Chapter Text
Tyler’s eyelids were a coffin’s lid, when the excruciating view reserved by the other side of the wood is too familiar to allow any fear to curse one's soul. His wrists and ankles, chained since the very beginning of his infelicitous stay in Vermont Psychiatric Hospital, were as light as a leaf against the wind, in such a way he only recognized them as a part of him when the metallic clink of chains echoed the empty cell, cold and infinitely white as a winter night.
Ether already smelled as familiar as earth and fresh-coffee, which his sense of smell was already unfamiliar with after so long getting used to the chains’ iron and the mold from the sheets that were barely changed. If anybody cared enough to ask, he’d rather rot in jail than a mental institution — there, at least, the misery wouldn’t come wrapped as false cure.
For what seemed to me the hundredth time — or only the tenth one, he couldn’t truly tell — his body grunted to rise from the terribly thin mattress he was granted, skull murmuring in answer to the thousand needles that incessantly pierced it after immeasurable sedatives doses. Apparently, his imminent doom was rather a side-effect given the need of keeping the monster inside him docile, that is, when they didn’t decide to disturb him with unending inquiries affectionately called therapy whose sole objective was to gather information to studies and themes about the “Young Ripper” as Jericho’s population decided to call him after his arrest.
Before he could sink to the repetitive routine of crawling to the other side of the room for an ordinary water-bottle, the only light source, a faint ceiling-lamp, flickered, then obliterated. Confined to complete darkness, Tyler was ready to let uncountable curses out, when the rustle from the thick doors sliding against the floor dragged his attention. Silence didn't have a shot to establish itself again. Steps — distinct ones, certainly from more than one person, echoed down the corridor. Among them, the boots he’d recognize even in his deathbed, making the floor grumble under their pace as a verdict to be dictated.
Was he hallucinating again?
Cutting through the muteness, screams. Screams drowned in despair, insanity, muffled murmurs, sentences whose ends he never heard. He’d believe to be living a Willow Hill deja vu, if the haunting copper shade of Marilyn Thornhill’s hair was already lurking in some corner.
But she never came.
Instead, the cadaverous features doomed to never fade from his memory became apparent, emerging from the shadows as an angel for divine apparition. Except, in that case, the said angel more seemed like the one expelled from heavens and abominated him as much as God the sin. Wednesday’s eyes, black and cold as the night, minutely widened when landing on him, studying his instance as an insect under a magnifier before daring to step closer.
“You’re disturbingly worse than the first time we did this dance,” she blankly stated, letting a backpack slide from her arms as a familiar body-part handed her some tools.
“And you,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes at his newest haunting, “are not even real.”
As if Marilyn and his mother weren’t enough already.
“I see psychiatric clinics keep making you more deranged than you already are,” Wednesday murmured, more to herself than him, “Unfortunately, I’m very real.”
Tyler let a nostril laugh out, part discredited, part indignant with the delirium of the time, questioning himself why, of all options, the chosen one had to be her.
She, who burnt like embers in the remnants of his conscience since the first moment he saw her glassy eyes glisten with tears she never dared to shed; since the night he wounded her with the cutting truth of his nature, when he whispered words he doesn't even remember in her ear, while police officers believed she was the insane girl torturing an innocent teenager. She, who had been victim of a violence he didn't recognize wearing his skin, sometimes breaking her heart on Laurel's orders, sometimes being forced to watch her near-death on his mother's, sometimes pushing her from the second floor of a building, because the alternative hammering his mind like a mantra would be too unbearable to live with.
“You wouldn’t be here,” he half-whispered, every word cutting his throat from the inside-out, ”Not after everything.”
Delirium-Wednesday let her head fall to the side for mere centimeters, then brought it back. “Valid reasoning line,” she conceded, “But I am still tragically real.”
He chuckled, although no humor enlightened his face. “Then, what are you doing here, Wednesday?” His tone sounded more harsh than he intended to, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t truly there. “Came to see if I’m as miserable as I should?” he proceeded, gesturing around the cell as if welcoming a guest, “There it is. Happy?”
She raised an inquiring brow, as if meticulously judging her next words.
“Of course, seeing you chained and miserable still makes my black-heart grin.”
Awful judgment.
“But I was thinking of a quid pro quo,” she decreased their distance, glaring around the place instead of his eyes, “Yet, it seems like there isn’t a single profitable neuron left in your brain.”
Tyler rolled his eyes, annoyed by the duration of this delusion compared to others he'd experienced. Yet, before he could string together a few more bitter words in response, a terribly familiar girl materialized —literally, popped out of nowhere— behind Wednesday.
The same girl he'd intended to let his uncle kill, some time ago.
What a lovely reunion.
Agnes's eyes, if such a feat was possible, widened even further as she dissected the scene with the curiosity of a child in a playroom. The red curls she'd stopped braiding to resemble Wednesday fell freely across her face as she approached, nearly yelling, “We need to go, like, now!” The minor psycho glanced outside, then back at them. “Police’s almost here. Uncle Fester said he’ll wait for us in the parking lot.”
Wednesday nodded in agreement, tossing what looked like pliers to the girl before taking another pair for herself. It was only when her corpse-cold touch found his wrists —and Agnes’s surprisingly gentle one his ankles— successfully fracturing the chains bounding him to the wall, that he realized.
Flesh and blood.
They were real.
He must’ve left the surprise show, judging by the way both girls held the smirk of a child playing a prank. “Seen a ghost, Tyler?” the junior-menace smiled, marionette-like eyes gleaming in joy as the plier danced between her fingers. She seemed disturbingly happy to be there.
He frowned, outraged. “Yeah, I thought so!”
Outside, police sirens became more and more loud — meaning Tyler, indeed, wasn’t daydreaming and was actually being break-out of a mental institution.
“Much to your misfortune, Tyler, I’m still annoyingly breathing,” Wednesday shot, getting rid of the chains holding his wrists captive. ‘Now, about our arrangement-”
“Uh, Wednesday?” Agnes chimed in, awkwardly lifting her index, “I hate to interrupt, but the police..”
Wednesday’s lips pouted, glare flickering between him and the other girl. “Fine,” she rolled her eyes, handing the pliers back to Thing — who he swore to notice showing his middle finger to him — “Don’t try anything. I have more weapons on me than you could ever count.”
His eyes followed her act, stretching his wrists in a failed attempt of pushing the rigidity away. “God, you’re really insane,” he murmured, more to himself than her, but ended up following her to the hallway regardless.
The place felt like the Tartar.
Judging by the lack of lighting and open cells, they had, most certainly, resorted to the same technique applied in Willow Hill. He would smile about it, but the probability of releasing another couple of insane family members despite himself did send a chill down his spine. Officers’ screams, part begging for help, part cursing the interns' next five generations, mingled among the deranged ones. The walls were stained in a mix of blood and excrements he didn’t want to unravel the precedence of, countless people running in every direction as guards failed to handcuff them or faced the ground as distinct groups, for lack of more accurate wording, beat the absolute shit out of them.
Quite a lovely scene.
Tyler followed Wednesday’s straight lead through the riot, taking the right shortcuts between the building’s wings as Agnes’ glare burned holes on his back, probably wondering if he was about to vanish from her sight. Little did she know, he wondered the same. Time hadn’t taught enough on how to control a Hyde of his own, after all, and his Hyde did hold an ironic grunge for the girl currently freeing him. What could go wrong?
They had reached the clinical wing when the sirens became louder than ever. Wednesday signed for them to wait as she followed through an eerie and surprisingly empty aisle he knew led to the main entrance. It didn't take long for her to come back, porting a smirk Tyler knew couldn’t reveal a sane choice to make.
“Front door’s out of question. We’d have to take five officers down each.”
“No big deal,” he shrugged.
“It is a big deal, actually” the little creepy retorted, “We can’t cross a border with your face all over the news again. It’s better if they’re not sure you ran away yet.”
“She’s a better learner than you are,” Wednesday bitterly added, clearly testing the frontier of his patience.
“Can you blame me for not unraveling your crazy plan by thought-transference?” he snapped, “Why the hell are you taking me out of country?”
“Did you have other vacation-plans?”
“Definitely not involving being kidnapped and killed by you!”
“It’s not kidnapping if you’re coming of your free will-”
“Guys!” little-creep dragged their attention, letting a tired sigh out, “There’s a window to the parking lot in rehab wing.”
“Yeah, genius, on second floor,” he dryly remarked, purposefully pretending not to see whatever Thing drummed about it.
“You, of all people, concerned about windows and building-heights?” Wednesday lashed out, deliberately ignoring his eye-roll. “We’re jumping.”
Tyler didn't have the time to offer her a second-experience on second-floor windows, since she was faster to turn on her heels and follow down the aisle without a single glance back. Behind him, Agnes asked herself why she let Wednesday know about that option — thoughts he agreed with, but decided not to comment while they followed the black-haired’s path.
Sure, obliging Wednesday's insane plans was even more insanity, but it wasn't like he had something better to do confined to a cell.
The three climbed two flights of stairs in a lightning’s precision, turning a few rights and lefts until finally reaching the Rehabilitation Wing. Wednesday tried the doorknob to a room Agnes pointed out, only to find out it was key-locked. With an unwilling look she shared with Tyler, the two kicked the wooden surface in unnatural sync, letting the rubble of what was once a door meet the ground before running to a closed window in the wall across them.
“The probability of death is low, but beware of fractures, head trauma, or permanent internal injuries,” Wednesday stated, so blankly she seemed to be dictating game rules.
Agnes let a nervous laugh out, clasping her hands together as she pleaded, “Can't I walk through the front door saying I was here to visit my grandfather or something?”
“Don't be a child, Agnes,” she snapped.
Tyler tilted his head, hiding a grin at the outraged redhead as he said, “You do remember she's thirteen, right?”
“I jumped from Burj Khalifa when I was nine.”
“Okay..” he mumbled, knowing better than to ask any further questions, “I’ll go first and catch you. The fall isn't high enough for a Hyde.”
“I’m not trusting you with my life, Galpin.” Wednesday tore the window open, allowing Thing to settle on her head before throwing her backpack down.
“Are you serious-”
She met the ground before he could finish.
Silence swallowed the room for a few seconds, none of them daring to be the first one to look out the window. “Is she.. alive?” breathed Agnes, moving away from the view as if a sick person from the dance epidemic was waiting for her down there.
Tyler leaned against the glass to find an unbothered Wednesday fixing her braids. She did seem okay, despite the funny way her arm moved. “She’s fine,” he assured the pre-teen, already climbing to the sill, “Guess it's my turn now.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my afterlife haunting you if I die in here,” she said, but the constant nail-biting didn't do much to sustain her threat.
His eyes met the ceiling, almost mockingly. Then, he jumped.
Air stormed out of his lungs the second he landed on fours, a dry thud that made everything vibrate — bones, muscles, the world around. Tyler allowed his body a second to process the shock, but had no problems standing up, knees bending just enough to absorb the fall. Behind him, Wednesday rolled her eyes at his lack of injuries, but he didn't give it a second thought as the buzz from cops grew louder in his keen hearing — also Hyde's courtesy.
“Hurry, little psycho,” he yelled at the frightened girl on the window, opening his arms right where she was expected to fall.
Agnes squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she climbed the sill, obliging his advice not to look down. The girl drew in a deep breath, muttering something muffled by the dangerously near sirens and, finally, jumped. As expected, she weighted a leaf landing on his arms, only daring to open her eyes when her feet touched the ground.
“We need to go,” Wednesday urged at their approach, leading the way between the infinity of poorly parked cars.
“What happened to your arm?” Tyler taunted as he reached her, close enough that the roll of her eyes could pierce him if she wanted to.
“Why?” she retorted without dignifying him a glance, sneaking behind an offensive pink car. “Are you the only one allowed to cause me injuries?”
“I’d definitely do better than a dislocated shoulder.”
“Strange. I thought you could do better than throw me out a window rather than finish the job yourself.”
Haunting their orbit as a ghost, Agnes shushed them quiet when a couple of officers walked past them. The redheaded bent behind a tire as he and Wednesday took another, shoulders annoyingly brushing to hide both of their figures. Months ago, Tyler would experience a nervous breakdown at the sole thought of touching her in any form. Yet, now, the faintest contact lighted something he judged to be stuck in the burning flames of the past —something he couldn't run from, whether he was enslaved or not.
In the darkest depths of his skull, the voices he most ached to forget mingled in an infernal symphony.
“Get rid of Wednesday Addams” was the order the monstrosity inside him never forgot —orders given not by one, but two masters. Inside him, the Hyde stirred restless, craving to obey.
And obeying meant killing.
“They're gone,” a stern voice dragged him into reality. A voice he was meant to silence, but tried his best to sink the order deep enough not to reach him again. Tyler restrained to a nod as he rose, hurrying to pace behind the girls as the quietest of shadows. The three walked in disturbing silence, the gravel never daring to crunch under their soles as they drifted through the now empty parking lot.
Didn't take long for Wednesday to approach a pitch-black 1960 Cadillac, her fists curling as the driver lowered a window to greet them. “You were supposed to be discreet,” she snapped, earning a crooked stare from her uncle in the driver's seat.
“I saw it on the way here! You know I can't resist when duty calls,” he frowned, tilting his head before his naturally-wide eyes met Tyler's, “Oh, there you are, fellow criminal! Join me here.”
Tyler would assume he could've been addressing any of the three, but he didn't have that much of an option since Wednesday and Agnes hushed to take the backseat. An awkward smile curved on his countenance as he obliged Fester’s request, seriously considering he was about to get shocked to death. For more ironic that seemed, relying on the thought that a certain braided-menace would never let another person finish him was rather soothing.
“Hey,” he drawled, eyes flickering between the maniac on the driver's seat and the girls on the back. “So… That's when y'all slaughter and spawn me?”
“Nah, we're not that close yet,” Fester shushed as naturally as dismissing a piece of meat at a family barbecue, encouraging the accelerator with concerning excitement. “We’ll get there, though! Illegal border-crossing and nemesis-tracking are amazing bonding activities. I don't even feel bad Wednesday forbid me from robbery side quests.”
Purposefully ignoring the whole bonding with uncle of the girl he tried to kill comment —the kind of Addams behavior he did not have the will to question further without waking up the Hyde by the mere mention of “kill” and “Wednesday” in the same sentence— Tyler asked, “Which takes me back to the 'who are we tracking across the border' and the 'why should I help' question.” From the rear view mirror, he glanced Wednesday's eyes almost meeting the car roof. “It's a hell of a Russian-roulette to let a Hyde out for assistance after a few murder attempts. I’m curious.”
“I do expect your inflated ego lives up to your abilities,” she deadpanned, hiding the faintest of smirks when Tyler's back met the backrest with sudden violence —consequence to Fester abruptly peeling off the vehicle with the patience of a deranged panther. The tires screeched above the gravel as the driver abused the accelerator so vigorously he only had the time to mutter a curse and watch the officers’ images fade as foreign blurs behind them.
The damn seatbelts could've been good use at the time.
“You still have the survival instincts of a fly,” she mused, her face back to the usual blankness. “It's perturbingly soothing.”
“If you brought me here for-”
“Your uncle's trespassing death once again. It seems not even Hades wishes to hold him captive.”
Tyler glanced back so abruptly his neck could've shattered apart, absent-minded to the vehicle's concerning speed and Fester’s crooked grin gleaming amusement. “Isaac is what-now?”
“Your ability at manslaughter is both non-existent and pitiful,” she snapped, not bothering to look at the minor-menace holding her laugh next to her. “He was still annoyingly breathing as we left Iago Tower that night.”
Surprise didn't even leave room for the rage at Wednesday's constant taunting to reverberate. Every line of Tyler's expression wrote confusion as he frowned, aiming to reach the clear memory of the fateful night he threw his uncle down a tower before fighting his own mother — not the best kind of family gathering, but certainly a remarkable one, for all memory disturbance and loss a Hyde can experience.
“That's impossible,” he breathed. “I remember killing him before- before everything.”
“Then you clearly did a pitiful job at it,” Wednesday snapped. “Now, be quiet as I explain the extensions of our agreement.”
𖥸· ─ · · One month ago.
Wednesday threw another evidence-box away — the fifth remembrance of her failure in a week. Camera footage, pictures, maps, everything that got her crossing Vermont attempting to track a werewolf, only to figure out Enid had already moved. Again. Along with uncle Fester and Agnes — who suddenly popped up in the cottage they had broken into, alleging she ran away from home to help — the search-party for her unexpected best-friend was as prolix as ever, not to say a complete fiasco.
“Sure you don’t want to bring your Hyde friend to the party?” a comically-deranged, utterly insulting tone echoed behind her.
Wednesday turned on her heels as a death-wish to be granted, shooting her usual blank-stare at her uncle putting a newspaper away. “I’d rather pierce needles in my eyes than to ask Tyler Galpin for help,” she stated, glancing at the familiar mugshot displayed on the pages —Tyler's mugshot. “Perhaps I’ll do it regardless.”
“I pierced needles in my eyes once. It was awesome!” Fester let tiny, excited lines of electricity out, tilting his head as he went, “But, pigtails, wasn’t he your boyfriend- or whatever you guys call it now? I’m sure-”
“Be careful with your next words if you value the teeth you have left,” she cut in, forcing her sight out of the yellowish pages insufferably displayed. “Tyler and I were mere acquaintances, which proved to be an insignificant part of his master's zealot plan to bring my ancestor’s nemesis back to life.”
From absolute nothingness, Agnes’ creepy-doll-like figure emerged in efficient silence, earning a startled discharge from her uncle, which served to accidentally — since he couldn't do it deliberately if he tried — light up one of the last useful ceiling lamps. Wednesday restrained to an eye-roll as his eyes widened in unhinged amusement. “You’re getting disturbingly good at this, tiny-terror,” Fester excitedly breathed, clutching a hand to his chest as his lips curved in an eerie grin. “I’m proud!”
Agnes lowered her instance in an eerie bow, lifting the hems of her emerald dress with a kind of lunatic elegance capable of unsettling most people. “Thank you, uncle Fester,” she affectionately whispered, her full lips curving into a pleased smile. Wednesday would normally be completely against other people directing that kind of niece-energy to him, but Agnes did carve her space into the Addams Family's heart, specially Fester’s, for that matter. And, he did offer to kidnap her from the DeMille state, but her father was too much of an influential man to draw that kind of attention.
“Didn't you find out about Tyler while you were kissing him, though?” Her attention snapped back at Wednesday, head mildly tilting as she continued to imply information that could end up carved on her tombstone. “Wednesday Addams doesn't kiss someone she's not interested in —or anyone at all.”
Wednesday crossed her arms at the minor-creepy, eyes mildly narrowing at the unacceptably accurate description. “Who told you that?”
The ceiling lamps flickered as Agnes let a pride chuckle out, dramatically clasping her hands under her cheek as she crooned, “You know I’m an efficient stalker. Plus, Enid told me she used to root for you before- well, everything.”
“Remind me to kill Enid once I find her alive,” she gritted, turning on her heels to fetch the abandoned newspaper. Fester and Agnes lurked on her shoulders as she read the article — one informing Tyler's temporary confinement in Vermont's Psychiatric Hospital after being caught wandering around Jericho, as if he wasn't one of the most wanted people in the US, second only to Fester Addams.
More than outraged by his deplorable criminal-abilities, Wednesday was personally offended by how Galpin made light of it. Being on the wanted list was one of the most valuable Addams milestones, and she herself hasn't managed to accomplish such a thing yet.
“Calling Tyler in is out of question,” she said. “We can find another Hyde.”
“My protégé,” Fester used his version of an even tone, as if lecturing a four-year-old into properly assembling a gun, “You must know Hydes are extremely unreliable. I’m always up for danger, you know — but those fellas can end us in single blow! I don't have enough C4 for that.”
“What makes you think Tyler wouldn't attempt such a thing?” she retorted, discarding the pages back on the wooden surface with quite more violence than necessary. “He has, in fact, tried it already — but his incompetence gave me enough time to recover from my injuries. If he can't manage to kill a sixteen-year-old girl, capturing an Alpha it's most certainly out of his league. That is, if he has any standards to answer to.”
Her companies shared a knowing look, as if her display of repulsion towards a serial-killer-barista with daddy issues was something to attest her sanity for. Silence swallowed them for a moment — not uncomfortable, nor judging, just there. Finally, Fester shrugged, cleaning invisible dust from the black fabric covering his frame as he said, “All I’m saying, pigtails,” he uncharacteristically hesitated, “is that if the little monster wanted you dead, he would easily accomplish it.”
Uncle Fester wasn't one to act serious and concerned, but it appeared Wednesday's will to save her friend had knocked some sense into him. It was, for sure, more unsettling than his insanity report.
“If you want to find your furred-friend,” he drawled, pointing a non-accusative finger at her, “a Hyde is the highest chance you’ve got.”
Wednesday didn't answer. She didn't have to — the weight of the truth was heavier than the need to snap back, to retort, to end the dialogue on her own terms. But she knew her uncle was right. Terribly right. If Enid waited much longer, her humanity would be likely entirely lost. And, for more aversion Wednesday might’ve held for over-colored clothes and over-joyed conversations, she missed it — her first and best friend, for more over-everything she might be.
“Your advice,” she said, fingers intertwining under her stomach, “is noted and taken to consideration.”
Much to her relief, Fester restrained to a knowing nod before patting Agnes’ copper curls, dragging her to whatever lesson they were working on at the moment. Wednesday didn't really care, as long as it was far enough that she had space to think and close enough that she could keep an eye on them in case they were to expose their location to hunters or curious — and later murdered — people. As expected, they crossed the kitchen double-doors to an abandoned garden, appearing to be absentmindedly distracted by whatever explosive the girl was being taught to defuse.
Finally alone with her own thoughts, Wednesday inertly paced through the cottage. The yellowish lamps gleamed on the time-worn spruce walls, a comforting aspect that much contrasted to the discarded moldy pillows and sheets gathering dust on the floor. The room was the only space they cared to properly clean, where a queen-sized bed laid facing a closed window. At its feet, a thin mattress belonging to uncle Fester, who never ceased to complain about the lack of cement in it and often chose the floor instead.
There was a single, small writing desk, adorned only by yet-useful hints on Enid's whereabouts, a half-burnt candle and an eerie looking book, its cover time-worn and yellowish pages faintly stained. Wednesday chose the latest, flipping the cover with a care usually addressed to murder weapons or those of Morticia’s plants which answered to movement. Her aunt’s handwriting emerged as a dormant threat on her sight, every line razor-sharp, shaped by delusion and smudged with despair.
Ophelia's diary presented as a weapon gifted with restraint, but proved to be as useful as a dagger in a gun fight — a trust vow, as Wednesday's mother elegantly described when she handed it wrapped like a Christmas present. The very doors to the peculiarities of a raven, she supposed. Yet, the only door opening along with the cover was the one leading to her aunt’s non-appealing madness.
Don't get her wrong — Wednesday Addams would always be an enthusiast to theatrical cognitive ruin. It cursed into the family’s blood along with the micro doses of arsenic, but she did expect to find answers about the malfunctions of her ability instead of Ophelia's undying hatred for her younger sister — which of course, was a very Addams thing to do. Great-aunt Lavinia was beheaded by her children, after all, but Wednesday already had her own bitter observations about her mother.
The remnants of a tired sight left her nostrils as she flipped through the last page she’d read, revealing what seemed to be the draft to a love letter, judging by the gentler calligraphy and attempts to small hearts, smudged by the black ink as if even the time regretted allowing those annoying little things in there. As if the non-pleasant kind of torture caused by Ophelia's early pettiness wasn't enough for the time being, Wednesday's eyes drew a disgusted circumference before landing on the pages again, knowing that, for more boring her aunt might’ve been, that diary was her only chance to learn something useful.
All it took was one brush of her fingers.
The edges of her sight were doomed as spreading black-ink, skull murmuring when the sharp piercing came more violent than usual. This time, instead of a gentle needle, a burning dagger seemed to stab the place above her eyebrows, as if someone was shifting the blade to make more damage. Her knees bent before finally yielding to her little weight, letting her frame collide with the wooden floor with a kind of abruptness that would likely generate bruises. The world went dark before dissolving into color.
Of course.
Nevermore's woods, the scenario to ever impending catastrophe lurking on Outcasts’ shoulders, drew itself as a mocking painting before her eyes. But the green infinity was different this time — the night's cold breeze blew gently, and the trees didn't seem crunched as a consequence of carrying the weight of uncountable pacts signed in blood. The leaves had a normal reaction to the wind, flying so lightly that one who's not afraid of the dark could feel genuine peace when standing there.
Yet, peace — was a lie.
Hadn't Wednesday been so currently assaulted with pictures of her parents’ school times since childhood, she wouldn't recognize her father's figure dragging a body around. A very lifeless body. The scene was a gruesome divergence to the early-comforting ambience, a contrast equivalent to blood stains on a child's drawing.
Gomez was younger, leaner, his expression flickering between shock and recklessness as he allowed the corpse to rest — no irony intended — against a disturbingly familiar tree. Following him, Morticia’s younger-self, a pesky tedious, feminine figure that didn't quite match the pair of shovels she carried.
She let the shovels meet the dirt under her feet, voice foreignly thin and carried with a fragility never addressed to Morticia Addams before. “Are you sure—” she wrapped her arms around herself as if the pressure could hold the panic, “—this is the right choice, Gomez?”
The younger-version of her father exhaled, heavily as the burden he was signing to carry. “It's the only one we have, querida.” He rose from his knees, placing gentle hands on his later-to-be-wife's elbows. “I won't let you go to prison for saving me.”
Much to her surprise, Wednesday didn't feel completely nauseated when her parents collided in a soothing hug. Their dynamic proved to be much more tolerable when covered in blood and dirt, in fact. Gomez waited for his lover’s unsteady breath to recompose before breaking their embrace, his attention immediately shot back at the problem by the tree.
“Ophelia will be devastated,” Morticia’s tone broke as she watched him drag the body into a better position, revealing the unmistakable mad-scientist-like face of Isaac Night. Younger and gentler. Paler and lifeless.
The scene bled out as the wound on his chest, reshaping into an almost-pleasant version of Nevermore's long and gloomy hallways, usually filled with teenage buzzing and the insistent choir of cellphone devices emitting hundreds of divergent sounds at once, now appeared imposingly empty, its silence comfortingly threatening.
Almost mockingly, the stony floor didn't take long to grumble under the weight of unsteady steps — her aunt's, Wednesday deduced before Ophelia's figure became visible. Younger, prettier, desperate.
Chandeliers’ flames rattled as she encountered her sister, entertained with the storm unmercifully banging the windows, in the more peaceful of oblivious instances. Wednesday thought of it weak, guardless; Ophelia, however, saw the other young-woman as shelter, if the helpless way she melted on her arms was anything to judge for. Then, several flashes, each one a blade to Wednesday's temples. Ophelia crying her heart out, mourning the disappearance of her lover. Morticia’s knowing silence as she comforted her sister. A brush of arms. A vision. Ophelia screaming bloody-murder, accusingly, then chained and sedated at Willow Hill.
The following one came in disturbing recognition — tons of mentally ill interns running, blood staining the imposingly white walls of a place supposed to look inviting, not a single source of light in work. The night Wednesday and Fester liberated a psychiatric asylum. Among the swarm, Ophelia cut through shadows as a thrown knife through air, every line of her expression translating tangible wrath.
Her aunt wasn't missing, nor dead.
Ophelia had watched her every step with meticulous care — when she attempted to bind herself to Tyler, when she visited Rosaline Rotwood's grave. Every discussion with her mother. Every moment Wednesday judged to live alone. Then, finally, the Iago Tower, her aunt restraining a scream as Isaac's body met the ground with tremendous violence, but dreadfully breathing. Together, and ridiculously enamored, the two watched both Wednesday and Tyler's every step. Locations, maps, footage, it all came too fast for her to discern what each of it meant.
Yet, one thing was for sure.
They were still watching, and not affectionately so.