What does one do when he's stuck with something he doesn't want to do?
Age-old question. Been haunting poor sods since the dawn of time, from back when Adam played many rounds of naked pretend-wrestling with Eve.
Aristotle pondered it. Socrates probably asked it right before someone handed him the poison. Nietzsche screamed it into a void and called it a philosophy since he got no maidens (probably).
Spoiler: no one's ever had a good answer.
Except Jacques!
Jacques liked to think he had the answer to that. After all, wasn't he Jacques Schnee, master of wit, charm, and unparalleled genius? The man who could bend the most stubborn wills with a few well-chosen words and an impeccably timed smirk? Of course, he was. Some problems, however, couldn't be solved with charm, or at least, not easily.
Unlocking Whitley's Aura, for example. Or, more accurately, dodging Whitley's inevitable request to do so without openly admitting that Jacques had no clue what he was doing. Which, for the record, was absolutely fine. In fact, Jacques considered it a testament to his humility and growth that he could admit—to himself—that he didn't know everything. Not being omniscient or omnipotent wasn't a failure; it was human. Really, Jacques deserved a pat on the back for this level self-awareness.
Still, he wasn't about to risk traumatizing his son by accidentally turning him into some shadow-wielding nightmare machine. That was Jacques' thing, after all. Whitley deserved something... less unsettling.
It absolutely had nothing to do with Jacques' ego. The mere thought that Whitley might manifest some "cool, badass, but clearly misunderstood" Aura similar to his own and steal the spotlight wasn't even on his radar. Not at all. And even if it was, two—probably two; he wasn't entirely sure if Willow's mentor, Master Fria (still bugging the hell out of him trying to remember who that was), was still kicking—was already pushing it. Three?
Three would be unbearable. That's a whole ass crowd.
Not that Jacques had considered that, mind you.
Which brought him to his current conundrum. Jacques sighed as he finished dressing in his room. Now that he was healed and clean, and he had only flexed smugly for five minutes in front of the enormous mirror. Who knew fighting murder-pets was a sure fire way to sculpt something this beautiful? He had some time to stew in his predicament.
It didn't help that the smug grin he caught in the mirror made him pause mid-thought. He turned slightly, admiring the way his suit hugged his frame. "Damn, I look good," he muttered, striking a half-hearted pose before snapping out of it.
Right. Focus, Jacques.
So, what does one do when stuck with something they don't want to do?
For Jacques Schnee, the answer was straightforward: pass the buck. Find someone dumb enough to do it for you!
Sadly, while the list of people dumber than him was long (naturally, compared to him), finding the suitable sucker was far harder.
Winter? No. He was in this mess because of her.
Ohma? No.
Klein? Bald. Also, he didn't have an Aura. But mostly, he's bald.
One of the guards? Hmm... definitely plausible. They had Aura and some degree of training. They could handle it. Sadly, having one of the servants or "loyal minions," as Jacques preferred to think of them, unlock something as monumental as Whitley's Aura would undoubtedly crush the boy's fragile feelings. "Daddy doesn't love me!" or some other melodramatic nonsense.
Like Jacques knew he could be a proper wanker, but he'd rather not break the poor boy's heart.
That only left... Jacques made a face
That only left Willow.
Jacques groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could squeeze out the very idea. Willow. His lovely, sharp-tongued wife who, if he were being brutally honest, was far too smart for her own good. Or his good, for that matter.
Don't get him wrong, he didn't actually dislike the woman. It's just...Willow seemed to have a talent of not buying his bullshit.
Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. And Jacques, being the unparalleled genius he was, had already perfected the art of navigating even the trickiest situations. Not through groveling, oh, heavens, no. That implied weakness.
No, this was charm-filled persuasion, or a refined skill far beyond the grasp of ordinary mortals. One that was far superior to basic bullshitting and gaslighting. A skill Jacques wielded like an artist with a brush or, in his case, like a king bestowing blessings upon his subjects.
"Right," he muttered to himself, straightening his already impeccable collar and giving his reflection another smug once-over. "Time to remind Willow just how fortunate she is to have me."
Satisfied with his godlike visage, he strode toward her room, flowers in hand and confidence oozing from every pore.
By the time he reached Willow's door, his smile had deepened into something that bordered on smugness. He knocked, once, twice, and waited.
He would have preferred a more dramatic entrance, but a gentleman knew when to make an impression and when to exercise restraint. "Ready to be reminded of just how lucky you are, my dear?" Jacques muttered under his breath with enough self-satisfaction to make any lesser man cringe. He adjusted the flowers in his hand, not out of necessity, but because... well, it looked good.
The door creaked open, and there, standing before him was Ohma, the ever-impressive, ever-unimpressed Head Maid. Jacques couldn't help but offer a polite nod. He was, after all, an amicable man, especially when his ego was at stake. "Ohma," he greeted with a smile that was almost too charming for anyone's good.
"Sir," she replied, bowing slightly, though there was a flicker of disapproval, maybe, or just the usual indifference in her eyes
"I wish to see my wife," Jacques continued, his words laced with theatrical flair. He held out the bouquet of flowers with a flourish that could only be described as decadent. "If that is not objectionable, of course."
Her gaze flickered to the flowers. Perhaps a flicker of approval? that's twice in a row, he wasn't sure. It was hard to tell with Ohma.
She raised an eyebrow, but still, she moved aside without protest. "Of course, Sir."
Jacques couldn't quite decide if she had a secret disdain for him or if she was just perpetually underwhelmed by his grandeur. Either way, it didn't matter; he was the genius, the showman, and she was... well, she was Ohma.
The moment Jacques entered the room, his eyes locked onto Willow where she was, sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through an old photo album. Jacques didn't need to look at it for long to know what she was doing, probably reminiscing about the kids.
He could admit, now that the sting of his pride had lessened, but not disappeared (it would never disappear!) that even in her most dishevelled state, and despite the fact that she was old enough to be his less bitchy, less spiteful, and surprisingly less drunk— mother, Willow was still... undeniably gorgeous.
Ten out of ten. Would have definitely let her molest him if he was nine.
"Ah, my love," he purred seductively as he entered. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything too important."
Willow's head snapped up, and the way she jumped to her feet was nothing short of a startled cat. Jacques was almost impressed. It seemed that even a week later, his latest stunt had still had her shook. He noticed that the chair from last was noticeably absent.
RIP. That chair was a great wingman.
"Jacques..." Willow was guarded, and she spoke the same tone someone would address a stubborn dog that just wouldn't stay in the yard.
Not missing a beat, Jacques let his smug smile shift into something that, in his mind, was far more endearing. "You are a sight for sore eyes, love," he said, leaning into the charm.
"And you're a sore sight for the eyes, asshole." Willow's response was quick, crude, and straight to the point. "You reek of desperation, Jacques. What do you want?"
"Now, now," Jacques said, waving a hand like he couldn't care less about her accusation. "Must we always assume I've got some hidden agenda?"
"Yes." Willow didn't even blink.
Shit, she's already on to him.
Jacques smirked and took a step forward.
"I warn you," Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she held up a bottle of wine, the neck aimed straight at him. Where the hell had she been hiding that?
Jacques didn't even flinch. "I bring you flowers, charm, and the grace of a man who's practically divine. Can't you at least pretend to appreciate it?" He took another step, moving closer.
Willow's eyes narrowed even further. "I'm serious."
Jacques' grin never faltered. He lowered both hands, his free hand forming a soft fist as he shaped a shadow inside of it. Another step, then another, until he was close enough to catch the scent of Willow's perfume. It was delicate, softer, and far different from the strong scent of liquor she used to mask herself with. She was taking great care in presenting herself.
Progress!
Willow gritted her teeth, and Jacques' sharpened senses felt the pulse of the air shift as she moved the bottle in his direction. His hand rose, and he opened his palm. The same Aura trick he'd been growing fond of strengthened the shadow in his palm, swallowing the bottle whole and leaving no trace behind.
His hand pushed forward, sailing past her head and hitting the wall with a firm thud. Willow stumbled back a step, eyes wide as they met his glowing blue. Jacques didn't hesitate, closing the distance, trapping her between him and the wall.
Willow swallowed, her breath catching, but she didn't look away. "...What the hell do you want, Jacques?" she said, her lips pressed thin.
He smiled the same smile that had gotten him out of so much trouble, ass-whooping, through that crappy college, and everything else. "What say you and I go on a date?"
Willow blinked twice, visibly thrown off by the suddenness of it all. Her eyes flickered to the bouquet, then back to Jacques. Her brow twitched in disbelief. "You.. sure have a lot of balls coming here and spouting this dumb shit this early in the morning," she gritted out, her hand rising slowly in a threatening gesture."You want to get killed?"
Jacques grabbed her hand gently, making Willow freeze. "I made it clear what I want, Willow," he said, bringing her hand to his lips and planting a small kiss. He pulled his head back a moment later, letting that haymaker pass harmlessly by.
Impeccable form, but alas, too telegraphed.
Willow stood there for a moment, eyes still locked on him, seething but oddly still. Jacques could tell she was trying to decide whether to stab him or strangle him. But there was no second attempt to punch him.
"You really think I'm just gonna forget how you've been acting, don't you?" Her voice dangerously low. "You don't just get to waltz in here and start pulling that charm shit on me."
"Yes, you're probably right. I'm laying it on a bit thick, but then again, you already hate my guts," Jacques shrugged, his lips curling. "So, what else is there to do but keep trying? That's the game, right? I had a chance to go somewhere nice, and figured I'd ask you to come along."
"Bah," Willow scoffed, rolling her eyes. "That bottle really shook something loose in your head if you think I'd ever agree to that."
Jacques blinked, then chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I'm actually pretty optimistic you'll go with me." He leaned in just enough to let the challenge in his words settle.
Willow raised an eyebrow, her ownlips curling slightly in mockery. "Is that so?"
"Of course," Jacques replied, taking on a touch more seriousness. "Whether you believe it or not, I'm quite serious about flipping that coin."
He booped her nose. Her knee landed in his palm before it could reach his balls.
"And besides, I think you're going to agree on a date with me would be pretty fair deal after I manage to get Whitley to actually spend time with you. And talk to you, too."
Willow's expression flickered for a moment, and Jacques knew he had her attention. He saw her lips part, but before she could respond, he added quickly, "I'm not using this to blackmail you." He raised his hands in a show of honesty. "I still intend to do it even if you tell me to fuck off, but I also believe that positive reinforcement does wonders for a man hoping to make amends with his justifiably angry, and dare I say, very beautiful, wife." He offered a sheepish grin that he hoped would endear him. "Again, not necessary, but it helps."
Willow stared at him for a long moment, clearly weighing her options. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and Jacques couldn't help but think she was trying to figure out if he was playing some kind of long con. She was far too paranoid (smart) to let him get away with anything too easily.
Finally, she exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Ah, but you love it," Jacques said, his grin widening. "I'm hard to resist."
"Hard to tolerate, more like it," Willow muttered, but there was a hint of a look that wasn't entirely annoyance. She crossed her arms.
Jacques took a step closer and leaned in slightly. "Come on, Willow. I know you're angry, but you can't tell me you don't want a little peace between us. A little break from all the fighting. Maybe even a little fun, just for one night." He tilted his head affectionately.
She didn't respond right away, and Jacques took that as a small victory, one he was willing to push further.
"Just think about it," he said softly. "One night. No drama. No expectations. Just... us. And maybe we'll see where it goes." He smile at her, fully aware of how absurd he sounded, but he couldn't help it. His usual charm, the one that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count, was working its magic.
Willow, for her part, didn't look convinced, at least, not yet. But Jacques wasn't ready to back down. This was his chance to try something different, even if she called him out for it afterward.
She didn't take the bait right away, but Jacques could see the wheels turning behind her guarded eyes. He was getting closer.
"You serious about doing it even if I refuse?" she pressed.
Jacques didn't hesitate. He lifted a hand to his chest in actual solemnity, his expression serious. "Cross my heart and hope my glorious hair falls if I'm lying."
Willow glared at him for a long moment. Then she cursed under her breath in clear frustration. "I should keep a damn lie detector in here," she muttered angrily, shaking her head. After a beat, she let out a begrudging sigh. "We'll see if your plan works first."
Jacques clapped his hands together in triumph. "Victory at last!" he exclaimed while a smile beamed across his face. "Trust me, Willow, you're not going to regret it."
Willow raised a finger in his face. "Don't get too cocky, Jacques. You've got a long way to go before I'll even think about trusting you again."
Jacques grinned."So, you're saying there's hope?"
"That's not what I meant, asshole," Willow growled.
"Lovely! We'll talk about it in detail on our date." Jacques threw her a thumbs-up and turned to leave, a bit of a spring in his step. "Enjoy the flowers! I'll go get Whitley!"
"Wait, now?!" Willow called after him, suddenly sounding more uncertain.
Jacques stopped at the doorway, glancing back with a sly smile. "Of course now. Why wait? No time like the present, my dear."
Willow's expression flickered between irritation and hesitation. "Jacques—" she began, her tone softer now. "I... I need to fix my attire, shower, and... p-prepare my heart first."
"Relax, my love. No one's expecting you to face Whitley like this. Take your time, shower, change, and prepare that lovely heart of yours." His grin softened slightly as he tried to project a moment of genuine reassurance through his usual bravado. "I've got this. You got this. We all got this!"
Before Willow could protest further, Jacques turned on his heel and strode out of the room, practically radiating. He wasted no time. His pace swiftly quickened to an enthusiastic semi-skip as he made his way to the other side of the mansion toward Whitley's study with practiced ease.
If there was one thing Jacques could count on, it was Whitley's relentless dedication to routine and nerdy shenanigans. His little genius, his lovable, adorably uptight nerd would definitely be holed up in there, surrounded by books and whatever economics calculations Jacques couldn't muster the faintest interest in givng a shit about let alone understand..
Reaching the study door, Jacques paused, adopting an air of exaggerated grandeur. He knocked twice. "Whitley, my boy! Open up! Your ever-wise and loving father comes bearing... enlightenment!"
And then, because why should his authority be questioned in his own home, Jacques opened the door without waiting for a response. It was, after all, his paternal right to barge in whenever he pleased.
Whitley was right where Jacques expected him to be, and luckily with his pants up, seated at his desk, surrounded by neatly stacked books, glowing charts, and his fancy holographic laptop scroll projecting data across the screen.
The boy looked up at the sound of footsteps, and a genuine smile lit up his face. "Father! What brings you here?"
Jacques grinned, already feeling a surge of satisfaction at the warm welcome. "Ah, my brilliant son, always hard at work. What are you up to this time? Conquering the financial world before lunch?"
Whitley perked up at the question, straightening in his chair. "Actually, yes! I've been running simulations on resource allocation models. If we adjust the northern holdings' logistics, we could increase efficiency by at least 12%. It's—"
Jacques raised a hand, cutting him off gently. "Easy there, tiger. Don't give me a headache before I've had my fun." Or liquor. "But I'm sure it's as genius as everything else you do."
Whitley puffed up slightly, preening under the praise. "It's not genius, just practical."
Jacques strolled closer, ruffling Whitley's hair affectionately. "Practical, genius—same thing when it comes to you, my boy. Does a father really need an excuse to visit the apple of his eye?"
"Well, no, I suppose not."Whitley beamed, clearly pleased with the attention.
"Exactly," Jacques said with a wink, stepping back and crossing his arms. "Though, as it happens, I do have a reason for barging in." He took on a more dejected stance, letting out a mock sigh. "Sadly, my boy, your sister won't be available in the coming days to unlock your Aura. Something very important came up."
Whitley let out a sigh but, surprisingly, didn't react with the tantrum Jacques might've thrown if their roles were reversed. "Yes, I've received her message." Oh, he had? "I know it's unbecoming of me to complain, but I am... quite cross about it at the moment."
Jacques looked around the pristine room. Huh. Turns out Whitley's definition of "cross" and Jacques' were worlds apart. "You have a particularly pacifist definition of cross, son."
Whitley frowned, adjusting his cuffs as though to reassert his composure. "I don't throw tantrums, Father. I'm not Weiss. I channel my frustrations into productive outlets." He gestured at the books and charts surrounding him. "Though I admit I was looking forward to the unlocking. It's... disappointing."
Jacques smirked, stepping closer and resting a hand on Whitley's shoulder. "Exactly, my boy. As your ever-dutiful father, I simply couldn't bear to see you suffer in silence. So I've taken it upon myself to do something about it. You were really looking forward to using your Aura, weren't you?"
"I was, father."
"How much?" Jacques leaned forward, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.
"More than anything in the world, father," Whitley responded, his eyes wide with conviction.
"Really?!" Jacques feigned shock, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, father's!" Whitley said, practically beaming now.
"Good, that's why, Whitley…" Jacques leaned in, ready to deliver the good news.
Whitley's eyes widened. "You're going to unlock it your—"
"Your mother is going to do it!" Jacques cut him off, grinning.
"Oh," Whitley's voice dropped to a cold, emotionless tone. The change was so drastic, it was almost comical.
Jacques felt his grin faltering. "You sound… not exactly thrilled."
"Father, upon further consideration," Whitley said with startling seriousness, "I believe it would be best for me to wait for Winter after all."
"No, no, Whitley, your mother's pretty great, she can—"
"No," Whitley cut him off. Holy shit, Whitley actually cut him off. Jacques had to blink and process the fact that his son had just done that.
"Son, I'm ser—
" I said no." Whitley cut him off again. This time Jacques actually felt like he was slapped.
"Why? you were so gung-ho about it not a second ago?"
Whitley's face twisted into an almost comically exaggerated expression of disgust. He squeezed his eyes shut as if imagining something truly dreadful, his lips curling downward as the very thought offended him.
"I would rather—" He started. Then, after a dramatic breath, he opened his eyes and continued, "—stare into the abyss of a thousand burning suns, father. Feel the searing heat melt my flesh, the unbearable intensity of the flames gnawing at my bones, and the taste of ash and smoke in my mouth, choking me with every breath. I would rather endure that eternal torment for what seems like an age, than have that..that woman! unlock my Aura."
He finished with a serene smile and a quiet, almost gentle politeness that didn't quite match the vivid imagery he had just painted.
Jacques blinked.
"...Damn."