'This has to be a sign of things to come,' Jacques thought to himself as barely two hours into his existence in the cursed shithole, he found himself seated in the doctor's office.
The estate's private medical suite was a sterile yet lavish room, tucked far enough from the main quarters that it felt like a different world—Well, an entirely different different world for him.
The polished mahogany cabinets and pristine marble countertops seemed at odds with the purpose of the room, as if luxury could somehow gloss over the sight of blood-soaked gauze and antiseptics lined up beside him.
But again, what the fuck did he know. There were probably at least a dozen ways in which the arrangement of furniture in this room signified a power move or an insult against peasants that he was far too poor and uncultured to actually give a fuck about.
Sieben had escorted him there in silence, offering little more than a pointed look and a brief "Right this way, sir." Now, as Jacques sat on the leather-padded examination chair, clutching an ice pack to his aching head, he couldn't shake the irritation buzzing under his skin.
It hurt like a bitch, but Jacques wasn't too worried about any lasting damage. It was well-known that cartoon characters were tougher than they looked, and it's not like he'd get any dumber.
'Must be breezy as hell inside your coconut' his mother used to say when she'd put the bottle down long enough to remember he existed. The fucking bitch.
A minute later, one of the dozen doctors employed by the Schnee House, a young woman with silver hair and a tired look, approached Jacques carefully, gloves on, ready to check the wound. She glanced at it quickly, but the slight hesitation before getting closer told Jacques all he needed to know.
Jacques wasn't exactly well-liked around these parts. Respected, sure. Feared, most definitely. But as for love? That didn't seem to be on the menu. No wonder everyone he passed today looked like they might burst into flames if he so much as glanced their way.
The doctor silently began dabbing antiseptic on the wound. She didn't ask what had happened—probably didn't dare—and usually, Jacques would be grateful. Still, her subtle wariness pricked at his ego, and he decided he'd rather not be treated like some crazed bar brawler.
"Feel free to breathe, Doctor. I'm not going to bite." Jacques let out a slight chuckle, though it was laced with annoyance.
"Of course, sir," she replied quietly and respectfully. She pressed a bit more firmly on the wound, and Jacques winced but refused to show more than a slight grimace.
He didn't miss the slight flicker in her gaze as she withdrew her hand, nor the way her shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction like she was relieved to find he still felt pain like any other human.
'It bleeds, and feels pain!' She was probably thinking in surprise.
She worked quickly, stitching his head wound, her gaze focused on the task at hand, a bit too focused in his opinion. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if it was him, he would've just sprinkled some coffee powder on the wound and told his patient to fuck off. To each his own, he supposed.
Jacques was grateful for the silence, though he couldn't shake the irritation simmering beneath it all.
Sadly, that didn't last because he couldn't have shit.
As the doctor stepped back to grab some bandages, Seiben, who had been standing at the door like a silent and fat sentry, cleared his throat. "The Madame did seem... quite resolved on her point, sir."
Jacques shot him a glare, even as he shifted uncomfortably. "Not a word, Sieben. I don't need a recap."
Jacques muttered under his breath, "Next time, I'm getting backup for these... family discussions." Either actual backup or—he paused, remembering—he should definitely get around to unlocking his Aura as soon as possible and see what the lovely and reasonable deity who dumped him here had given him.
The doctor cleared her throat delicately. "All done, sir," she murmured, stepping back with a slight bow. "Please try to keep it clean, and… refrain from—" She stopped short, biting back what she'd probably meant to say, settling instead for a polite, "from, er, any unnecessary stress on the injury."
Jacques scoffed. "That depends on certain people, Doctor. But noted." He waved a hand dismissively as Seiben moved to help him up, his head pulsing with a dull ache.
Seiben's voice followed him out of the room, his tone a touch lighter. "Perhaps next time, sir, a… less confrontational approach may be in order."
Jacques grunted, a sharp look in his eyes as he muttered, "Consider the guest list for the next week revised, Sieben."
Sieben hid a smirk as he replied, "A very wise decision, sir."
Jacques moved down the hallway, trying to hold onto what was left of his dignity, though his pounding head made it tough. He could feel the eyes of the servants on him—the sideways glances, the quick scurrying to get out of his way, the sudden attention to anything else as he walked past.
Infuriating. But no way was he going to let anyone see him lose his cool. People were already doubting his sanity, already.
Sieben trailed behind, keeping a respectful distance, as if sensing Jacques needed a moment. The whole place felt too quiet—an unsettling silence, the kind that follows when gossip spreads like wildfire. Jacques was pretty sure the staff had already pieced it together: he headed for Willow's quarters, then ended up in the doctor's office, and somewhere along the way, a wall blew up.
Finally, Jacques slowed, glancing over his shoulder. "Seiben."
"Yes, sir?"
"What exactly are they saying?"
Sieben raised an eyebrow, keeping his face neutral. "The staff knows to stay discreet, sir."
"Spare me," Jacques muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. "I want the truth. I can't have my very own staff acting like I'm some… loose cannon." Or god forbid, a masochist.
Sieben cleared his throat, likely trying not to laugh. "From what I gather, sir, they believe there was… a disagreement. A spirited disagreement."
"Spirited, huh?" Jacques scoffed like he didn't care, though the word still stung. "I didn't know I was running a house of poets."
The word he used in his head were less polite, but thankfully, this body and mouth seemed to filter his behavior into something a bit more 'Jacques-like.'
F*cking ***********s.
"They may have noticed a certain… intensity, sir."
Jacques rolled his eyes, reaching up to touch the bandage on his head. "Intensity. Sounds like everyone here could use a lesson in minding their own business."
"Indeed," Seiben replied, stone-faced.
"It was nothing. A simple… exchange of words." He glanced at Sieben as if daring him to disagree.
Sieben only inclined his head politely. "Of course, sir. Merely an exchange of words."
They continued walking, passing through the quiet halls and down the grand staircase. Jacques could still feel the burn of every look, every whisper, more acutely than he'd like.
He caught sight of a young maid at the far end of the hallway, watching them with wide, alarmed eyes. She dropped her gaze immediately when he looked her way, hurrying off with a flustered bow.
He clenched his jaw. Some things around here needed to change before he actually lost his fucking mind.
But that would be later.
The two continued down the hallway, and Jacques could almost feel the fat butler practically burning (another) hole in the back of his head. He sighed before speaking over his shoulder.
"Being on the receiving end of bashful glances from a balding, fat, ugly old man isn't flattering," Jacques said without turning around. "Something on your mind?"
"Not quite, sir." Sieben's voice was even, though Jacques detected a hint of amusement. "Merely pondering what might have prompted such a strong desire to… reconcile with the Madame."
Jacques rolled his eyes. "Still on about the lilies and redemption? Didn't take you for a sentimentalist, Sieben."
Big word, he thought to himself, smug that he hadn't slurred or stumbled over it.
Sieben let out a small, measured chuckle, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked. "Sentimentalist? Hardly, sir. Though one does notice the ebb and flow of affairs over time."
Jacques scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. "Ebb and flow. Affairs. Spare me the pseudo philosophy, Sieben. This was about setting things straight, not… 'redemption.'"
"Of course, sir," Sieben replied smoothly with only the faintest undertone of skepticism. "Far be it from me to suggest otherwise."
Jacques fought the urge to run a hand over his face, trying to keep his annoyance in check. As much as he wanted to tell Sieben to fuck the furthest off, he reminded himself that the old fatass was one of the few genuinely trusted by the other Schnee family members. If he could somehow get Sieben on his side, his position and survival odds would look a lot better.
Jacques sighed exaggeratedly, throwing Sieben a reluctant bone. "I am a rather prideful man, Sieben," he admitted, adopting a tone that teetered between theatrical and serious. "As such, I find it necessary to hold myself to a higher standard than those around me."
Sieben's eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gave a slight nod. "An admirable perspective, sir. And, might I say, a refreshing one." He paused. "One wonders if you're perhaps… growing accustomed to the role of example."
Jacques raised a brow, unable to tell if Sieben was mocking him or offering a genuine compliment. for now, he let it pass.
"It is, thus, obligatory for me to rectify these mistakes. My visit to my wife, Willow," Jacques said, deliberately stressing the word with just a touch, "was merely the first step of many." He paused, clenching his jaw slightly. "Though the results were… less than adequate."
Sieben's mouth twitched. "Indeed, sir. A valiant first step, nonetheless. Progress rarely comes without… obstacles."
Jacques shot him a sidelong look, catching the slight glimmer of amusement Sieben seemed unable to hide. Just the barest hint of a smirk that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "Obstacles? That's a very polite way to put it, Sieben."
"Only as polite as the situation calls for, sir," Sieben replied, a picture of neutrality once again. "One cannot expect to rebuild a bridge in a single day… or with a single meeting."
Jacques grunted, pretending not to notice the veiled message in Sieben's words.
Let your actions prove if your desire is actually true.
But Jacques wasn't in the mood to pick apart the subtext of the words of a fucking cartoon character!
He needed something to lift his spirits.
Someone.
Someone who didn't hate his guts.
A grin began to spread across his face; he already felt a little lighter.
"Sieben," he said, his voice slightly more upbeat. "Go fetch me a ball, if you would."
"A ball, sir?" Sieben's voice was confused, though he managed to maintain his usual poise.
"Yes, a ball," Jacques replied, his tone taking on a more condescending edge. "It's a thing filled with air, made of leather or something like leather, anyway. It's round, like your bald head." He patted Sieben's head, wiping that smug look off the butler's face.
For a moment, Sieben said nothing, his face stiff. Then, without missing a beat, he nodded. "Very well, sir."
It was a small victory, but it was one.
"Oh, and another thing, Sieben," Jacques said, tone still light. "Where is my child?"
---------------------------------------------------------------
After Sieben, looking mildly bemused, though Jacques took it as proof of grudging respect, had informed him that Whitley was in the study, Jacques parted ways with the portly butler.
Curious, though: Jacques hadn't specified which child he wanted to see, yet Sieben hadn't even blinked at the request. That meant Whitley was, in fact, the only child left in the house.
So, Weiss had already made her exit. Not exactly a shock, but still… disappointing. He'd hoped she might linger in the mansion a bit longer, if only so he could lay out his intentions, and to show her he meant to change. Or, at the very least, to give her a proper, but cliché enough, farewell to leave a lasting impression of his newfound 'sincerity'.
In his defense, Jacques's wish to live and survive was in fact, very sincere.
Jacques even had a little act planned for her departure,
It would have gone like this:
First, he'd make his entrance by the bullhead's lift-off site. Wait for her there, just long enough for people to take notice.
When Weiss finally showed up, he'd start to walk back toward the house, letting their paths cross without a word. Not yet.
And then, just before disappearing indoors, he'd call her name, turn, and toss her a bracelet he'd "borrowed" from Willow because damn it, if he couldn't leave that room with his dignity, he had to leave something. She'd catch it, of course, noting its fine quality with a hint of surprise.
"Father…" she'd murmur, moved despite herself.
Without looking back, he'd explain it was a good luck charm and that she should keep it with her.
And the scene would close with a soft but perfectly audible "Be safe" as he walked away, leaving her to contemplate his unexpected tenderness.
It was perfect!
Jacques had pictured it so clearly. A scene in the show that would be remembered later on as a flashback once they reach the Schnee Family Arc, something to would reshape his entire image. He wouldn't just be the "abusive father" caricature; he'd be seen as a complicated, controlling man who, despite his many flaws, genuinely cared for his daughter.
The fans would see the nuance, and maybe even question if his choices were as terrible as they seemed. He could already imagine the shift in his popularity, a little redemption arc to soften the backlash and keep the hack writers from doing him dirty.
But it was all wasted. Weiss had wanted out so badly that she didn't even give him a shot. He shook his head, frustrated,
Still, he kept that idea—and the bracelet— in his pocket in case it came in handy later on.
Back in the present, Jacques barely had a plan for dealing with Whitley. All he really knew was that Whitley was lonely and, unlike everyone else, didn't despise him, which, admittedly, made him Jacques's second favorite person in the world.
First, of course, was Jacques himself.
It will definitely work out. Jacques was sure. Probably. He had a better feeling about this one. God willing.
"Remember Pa's words, Jack. Panicking is for women and hippies," Jacques muttered to himself before knocking twice on the door and walking right in. "Whitley! I'm respecting your privacy by knocking, but asserting my authority as your father by coming in anyway!" The door nearly rattled out of its hinges.
He quickly scanned the room, grimacing internally. Please, for the love of dust, don't let me find anything I'll have to pretend I didn't see. The last thing he wanted to discuss with a strange fourteen-year-old boy was the birds and the bees.
He had already been an unwilling participant in that conversation a decade ago with his father; he'd rather not repeat it.
The study was more spacious than Jacques's office or Willow's room. The ceiling was adorned with the usual blue and white chandeliers that were common throughout the house. To the left, shelves filled with thousands of books lined the walls, most of which Jacques would never bother to read. The sunlight from the windows bathed the room in light, making the space feel almost serene. At the center, several desks were equipped with holographic screens and keyboards.
Whitley sat at one of the desks, typing away, his attention momentarily lifted when Jacques closed the door behind him.
"Good afternoon, Father," Whitley greeted with a smile. "How can I be of assistance?"
Jacques walked closer, glancing at the screen. "I just wanted to see how you're doing," he said, his tone shifting into his usual Jacques manner, like a filter he couldn't turn off.
"Oh! I'm just making sure I don't fall behind in my studies," Whitley said with a light laugh. "Now that Weiss has decided to run off and ignore her responsibilities, it seems I'm the only one still following your advice."
Fake.
Too amateurish.
Easily spotted.
The words were too polished and too rehearsed. He could see right through it. It wasn't genuine. His 'Jacques senses' tingled with disappointment.
Bloody 'Jacques senses'
Apparently, that was just something that came with being stuck in Jacques's body now.
Whitley must've caught on to his disappointment because he started rambling about his studies. But Jack barely paid attention.
Jacques was dead, but his body? Still kicking. His regrets, though? Yeah, those were still hanging around. It explained the memories and mannerisms that came and went.
Jack could feel the shift in his posture, the way his voice had a bit more weight behind it. It was him, sure, but with a little sprinkle of Jacques mixed in. The confidence was there, but it wasn't his own. It was all Jacques's leftover swagger, the stuff he'd learned over years of being a pompous ass.
Despite the little quirks, Jack was still in control. He could slip back into his old peasant ways whenever he felt like it, but for now, it was interesting to see how far Jacques's influence stretched.
And hey, if it ever got too weird, he could always lean on his old habits to get him through.
Whitley continued, completely unaware that Jack had already checked out. The boy tried to make his voice smooth and confident as he dove deeper into his latest studies.
"The elasticity of supply has hit a critical point, especially with the scarcity of high-quality Dust reserves. This, combined with increased tariffs on inter-kingdom Dust imports, has led to a severe imbalance between what we can produce and what we need to sustain operations at Schnee Dust Company's capa—"
As if on cue, Jack's own ape-like mannerisms kicked in.
"Nerd," Jack interrupted, cutting him off.
Whitley blinked, clearly startled. "P-pardon?" He looked unsure, a little less confident than before.
Shit!
Luckily, to further prove the body's reliability, Jacques straightened his posture, adopting a serious tone. "Sebastian ViNerd—the Vi is silent— was a lesser-known and unorthodox economist who did a study on 'Market Imbalances.' You should delve into his writings later on. Very thorough work."
There it was, the smooth bullshit delivered with gravitas. Sasuga Jacques-sama! He couldn't help but mentally congratulate himself.
"Aside from that, well done, Whitley. It pleases me to see you're putting in the effort."
Whitley smiled, genuinely pleased with the praise. This time, Jacques didn't feel that twinge of discomfort, that little spark of recognition that something wasn't quite right. The boy was actually happy.
Huh.
And for the first time since he closed all those 'Tamed' porn tabs, Jack felt a flicker of something that wasn't disdain or irritation. Maybe it wasn't so bad, playing this part. At least for now.
Whitley, still beaming at the praise, leaned back in his chair, trying to hide his smugness beneath a veneer of humility.
"Of course, Father. I've been putting in the work. Unlike Weiss, who decided to run off instead of fulfilling her duties," he said with a slight edge in his voice, a not-so-subtle dig that even Jack picked up. "I figured someone had to pick up the slack around here."
Hmm.
"I'm ahead in most of my subjects. Professor Easton said I showed 'remarkable discipline.'
Hmmmm.
I didn't see the point in wasting time on dancing when I could be preparing to actually contribute, and help you, Father."
HMMMMMMMMGH
"Weiss always said she was too 'busy' to study. Funny how that never seemed to stop her from running off to play pop star or chasing Huntsman fantasies. And Winter? Well, she's so rarely home, I wouldn't know what she prioritizes anymore."
It was truthfully kind of pathetic how hard the boy was trying. He was laying it on thick, trying to win Jacques' approval. And, logically, Jack should've seized that opportunity to twist it all to his advantage.
"You don't need to do that," Jacques said with a frown. 'Oi! What the fuck are you doing?!' he asked himself mentally.
Oh, right, trying to be a halfway decent person. He answered himself. Damn his Pa for teaching him a bit of empathy!
Whitley's eyes widened a bit, and his fake smile stretched. "Hm? What do you mean, Father? I'm only working this hard because I see the value in your advice and demands."
"That's not what I meant," Jacques replied, his voice a little more firm. "I'm telling you...you don't need to compare yourself to your sisters."
"I'm not, Father," Whitley quickly shot back, his smile faltering even more. "I'm just telling you that both Weiss and Winter don't really have a sense of responsibility. If they inherited the company, they'd bankrupt it before the second quarterly report is done!"
Jacques didn't answer right away. He just looked at Whitley. At the graphs and tables on the screen. The piles of books were stacked high. The mountain of papers littered across the desk, filled with his endless scribbles.
Then, his gaze landed on Whitley himself. At the desperation in his eyes.
Now, Jack wasn't a smart person by any means, oh no, sir! But he was crafty! And despite what his friends might have said, he had a decent amount of emotional intelligence. He was El Gran Don Juan, after all.
He would venture to say Whitley fucking hated spending his time reading all that shite.
Whitley wasn't asking to inherit the company. He wasn't doing this for Jacques or the family name. Whitley just wanted... something.
He wanted Jacques to look at him.
"Whitley," Jacques said, his voice softening.
"Yes, Father?" Whitley answered, a little unsure now.
"You are my son."
Whitley stammered."O-okay?"
Jacque's voice became more sincere, much to his own surprise. "Whitley, you are my youngest child and my only son."
"I understand, Father," Whitley said, though he didn't understand at all.
Jacques let the silence linger for a moment, never breaking eye contact with the boy, before he mimicked what his father used to do. He knelt down and put both of his hands on Whitley's shoulders.
"You don't have to compare yourself to your sisters, to me, or to anyone else," he said, shaking his head. "I've never said this often, if ever, but... I am proud of you."
Whitley blinked in confusion, processing the words.
"You don't have to do all of this to gain my approval or my love," the older Schnee added.
Whitley looked at him, wide-eyed, and searched his face, unsure, hesitant.
Jacques spoke again, this time with more certainty. "You always had it, Whitley. From the day you were born."
And to his surprise, his 'Jacques senses' never once tingled.