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Chapter Text

The restaurant is a noisy place, the floor beneath their feet feels a little sticky, and the smell of oil in the air makes one want to rip their head off, but Joel loves the sandwiches on the menu and Pugsley insists that the chocolate cake they sell is not as unpleasant as it looks, which is a bit disappointing, but still acceptable enough to eat.

Wednesday decides not to eat anything and simply takes a boring cup of chamomile tea (she had to bring her own poison to give it a bit more flavor) while her gaze stays fixed on the table without a tablecloth, and although her lost gaze may say otherwise...Wednesday is paying attention. She notices her younger brother's messy eating and the crumbs that fall haphazardly on the table when he speaks with his mouth full, and she notices that although Pugsley is devouring his slice of cake, Joel is having trouble finishing his sandwich. 

She always pays attention, even if sometimes it seems like she is actively ignoring her surroundings. How else could she protect her family and loved ones if she is not alert to imminent dangers? It's all part of being an Addams, her father had once said.

But Joel doesn't quite understand this (how could he?) and misinterprets her supposed disinterest for boredom. He apologizes to her for boring her, and Wednesday can do nothing but look at him through narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. She opens her mouth to respond, but the sound of the doorbell and the sound of the door being dragged away grab Joel's attention, and when she loses his attention, she decides that filling the silence with a response is no longer necessary.

Three women enter through the door, two of them arm in arm, and the last one following closely behind. One of them is painfully short, with comically small eyes and huge glasses, the woman arm in arm with her is too tall (or maybe her height is too striking next to the shorter one), has big rabbit teeth and knees that shake with every step.

And the last lady, with short dark hair and skin so pale it looks unreal, but with a slightly reddish tone that stains the tip of her nose as if she's shouting, "Hey, I'm alive. There's still blood running around here" 

But that lady looks exhausted, Wednesday can tell, her dark hair is slightly disheveled and if she has to say something about the pronounced dark circles poorly covered by makeup, she hasn't slept well in a while. Her lips are a reddish tone, Wednesday wonders if it's from her lipstick or from what appears to be bite marks that at some point caused some bleeding. She's not close enough to guess. And to seal all that precious tiredness aspect: a pair of sleepy blue eyes that seem charming to her... A pair of eyes that look at her with confusion, and make her realize that she's been caught staring.

But the lady isn't surprised, no. She holds Wednesday's gaze as if challenging her, and her tired eyes seem to be struggling not to close, until she can't resist any longer and her eyes close. The lady snorts with a smile, and murmurs what Wednesday can read on her lips as a "You win." It makes her wonder if the lady is mocking her, and she wants to show her confusion to her, but she quickly becomes distracted when one of her friends gives a small tug on her sleeve to get her attention. She doesn't give Wednesday another look, not even when she and her friends sit at the table next to hers.

That's when Wednesday realizes that her focus on her surroundings has been lost, and she has let her guard down. She doesn't know when she stopped listening to the conversation Pugsley and Joel were having, she doesn't know when they began to be silent to watch the small act of interaction Wednesday was having with that stranger. Pugsley doesn't touch her directly, but he begins to repeatedly poke his pinky finger with his fork until Wednesday looks at him. Her brother's eyes focus on the lady with the tired eyes, and when they focus back on Wednesday, he begins to speak in a low voice, like when they were younger and after making a suicide pact, they would lock themselves in the closet to starve and thirst to death, until they fell asleep and woke up the next day with a hearty breakfast waiting on the table.

Those are nice memories from their childhood, but they have grown up and left the suicide pacts behind by this point. Now they only try to kill each other, and that's okay.

"Who are we looking at?" The blonde whispers as he leans closer to the table.

And Wednesday doesn't understand (or doesn't want to understand) what her brother is referring to, so she decides to express her confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Pugsley," she says.

"You were looking at her," he says, and it's not a question. "You had that analysis face you always put on when we meet someone new."

Wednesday's eyebrow twitches, and her frown deepens with annoyance.

Her brother points at her and jumps in place. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Joel, who hadn't said anything since the interaction began, pushes aside what's left of his sandwich (having given up on finishing it) and directs his own analytical gaze to the three women at the table next to them. He clears his throat a bit before speaking. "I don't remember their names, but I'm sixty percent sure my father used to work with one of their fathers." His eyes narrow, and while a giggle escapes his chest, he finishes his little memory. "Probably the goth one. Her face looks a bit more familiar if I imagine her in a pastel pink dress..."

Wednesday doesn't have much to say, or maybe she just doesn't want to speak. Her eyes wander again to the sleepy woman who has taken over her gaze, resting her chin on her palm and drinking the contents of a cup of tea or coffee (Wednesday isn't sure) while laughing at a joke made by the bespectacled woman next to her. She's noisy, and a strangely endearing snort escapes her. When she's done laughing, her eyes fix on the bottom of her cup, and she appears to get lost in it until she looks... sad.

The woman frowns too quickly to be spontaneous, and as if she feels she's being watched, her eyes quickly rise to meet Wednesday's. And Wednesday holds her gaze, although she has to clench her fist when this seems unusually difficult. The tired-eyed woman examines Wednesday's face, a smile slowly spreading across her lips. Her eyes close slowly, and she seems to want to fall asleep.

Wednesday digs her nails into the palm of her hand. Pugsley stares at her, because even though his sister might believe he's a fool, he can pay attention too.

"Maybe you should just go up to her and tell her you want to marry her," Pugsley says as if it were that easy (and sometimes it is easy), and seeing the way Joel seems scandalized, he rushes to add, "That worked for Dad!"

Joel seems against this idea and protests a bit, but Wednesday isn't listening anymore. She sighs with regret, leaves a few bills on the table to cover the cost of the cake, sandwich, and tea, and begins to gather her things.

"Eating that disgusting lump of milk and sugar has left you delirious, mad, and speaking nonsense," Wednesday says without emotion. "Maybe it's time to go home."

Pugsley licks his whole hand, then proceeds to wipe the chocolate off his face with his shirt collar. "Maybe you're right," he says, smiling with tight lips.

He taps the table twice, then two taps on Joel's shoulder, a silent invitation to hang out at the Addams mansion.

Wednesday gives one last glance over her shoulder. The woman who took over her gaze no longer returns the look, her eyes are closed.

She looked beautiful sleeping.

It feels like a bunch of cockroaches are squirming in her stomach and her heart is about to jump out of her throat from how fast it's beating. It's not as much fun as you might have imagined.

Wednesday felt like she could crush her in her arms so tightly that she would break her ribs, forcing her to stop breathing. How pathetic would she be if she desperately left home to search for that stranger all over town, in an attempt to understand why her confused heart had not stopped beating frantically since the first time she saw her?

How pathetic would it have been if she had approached her table to ask for her name and, as her brother said, swear eternal love and propose marriage?

She didn't want to take that humiliation, always silently judging her father for such an act of desperation until she was cursed by the same evil. That woman stole her eyes (or rather her gaze), and now she didn't feel like she wanted to see anything else.

Chapter Text

[...] Despite everything, despite knowing everything, he can't help but start to feel like something is missing. He doesn't actively seek her out, but he struggles to exist with that strange sensation in his chest when all he does when he goes out onto the streets is look over his shoulder in the hope of seeing a pair of tired, blue eyes find relief because they were also relentlessly searching for him.

Something in his chest twists violently where he thought there were only dead organs, and the poison in his stomach seems to start boiling when he remembers her. She can't help but feel the desire to rip her heart out of her chest since it seems useless to suddenly find herself bound to coexist with it after years of being dead.

This attraction can be such a stupid emotion if suddenly my brain turns into mush when all I can think about now is you. Maybe it's the fact that you caught my attention so easily that disturbs me, or maybe it's just you, so captivating, that have that effect on me.

Why would The Great Architect of the Universe design you with such passion, and instead only give me a foolish heart that can do nothing but beat and sigh for you...?

It's a lot to ask if I beg destiny that you're also thinking of me, and I would become a hypocrite because I never believed in destiny as something real. It's not so impossible to meet you in such a small town if you're a resident, and I am a patient woman.

And although complacency was never my thing, I can't avoid the thought that maybe my heart would find relief if I could just see you once more. That would cure me, I just know it would...

Wednesday stops herself right there, and almost wants to tear her throat out of frustration when she realizes that the narrator stopped being omniscient to become the protagonist. And that same protagonist stopped being that immortal elderly man she was thinking about and became... well, her.

At this point, the protagonist was supposed to collapse in front of the forensic doctor, in frustration of not knowing who was behind the lead paintings gifted to the victim's family in a poisoning attempt, and realizing that all this time he had been chasing the wrong person, making rookie mistakes out of arrogance, and wasting so much time that could have been better used.

She doesn't know at what point she got so lost in her memories that she stopped thinking about her new book and started thinking about her most recent frustration, she just knows that she hates how it has been obstructing her productivity.

Her hands crumple the page she tears out of the typewriter, but she doesn't tear it apart. She throws the crumpled paper to the back of a drawer in her desk, although she doesn't know why she doesn't want to get rid of it.
She is so disappointed in herself that she doesn't know if she has the brain or the energy to continue, but there's no need to continue considering that question when the sound of glass breaking snaps her out of her self-induced trance of self-disgust. A distraction, just what she needed and wanted.

It doesn't make her jump (of course not), but it does put her on alert. And as soon as the impact happens, she's already analyzing the scene to deduce where the attack came from.

The glass doesn't dirty her floor, and the object that broke the window is nowhere to be seen, so the window was broken from the inside.

This wasn't Pugsley's work, he would have aimed at her head taking advantage of the apparent distraction she was immersed in, and even if the intention had been to break the window from the start... Pugsley would have wanted to mess her up with the broken glass. She only knows that that's what he would do.

This was a demand for attention, not a way to get her angry and proceed with a chase with knives (which, in its own twisted way, is also a demand for attention, but we're not talking about that right now).

"What do you want, Pubert?" Wednesday asks into the air, because it's not that difficult to decipher the culprit when she thinks of it as a search for attention.

A six-year-old boy with more facial hair than would be usual looks at her from the doorway of her bedroom. Big, wide-open eyes despite the slightly hunched shape of his back, a well-groomed and trimmed mustache above his upper lip.

Her brother Pubert looks at her from the doorframe.

"Are you going to stay with me, Wednesday?" The little one twists a small bow and arrow set between his hands, small enough for him to handle easily, and although Wednesday knows she's supposed to be moved by it... no, that doesn't happen.

"Quite brave of you, tragically those cheap tricks have never worked on me." Wednesday says as she stands up and straightens her dress.

The whole act falls from Pubert's face, and the little one pouts as he holds onto his older sister's hand.

"I don't want a babysitter!" He complains out loud.

But Pugsley was on a little hunting escapade with Uncle Fester, she herself had plans to go out for dinner, and their parents would soon leave too (as soon as the babysitter arrived and they gave her that obscene amount of cash as an incentive to endure the whole night).

"Although I understand the sentiment, I can't stay." It doesn't take much effort to free herself from his grip (he is an infant, after all). "I have to attend a social engagement."

Silence settles as the little one falls flat on the floor after losing balance (it's something they would soon have to work on, as slipping in the middle of a duel would be unacceptable) and Wednesday heads to her closet to look for one of her sharpest knives to hide in her ankle under her skirt.

The child silently watches her for a few seconds, and quickly, the anger caused by the refusal is replaced by mere childish curiosity.

"Are you going to see your boyfriend?"

"Joel is not my boyfriend, Pubert."

"Pugsley said that Joel and you kiss."

Wednesday decides not to dignify her brother's provocation with the plan to buy some time with an answer. And although, indeed, she was going to meet with Joel, the plan didn't involve any romantic situation, at least not any that she was aware of. She paid for their last lunch to catch up, and this time Joel decided he wouldn't feel comfortable if he didn't return the favor, almost begging her to let him invite her to dinner, just the two of them.

A somewhat strange request, but who was she to miss out on a couple of hours without her brother Pugsley's interruption in her meal? Maybe Joel was also tired of inevitably having bits of food scattered all over the table (and sometimes even on his own plate) when Pugsley started eating.

But she finally finds the knife she was looking for, and when everything is in place, she prepares to leave her room and go downstairs.

"Where are you going?" Pubert asks, but receives no answer.

Wednesday puts a hand on his head as a way of saying goodbye and watches as the child shrinks a little in place at the touch.

"Don't kill the babysitter." Wednesday murmurs. "Mother and Father seemed somewhat excited about this specific one."

Pubert looks at her with dead eyes. "Dad said an Addams doesn't make promises he won't keep..."

And Wednesday gives him a gentle pat on the head, she would have never expected less.

The sun had already started to go down when Wednesday left the house. The amber color of the sunset in the sky had long been replaced by a dark blue, and as much as she likes standing in the dark... she starts to think that maybe it's time to go home.

Wednesday waits patiently, nevertheless, but it seems Joel simply isn't going to show up. It's a bit disappointing, she can't lie, but it's really not that important.

She smooths out the few wrinkles the wind managed to create in her skirt and decides she has waited long enough.

The way home is quieter, and she appreciates every second of silence she can fill herself with because she doesn't think the scene waiting for her at home will be one of peace.

Wednesday expects things to break, hurried steps, screams of terror. Wednesday longs for screams, longs to see any woman her parents hired to take care of her little brother running scared through the family cemetery, begging a God she doesn't know if listens for her freedom. She hopes Pubert isn't too angry with her to not tell her all about his feat.

It's strange when she doesn't hear any commotion as she stands in front of the door, but she's not in the mood to wait anymore. She assumes that by this point, the babysitter must have already ran away.

She opens the door slowly, still. Because she wouldn't be a respectable Addams if she informed her prey of her presence.

She walks with light feet, but with a straight back. Not with the intention of not being seen (or with the intention of not being seen, but not trying too hard), just with the sole intention of not being heard.

She turns the corner and... Ah.

She doesn't have time (or the time is there, but for some reason... she can't find the strength to move). She doesn't have time to do anything other than freeze. Because her "prey" is none other than that lady with tired eyes who captivated her unknowingly. Wednesday's breath escapes her.

And her prey sees her (or doesn't see her, but hears her), and quickly she approaches the little one who scribbles on a piece of paper with an absurd amount of red paint.

"Hey, mate, I need you to do me a favor," she begins. "I think I dropped my camera in your room, during that chase you made me go through when I tried to give you a bath. And again, I'm sorry for that. But do you think you could bring it here for me?"

Pubert stops, and it really seems like he's considering it, but as soon as the lady sees that the little one is about to refuse, she adds:

"You know, it's just that you don't want me in your room, and I don't want to break that established limit."

That seems to be enough to convince the child, make him believe that it was his idea from the beginning. As soon as he's out of sight, the lady stands up and brushes the dust off her skirt before fixing her gaze on the corner where Wednesday is hiding.

"Are you an intruder?" she seems to ask the air, but she's talking to her. The lady sighs. "Whatever you want, it's not going to happen." And that's when she starts moving towards where Wednesday is hiding. "Because if you touch a single hair on that child, we're going to tear your skin off and make boots out of it-"

Wednesday interrupts her, not with words but by coming out of her hiding place. She has both hands raised in the air as if she has been caught committing a crime (not this time, at least) and she has a small smile that twists her lip.

Creepy, according to any viewer. But the lady doesn't flinch in fear, she just looks at Wednesday as a threat.

"Are you going to tear my skin off?" Wednesday asks, and her voice is a dreamy sigh. "Do you have the strength to do that?" Every step resonates on the wooden floor, and the lady doesn't step back, so Wednesday ends up standing near her personal space. "I would like you to try, it's an exciting idea."

The lady doesn't react for a few moments, until recognition shines in her eyes and then a smile mirrors Wednesday's smile.

"You are the eldest daughter of the Addams family," she murmurs, and it's an affirmation, not a question. "And that beautiful girl from the café." Her voice sounds a little rough at the end, and she seems choked up with her words.

Well, damn, she remembers her. And damn, she thinks Wednesday is pretty

No, not pretty, but beautiful.

Usually, she wouldn't get excited about this kind of compliment, but give her a break. She'll allow herself to slip up.

The lady's hands grasp her forearms, and they lower Wednesday's hands that were raised in the air. Wednesday's skin tingles where her hands touch it, but she doesn't say much more than letting out a breath from her lungs.

And she smiles at her (oh no, she's really smiling at her) and when her hands slide to hold Wednesday's hands and gives them a squeezing gesture of acknowledgement, Wednesday feels like she's dead.

"No, I don't have enough strength to do that," she murmurs. And she backs away to pick up the art supplies scattered on the floor. Wednesday hurries to pick them up as well.

What is this lady doing here?

And when Pubert jumps down the stairs and rushes to run into his sister's arms (making her drop some pencils), Wednesday seems to understand everything.

"You're the babysitter." Wednesday says, and although her voice remains monotonous, she has the need to facepalm at such an obvious deduction.

And the babysitter smiles at her. "Brilliant deduction. It would be strange for a stranger to enter your house with only the intention of taking care of that little monkey, right?" She points with an open palm at the child clinging to her arms.

But the child pulls on Wednesday's hand insistently.

"If you're here, that means she doesn't have to stay anymore, right, Wednesday?" Pubert says, and he turns to look at the babysitter.

Wednesday doesn't say much, her eyes go from her grumpy little brother to the babysitter who smiles at her as if holding back a laugh.

"Honestly, I thought you would have sent her away by the time I came back," Wednesday says quietly to her brother, because she doesn't want to offend the lady in the black dress who has been taking care of the infant.

But the babysitter overhears her, and her smile only seems to grow bigger.

"I'm an experienced babysitter." She tells Wednesday with a wink. Wednesday bites her tongue. "I heard horror stories about the Addams kids from a sweet grandma who tried to warn me." She carefully flips through each drawing that Pubert made, several of them with an obscene amount of red paint wrinkling the pages. Maybe scenes of murders, suicides, accidents... The babysitter smiles as she leaves the pages on the coffee table.

Wednesday wants to say something, but she doesn't know what. She also doesn't have time to talk when her little brother pulls her hand more insistently.

"Tell her," Pubert insists, with a hopeful tone in his voice. "Tell her to go. I don't need a babysitter anymore."

Wednesday's eyes open a little. She doesn't want to do that, not without having a name to give to the lady who torments her in her dreams at night.

She thinks of some excuse about how she doesn't want to facilitate this when he didn't make her run on his own, but strangely, this time she doesn't want to encourage him to try harder. Luckily, they don't give her time to speak.

"But I can't leave, buddy. It's signed in blood, I'll be your best friend until your mommy and daddy come back from dinner," the babysitter says, a sweet tone in her voice and a smile as if she finds the situation amusing. She shows Wednesday the palm of her hand, there's a wound in the center. "you just don't break a contract signed in blood."

Ah, who would've thought. She accepted that contract (extra precautions, although people usually don't care if they sell their souls when they're too busy running scared).

And the lady wobbles a little on her feet as she shrugs.

"I hope you don't mind," she says to Wednesday in a lower voice. Wednesday just shrugs her shoulders.

"What kind of sister would I be if I didn't enjoy seeing my brothers suffer."

It hasn't been hours, but that's how Pubert feels it.

His older sister looks at the babysitter for long periods of time, and Pubert notices the way she tries to talk to her. As if she's asking for some of her attention.

It's strange to see his older sister using some tactics that he used with the family, but she does it in a more subtle way, and certainly for a different reason. Trying to catch the babysitter's attention with some displays of her disguised skills in everyday activities. Like those shirtless guys on the beach flexing their muscles when an attractive woman passes by, but replacing muscles with knowledge of poisons and the use of different weapons.

It makes Pubert want to vomit, but maybe that's what growing up is about.

And yet, even though he had already become discouraged seeing that the babysitter didn't respond in any way to the well-practiced tricks that had made bigger women run away (and if he had to say something about this woman's slim build, probably stronger too) and he had resigned himself to playing nice for the rest of this unpleasant evening... Seeing his sister looking strangely disgusting and putting her focus on that woman, he decides to take a second wind. Because suddenly he decides that he's not willing to disappoint himself if he can't at least scare his babysitter a little.

It's not because he wants his older sister's attention. 

But he doesn't make things too complicated this time, he goes for simple tricks, so he won't waste too much energy.

Then, he spills a box full of worms at the babysitter's feet, but she didn't scream or stagger like he expected (after all, it's hard not to know that was the intention when he threw the box at her feet while she was near the stairs). She knelt down and picked up each one, with a little smile on her lips. She made him hold the box while she did it, and carefully put each one away, asking Pubert if he had named them. Pubert told her no, as he watched her hold Atticus carefully and place him in the box.

"How about we leave some on the floor? That way, you'll find a surprise when you least expect it," the babysitter said, looking at a couple of chubby worms still wriggling on the floor.

Pubert said that was dumb, and although Wednesday agreed with the lady, they ended up discarding the idea, and they all went back into the box. He returned them to his terrarium in the greenhouse.

A few minutes after dinner, Pubert sneaks away and a gift from his cat Ripper is left in the babysitter's backpack. He sees the camera in one of the backpack pockets while he's at it, so... the babysitter is a liar.

Anyways. To make her look and find the surprise, Pubert just has to give himself an "accidental fall" (Pugsley taught him how).

A stifled sob and rubbing his eyes to chase away the non-existent tears. The babysitter picks him up from the floor with both hands, looking for where the damage is, and Pubert points to his bleeding knee.

"It's okay, it's okay..." She tells him with a sweet voice, which is enough to make Pubert pause for a moment.

This feels strange, but he wasn't going to back down.

Wednesday stays nearby, looking at him with suspicion, but she doesn't betray him, she remains silent. The babysitter cleans her wound with expert hands and a warm water cloth, and when she takes her backpack to look for some band-aids, she freezes.

Her tired eyes stare at the contents, and then look at Wednesday before closing her backpack again. His sister approaches quickly to see what is wrong, but the babysitter doesn't let her see, and Wednesday doesn't insist.

"You're going to be fine," she finally says. But Pubert was expecting a little more. A scream, a gasp, anything.

By bedtime, Pubert threw a knife directly at her face. Wednesday catches it with her hand, and the babysitter crouches down, covering her head.

Strangely, she still whispers a "Goodnight" before closing the door.

And Pubert is left in complete darkness, inhaling deeply as he accepts that the day has come to an end, and he must accept his defeat.

He himself had been a victim of a lack of inspiration or creativity, perhaps Wednesday or Pugsley would have come up with something better to scare the babysitter away. This was not his best day.

But that was a strange girl, he thinks anyway. And as he bites the ear of the upper half of his ripped teddy bear's, he falls asleep with a little laugh.

Strange for an Addams, who are already seen as strange just for existing. That's kinda funny.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt if he had to face the babysitter for a second duel.

Going down the stairs is a little uncomfortable, Wednesday plays with the knife in her hands and the babysitter is still rubbing her forehead, feeling a tingling where the knife would have stabbed her.

"That was interesting," is all she murmurs.

Wednesday sighs with regret. "I'm sorry for that."

"It's a bit strange. I mean, he wasn't misbehaving when I arrived, but he wasn't behaving either. I think he was trying to impress you," the babysitter says quietly. "It's kind of endearing... But don't tell him I said that."

Wednesday doesn't respond verbally, but she tilts her head like a curious canine. She doesn't quite understand all this tangle of emotions. She doesn't even fully understand her own.

They descend the rest of the stairs in silence, and sit on the couch in the living room. The babysitter looks everywhere but at Wednesday. A small yawn escapes her, and although Wednesday adores every moment of it, she's glad she hasn't shown this slightest hint of weakness in front of her little brother, or maybe he would have found something to do with it.

Normally she would be proud to be able to say that, but right now... ah, it's complicated.

The babysitter's eyes close for a second, and Wednesday clears her throat to get her attention.

When her tired blue eyes fix on her, Wednesday finally begins to speak. "I didn't hear your name."

"Yes, that's because I haven't told you," the babysitter replies.

And there's a silence that Wednesday hopes will be filled, but the lady doesn't continue speaking. Wednesday doesn't know what to say in response, so she asks, "Won't you tell me?"

"It's just that it seems strange for you to ask my name when you haven't told me yours yet, Wednesday," the lady says with a smile.

And once again, Wednesday can't help but see her with confusion in her eyes. At least this time she knows she's being teased.

"But you already know my name."

"But it would be unfair for me to introduce myself if you won't introduce yourself properly first."

Right there, Wednesday snorts. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?" A small smile tugs at her upper lip. A smile that sends chills down the spine, but seems to only make the lady smile even bigger.

"No, we wouldn't," she whispers, with a sweet voice that seems so fake and practiced.

Wednesday exhales slowly through her nose and offers her extended hand to the lady. "Wednesday. Wednesday Addams. Should I give you my middle name too?"

"But you're not giving it to me, you're just letting me know it," the lady whispers, placing her hand on Wednesday's open palm. "Lydia Deetz," she says with a final laugh.

A laugh that is cut off when Wednesday brings Lydia's hand to her lips. And a kiss is pressed onto her knuckles.

"Well, it's a pleasure," Wednesday says quietly.

Wednesday forces herself to pull back, and Lydia retracts her hand with a slight show of shyness that Wednesday didn't expect to see.

Her heart is beating in her throat, but Wednesday doesn't retreat and holds Lydia's gaze. Lydia breaks eye contact with a blink, and murmurs softly, "Ah, you're very good at that..."

Wednesday doesn't understand, and doesn't ask.

Lydia takes a breath before smiling again. This time she speaks to fill the empty space.

"Pubert told me a lot about you." Lydia let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "And Pugsley, of course."

Wednesday doesn't react completely.

"That puts me at a disadvantage." Wednesday murmurs.

Lydia snorts. "I suppose you could say that."

"It's not fair. And we had already established that we don't like unfair things, right?" Wednesday continues.

And Lydia can't contain her laughter. "No, Wednesday. We don't like unfair things." She takes a pause, rubbing her hands. "But I don't think we have time."

Wednesday has to swallow a protest, and maybe she swallows her own heart too, because suddenly the beat in her chest no longer suffocates her (unfortunate, certainly). The weight settles in her stomach, and although Wednesday doesn't know if that's what this is, it feels a bit like rejection.

"It's a pity."

"It is." Lydia murmurs, and with a yawn, she starts putting her art supplies in her pockets (Oh! Her dress has pockets!). One pocket gets filled with pencils and brushes, the other with small paint jars, and the perfectly functional backpack is left on the floor.

Wednesday watches her for a few seconds.

Lydia guesses without Wednesday having to ask.

"A dead pigeon." Lydia murmurs. "I'm saving it for later."

Wednesday stands still like a statue in the middle of the room, maybe if she doesn't move, they won't see her.

Her father shook Lydia's hand with more enthusiasm than necessary, Wednesday saw Lydia grimace from the pain, but she didn't stop smiling at the man throughout this exchange. Her mother thanks her in a quieter way, and Lydia seems relieved, nodding in response.

And while her father gets lost for a moment talking to the babysitter about trains, pulling out some bills from his wallet to pay Lydia the second half of her wages, her mother looks at her with a questioning look. Her steps towards her are silent, and although Wednesday knows she has been seen (of course she has been seen, it's like she didn't even hide. Joel once told her that sometimes things hide better in plain sight, maybe she shouldn't have believed him), she doesn't move.

"How long have you been here?" Her mother asks. Wednesday responds with a small sigh.

"I was only out for an hour. Counting the way there, but not counting the way back. So maybe a little longer." Wednesday answers.

Morticia remains thoughtful for a moment. "Did you make her stay?" She asks, as if she believed there had to be a threat for Lydia not to run away.

"No, mother. I didn't help her either, not in a way I remember. She did everything on her own." Wednesday omits how she saved her from that flying knife, but other than that, she's being honest.

Her mother smiles contently.

And when Lydia finally says goodbye to the Addams and walks out the door, heading towards a freedom she never begged for throughout the night, Wednesday offers to escort her to the exit. When the fence is finally visible and the graves ended a long time ago, there's an older and creepy man, raggedy and smelling bitter, calling Lydia with a raspy voice.

Wednesday opens the gate and looks at Lydia with a curious expression. "... Your father?" Wednesday murmurs, holding the gate so Lydia can pass.

"Nope." Lydia answers, but she doesn't tell her who he is, and just gives Wednesday a pat on the shoulder before whispering goodbye.

And Wednesday watches her disappear into the swamp, until the fog makes her vanish from sight.

...

It is still early in the morning, but Wednesday finds herself having a late cup of tea when she suddenly finds herself waking up and unable to fall back asleep. Lurch is lying next to her, hunched over the dining chair that seems too small for his size, but with a cup of tea between his index finger and thumb, because even the strongest men need a break from time to time.

Or so Wednesday said when she invited him to sit.

She is awake to see her uncle Fester and her brother Pugsley arrive covered in what appears to be mud. Thing jumps off Pugsley's shoulder and runs, probably to clean up. Lurch merely grunts at the stains left on the carpet.

Pugsley passes by her and their company, pours himself a cup of tea without asking, and Wednesday allows it.

They remain silent for a few seconds until Pugsley breaks it. "Oh, by the way, Joel had an allergic reaction because his grandmother put peanuts in his food to prove that he wasn't allergic but just picky, it didn't go well. He told me to tell you that he won't be able to make it to the date you and him planned."

Wednesday wants to say something. That it wasn't a date, that he should have let her know before making her leave the house for nothing... But she says nothing. Because she's in a good mood from the short but lovely time she spent with Lydia.

She takes one last sip from her cup before carefully placing it on the table. She waits for her brother to do the same before grabbing the meat knife from the countertop.

Maybe she can spare Lurch the trouble and make her brother clean those mud stains on the carpet with his tongue.

Chapter Text

Wednesday stares at that blank sheet of paper, and the trail of shredded scraps filling the small bin beside her desk.

And suddenly she realizes she no longer knows how to write (or she knows how, but doesn’t like what she wants to write, because without trying, bloody scenes turn into love letters). So she stays there in place, tense, gnawing at the skin of her knuckles while she wonders how she should proceed in this situation. If her muse was dazed, it wasn’t as simple as slapping her awake—it was just a matter of waiting.

She wonders what she’s turning into, and whether there’s a cure.

She wonders if she’ll end up dead inside like her father: waiting and almost begging to fulfill every whim of a lady who will reward her with her affections.

Your command is my wish.

“Sometimes, sleep helps.” Joel pulls her out of her thoughts. Wednesday recalls in his eyes the devotion that once disgusted her—she never thought she’d find herself in his shoes. He drags a finger through the dust on the canopy of the bed. It always seems to catch his attention; the first time he stepped into Wednesday’s room he nearly lost the tips of two fingers.

“I don’t need sleep. Sometimes lack of sleep helps me get the images out of my head, I can see them clearly.”

“I think those are called hallucinations.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You can’t not sleep. I could lecture you about the health risks, but I’ll skip to what you actually care about: it affects your concentration and your reaction time.”

“That way I won’t be able to write. Or throw a knife into Pugsley’s eye when he tries to sneak into my room without permission,” Wednesday says, conceding Joel’s point, and Joel nods, unfazed anymore by her casual mentions of attacks.

“Maybe you just need some air,” Joel suggests in his naturally sweet voice as he places a hand on her shoulder, which only makes her tense up more.

Wednesday holds her breath, rubbing her ink-stained fingertips.

In the background she hears her brother walking around the room, fiddling with everything on the shelves. Wednesday grits her teeth but decides not to say anything for now.

“Maybe you need a walk?” Joel suggests next, stepping back and motioning behind him as if inviting her to follow.

“For how long?”

And instead of answering that question, Joel simply says: “Let’s walk.”

“For how long?”

But Joel still doesn’t give a concrete answer, and that only adds another fine layer of stress to the black cloud in her head. He’s already tugging her hand, and her brother is already pressing a butcher’s knife into her free one.

“I told you not to touch my things.”

“I’m just being nice.”

“Disgusting. I can’t believe you kiss our mother with that mouth.”

“Our mother whispers worse things in our father’s ear when no one’s listening. Or even when they are. The kind of shit you can only dream of babbling in the babysitter’s ear.”

“Her name is Lydia.”

“And she’s Pubert’s babysitter. Not a nanny, but it’s like you’ve got Uncle Fester’s taste. Maybe she’ll force you to move away and keep you obedient through sexual blackmail.”

Joel grimaces in discomfort and shoves Pugsley’s shoulder, as if asking him to stop talking nonsense.

Wednesday doesn’t usually believe in this, but she can only bet on her luck and cross her fingers.

Hopefully.

She wouldn’t call it a refreshing walk. There are no angry mobs chasing her breathless, no carnivorous animals she’s eager to get a closer look at.

Her lungs aren’t burning.

There are trees, and laughter, and fresh air.

And Wednesday wants to go home.

Joel keeps her close. Pugsley walks behind them, babbling about how yesterday he ate an entire bowl of mints he found on Joel’s dad’s desk—only to later realize they were actually antacids.

Her eyes fix on a distant point in the void, more interesting than anything her brother has to say. And then she catches a black speck amid all the green around them.

A shadow that steals her breath—and she doesn’t even need to see it fully to recognize the owner of her sleepless nights, the cause of her muse’s suffering, because her brain decided she was a better source of inspiration.

Her eyes cling to hers with the same hunger as a man on death row to his last meal. Wednesday would like to gouge them out, just to have those beautiful blues with her forever, tucked inside her jacket pocket, always close to her heart.

She feels like choking when her heart pounds in her chest (such a delightful sensation). And unwillingly, she finds herself straying, seeking just a little more of this emotional suffocation.

And Lydia stops—and her eyes don’t land on Wednesday, they land on one of the caterpillars crawling along a tree branch. Wednesday feels she could spit blood—when all she wants is to give her her heart, when all she can do is stop and admire that sweet concentration on something she herself would never bother to notice.

Lydia smiles faintly and raises her camera, murmuring something Wednesday can’t hear but can read on her lips (oh, she really can’t stop staring at those lips now…).

“Hold that pose…” Wednesday isn’t sure if she really believes the caterpillar can understand her, or if it’s just habit striking unbidden.

“You look beautiful,” Lydia says brightly, a little louder this time, and Wednesday hears it.

After the click and the flash, Lydia shows the picture to the caterpillar.

Pugsley moves up until he’s beside Wednesday, clapping her on the shoulder maybe a bit too hard—an audible slap that draws some attention. Wednesday doesn’t flinch an inch.

“She’s nuts,” Pugsley says. “I can see why you like her.”

Wednesday makes no comment.

“What will you do if she doesn’t like you back?”

“I’ll send roses to her house. I bet she likes roses,” Wednesday mutters.

Pugsley laughs. “But I don’t think she’ll like getting roses from you when you’re not supposed to know where she lives.”

Wednesday bites her tongue. Joel nudges her shoulder with his.

“Or maybe you could just talk to her like a normal person,” he says gently.

“Tell her you like how her hands are so bony, like you could snap her wrists just by closing your fist around them. Tell her you want to eat her face.” Pugsley offers. Wednesday wonders if he’s read her diary again. “Ask her if her shampoo’s anti-dandruff. And if she likes cyanide.”

“Quite the expert,” Wednesday says dryly. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she brushes her bangs off her forehead in frustration. “A dead animal. Last time she took a pigeon and said she was saving it for later.”

Joel grimaces. “That doesn’t sound like flirting.”

“I saw a dead skunk. We should go back for it,” Pugsley says, convinced it’s the best idea. “Do you think she eats them too?”

Lydia stares at her camera for a few seconds, tongue poking out slightly as she feeds in more paper. She lifts it again, and the flash makes Wednesday shut her eyes.

Lydia jumps in place when the photo develops, not realizing she had been pointing directly at the trio of teenagers staring at her like she’s some zoo animal. She bites her lip (Wednesday wants to tear it off with her teeth) before lifting her gaze and seeing them still staring. Deciding instead to turn on her heel, she quickly walks off in the opposite direction.

Shit. They already scared her off.