could get Lemony in," Beatrice suggests. "He's not on any missions, and he doesn't have a partner. Not since Kit joined up with her twin."

Esmé groans. "Oh, Beatrice, you know I despise him. He is practically a cardboard cutout! He has no personality! We'll kill each other!"

"E," Jacquelyn says warningly. "The mission comes first."

"If I must, I suppose I can tolerate him," Esmé sighs. "But I would rather not."

Lemony Eugene Snicket is the most boring person in VFD, with his silly literature and lovesick poems for Beatrice. Honestly, she does not understand how Beatrice even likes his affections, let alone how she is in love with him. 

Beatrice pokes her viciously in the arm. "Play nice."

"Be professional," Jacquelyn reminds them.

"Oh, to hell with professional, we're all friends here," Esmé wheedles. "Come now, R. Please?" She touches Jacquelyn's hand surreptitiously under the table.

If she can just get Jacquelyn to loosen up she will be a lot happier about having to put up with the Snicket boy.

Jacquelyn does not, in fact, loosen up.

She pulls her hand away. "Focus."

Esmé frowns. Beatrice glances sympathetically towards her before she walks out of the room to call her… boyfriend. Oh. No. Beatrice, don't leave-

And then they're alone. Jacquelyn and Esmé. Together. Alone.

Jacquelyn huffs exasperatedly and brushes her hair out of her face, leaning back. "Esmé, we've talked about this. Please, at least try to pretend you care. About something. About VFD."

"We've also talked about how VFD is a horrible organization that should not exist," Esmé retorts.

"You promised."

"To try to be a good person. Not a good Volunteer," Esmé says. "There's a difference, Jacquelyn darling."

"Don't call me-" Jacquelyn begins. And stops.

"What are we?" she decides. "What will happen to us?"

Esmé doesn't have an answer. Because Jacquelyn is her very soul, something kept close to her heart like a precious secret, and she is scared of saying it. What if she does not feel the same way? What if she has never felt the same way?

Because she knows how she feels but she cannot seem to define them.

Instead she throws her arm around Jacquelyn and presses her lips to Jacquelyn's ear and whispers, "I can be anything you want me to be."

She will. She will give everything she has to give.

But what if even that is not enough?

"I will love you anyway," Jacquelyn smiling, kissing-

She has to be enough.

Jacquelyn rests her head on her shoulder, comfortably close. "Then love me, Esmé Squalor," she says, almost like a command. "That is what I want us to be."

Esmé certainly has no problems with that. 

So she presses a soft kiss to her partner's forehead and they rest in the silence.

(At least now they've stopped talking about VFD. And now- now she has Jacquelyn. God, Jacquelyn. She is acting like Snicket now.)

Beatrice steps back into the room and they shift apart. She still smiles a knowing sort of smile. "Well, am I interrupting something?"

"Why would you be?" Jacquelyn deflects easily. "Do you really think I would ever do anything of the sort?"

"A little defensive, R," Beatrice observes.

Beatrice really can be quite nosy sometimes. 

Jacquelyn raises an eyebrow. "I think you are jumping to conclusions again, B."

Beatrice turns to Esmé. "Well?" She demands. "What isn't R telling me?"

Esmé laughs. "A lot," she drawls, "and I'm not telling either." Really. She has some sort of loyalty to Jacquelyn. Not to anyone else, but Jacquelyn, yes.

Beatrice sighs. "Well, fuck you too, Mae," she groans, and melodramatically flops back onto her stool. "Well, Lemony will be coming over in about half an hour, he says. What shall we do? Plan?"

"With tea. Or coffee," Jacquelyn says. "No offense is meant , of course, but I do not think myself quite capable of putting up with the two of you without some form of caffeine."

Esmé shrugs. "That's fair." She can go… overboard at times. It is nothing new.

R stands up, disappears into the kitchen, and shuts the door behind her.

The second she's gone, Beatrice grins mischievously at Esmé and cooes, "You like her! And she likes you!"

"From the bottom of my heart: fuck you," Esmé says. Honestly. Beatrice can be incorrigible. She supposes that's why they're friends.

"That wasn't a denial," Beatrice points out.

"No, it wasn't," Esmé agrees. "Now shut up about it."

"The two of you are cute together. I never did see R as the type who would love someone, though. She is my friend, but she's just so… perfect," Beatrice confides. "It's disconcerting, sometimes."

Esmé cannot express how much she agrees with that sentiment, but she keeps her mouth shut. She will say something she regrets. Instead, she shrugs dismissively. "Well, the fact of it is: we are, somewhat. You know. That. And it would be appreciated if you do not bring it up."

Her gaze flickers to the kitchen. So does Beatrice's. Her friend nods solemnly. "My lips are sealed."

Just as quickly as the conversation began it is over, and Beatrice changes the topic. "Do you know that Madame Venus de Lune is coming to the City this month?" 

Esmé cannot help it; she squeals. "Madame Venus de Lune? You are serious?"

"Completely. Oh, Esmé, her designs are so fine, we must go and see her show!" Beatrice breathes excitedly. "It will be so much fun."

The kitchen door opens as they start to discuss it, and R comes back in, cradling three mugs. She sets them on the coffee table and sits down.

Esmé peers over the mugs. One is tea- for Beatrice, she assumes, since neither of them drink tea. It looks sugared. And then there's black coffee, black as midnight. That one is Jacquelyn's. It's an abomination but she somehow likes it. 

Hers is coffee as well, but milkier than her partner's and when she picks it up and takes a sip, it's sweet. Just the way she likes it. 

Jacquelyn sends a small smile her way, and Esmé smirks back.

And so they go on with planning, although Esmé does not fail to notice Jacquelyn's hand brushing hers again. It feels nice. 

And for a moment VFD does not matter, even if they are planning their mission, nothing will ever matter more than this.

(Spoiler alert: this changes, someday.)

(But not yet.)

(For now they are just two girls in love. For now.)