Chapter Text
Throughout her life, Wednesday had never been someone who let herself be ruled by her pleasures... or at least, not the conventional ones.
Of course, there were things she considered pleasurable: a good torture session, feeling electricity coursing through her body, starting the occasional fire... but these weren't activities she engaged in daily.
The pleasure of eating, sleeping, being mesmerized by a screen, even sex; these weren't things she had cultivated. On the contrary, she had avoided them and treated each of these activities as what they were: a biological necessity.
It was an attitude that many considered strange, especially given her parents. However, Wednesday believed that it was precisely because of them that she was the way she was.
The hedonism to which her parents so easily succumbed had taught her that pleasure had to be regulated and taken in small doses, or it would be just like any drug.
And that, eventually, would lead to a loss of control.
She didn't want to be controlled by a ravenous appetite, nor by spending more hours in bed, and certainly not by the pleasure that someone elses could offer her.
However, that morning, she opened her eyes to the aroma of freshly baked bread, melted margarine, coffee, and dark chocolate that made her stomach rumble immediately.
She slipped out of bed and followed the scent of food.
It was barely six in the morning, but Tyler's bedroom door was open, and across the hall, she could hear the shower running from the sheriff's room.
Wednesday paused for a few seconds in the doorway. Curiosity began to stir within her. She glanced at the old nautical wallpaper, the slightly unmade bed, and a new wave of flavors reached her nose.
Shee looked towards the stairs leading to the lower floor and back to the room that stood as the stronghold of Tyler's story.
She knew exactly what decision she would have made earlier.
She would have entered the room and quickly cataloged who Tyler Galpin was, what his strengths and weaknesses were, and how she could use him. That had been common practice for her, and yet...
Yet, she was dead, and she didn't even have a clue who the killer might be.
Wendnesdat let out a deep sigh.
If she wanted different results, she had to act differently.
She took a step back and, for the first time in her life—or death—chose pleasure over curiosity.
When she peeked into the kitchen, Tyler was closing the oven door, holding a tray of freshly baked bread. With remarkable agility, he sliced the bread and placed it in a bowl with more rolls. That's when Tyler raised his head and looked at her.
He smiled, and Wednesday took a hesitant step forward.
It wasn't like her to feel self-conscious, and yet, there she was, in the middle of a suburban kitchen, unsure what to say. She glanced at the various dishes on the breakfast bar.
"Sorry," Tyler murmured. The tips of his ears reddened. "Use of habit, I guess."
"It smells good."
Tyler raised his head, and his smile widened again. That simple gesture caused a strange discomfort in her chest that robbed her of words.
"Want to try?"
Wednesday nodded, and Tyler took a piece of pita bread, dipped it in the pool of spiced margarine, and held it up to her nose. She felt her taste buds working overtime, opened her mouth, and took a large bite.
The bread was so fluffy it seemed to melt in her mouth, and the margarine filled it with a strong, salty flavor.
Almost immediately, Tyler dipped what was left of the bread into dark jam and offered her another bite.
"I don't like sweets," Wednesday said quickly, wrinkling her nose.
"Try it," Tyler insisted, leaning over her.
This time, the bite she took was smaller. The jam was tangy, and the contrast Wednesday felt on her palate was both intriguing and addictive.
She swallowed and, without realizing it, ran her tongue over the bits that remained on her lips. She wasn't aware of how Tyler's eyes followed that small gesture, nor how he swallowed hard.
"It's not bad," he stated.
Tyler shook his head and straightened up.
"It was the filling for the tarts at your funeral," Tyler confessed quietly, his gaze fixed on the purple jam. "Your mother was very specific with the instructions."
Wednesday looked from him to the filling, not quite sure what that confession meant to her.
Her mother wasn't the person she considered closest. Rather, they maintained a tense relationship with occasional truces at obligatory celebrations. That she had chosen something so... unique and that she clearly liked, was disconcerting.
Perhaps Morticia knew her better than Wednesday thought.
She swallowed hard, and this time it wasn't because of the food.
The taste that went down her throat wasn't pleasant either, settling uncomfortably in her chest.
The sheriff's heavy footsteps brought her back to reality, and without a word, she began carrying the plates to the dining room.
"What's all this? Are we going to feed an army?"
Wednesday shot her a withering look, which the sheriff easily ignored. Tyler sighed heavily and quickly finished what was left.
"I just thought you might have something other than beer in the fridge."
Donovan raised an eyebrow, his face a picture of incredulity.
"Or couldn't you sleep? What's wrong, Ty?"
Tyler turned around in surprise. Donovan couldn't blame him; he knew his flaws as a father all too well, but that didn't mean he didn't know his boy very well too. Unfortunately, they were more alike than Tyler would ever admit, and throwing himself into his work was the only therapy that worked for the sheriff.
"I don't know, maybe it's because you could die. What did you expect? That I'd sleep like a baby after that?"
Donovan snorted and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, ended the conversation.
"Don't be so dramatic. Addams, can you pass me the egg?"
Tyler groaned in frustration and slammed the coffee cups down so hard that some spilled onto the table.
For the next few minutes, plates were passed from hand to hand, and the only sounds were the clinking of forks. Wednesday looked from one man to the other intently, very aware of the silent war they were waging.
Tyler's stress was something new to her.
During camp, the boy had gone from disdainful to the epitome of carefree abandon. He was the one who dragged her out of her cabin most nights, or who suggested things against the rules; he was the first to take off his clothes to go into the lake, and he was the one who had leaned in to kiss her despite her threats.
In her mind, Tyler was the kind of boy who turned a punishment into the summer of her life.
The sheriff, on the other hand, was always on the verge of a migraine. He rolled his eyes as often as he breathed and didn't hide the weariness that everything and everyone caused him. He argued with her every time she exposed herself to unnecessary danger (in his opinion), and although she always gave in (reluctantly), he never stopped complaining.
It was too much negativity, even for her.
However, that morning, the tables seemed turned, and Wednesday wanted to know who would explode first.
The sheriff's phone rang. He glanced at it quickly and then sighed.
"I have to go," he muttered, getting up from the table and grabbing a piece of toast for the road.
Tyler gasped like a fish before getting up and following him.
"Seriously? You're going to work knowing someone could kill you?"
The sheriff rolled his eyes in annoyance. Much more like him, according to Wednesday.
"That's something that could happen any day, Ty. It's nothing new."
Tyler let out a strange sound that was somewhere between a groan and a curse before slumping back into his chair.
"Today's the harvest festival. I'm going to be late."
Donovan grabbed his hat and left. The sound of the door closing lingered for several seconds.
“Why are you bothering?” Wednesday asked suddenly, pouring herself more food.
Tyler shrugged.
“I guess it’s part of being the responsible adult. Parenting parents is hard.”"
“I know. I also have to correct my parents whenever they get too affectionate in public.” Wednesday lowered her gaze and set her fork aside. “I suppose Pugsley will have to do it now, but I meant that if he dies, you can bring him back to life.”
Tyler’s eyes widened, and he tensed.
There were many reasons. For one, it meant someone else would die in his father’s place. The poor soul who happened to be nearby.
Also, it meant his father would discover his secret, and therefore a long and exhaustive interrogation.
And third, even if it didn’t happen often, it meant he would never touch him again. He would never again feel the warmth of his skin or the roughness of his hand when it touched his cheek. It meant they would have to distance themselves even further if he wanted to stay alive, and that if he died again, it would undoubtedly be his fault.
Tyler already carried the weight of his mother's death; he didn't want to be the cause of his father's.
There was a fourth reason. One that even Tyler refused to admit to himself.
But instead of saying any of those things, he just shrugged again.
"Yeah," he said distractedly, "I guess you're right."