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He shook hunkered down on his desk like he was bracing for a bomb, his fingers clutching his head, he muttered neurotic 'no's' in rapid repetition. The attorney slacked his tie and blotted his brow with the cuff of his shirt and tried not to unravel into whimpers. 

Stately and oblivious, Mr. Ferguson leant back in his great leather chair and regarded his employees distress with little concern. "Come, come Mr. Harvey! This is important!"

"More important than my neck? Gee I'm really feeling really glad I came back from the foreign legion, sir."

"Oh honestly, just because they tried to fix you up with a little lady friend. You could really do with a women in your life, Harvey, it might settle your nerves!" Mr. Harvey lifted his head only to glare before collapsing back into his crumpled arms. His near miss with Melancholia Frump had nearly driven him over the brink, he had been nothing but nerves since the encounter. The foreign legion had been a welcome break but the wage wasn't worth the long term committal. He had begrudgingly returned to Ferguson-Riche and Fisher on the condition that he would have nothing to do with the Addams's; a condition which had been quickly revoked.

Ferguson tutted with a smile and heaved to his feat, the chair creaking, he ambled over to the cowering broker and shook him jovially by the shoulders. "Harvey, you need to see the bigger picture! This is art history we're talking about!"

"This is money we're talking about, you mean."
"Naturally! Come now that's what being an attorney's all about! Now Picasso's dead his work has simply skyrocketed in value!"

"Just because Picasso's dead doesn't mean I have to die too!"

Ferguson gave a thundering laugh, thumping Harvey's back he turned to a dark oak sideboard, pulling out a pair of tumblers and an ornate bottle of something obviously very expensive. He unscrewed the cap and poured two measures, thudding one down in front of the cowering attorney. "To celebrate an excellent opportunity!"

Harvey vaguely glanced at the tumbler in front of him. " Since when were we Art dealers?" He pleaded. "I thought Ferguson-Riche and Fisher only dealt in land and oil wells?"
"Picasso is the most important artist of our time. We've got fourteen of our biggest clients clamouring to buy up his work and you're a personal friend of the biggest Picasso collector in the country!"

"Personal friends?" Harvey chuffed. "What makes you think Addams will even want to part with his paintings?"

Ferguson's eyebrows twitched as he took a slow, appreciative drink of his scotch. "Mr. Addams is a remarkably generous man and he considers you a friend. Draw on your charms to convince him to sell. It doesn't need to be all of them, just convince him that now is the time to sell low."
"He might be a maniac but Addams isn't an idiot, he's not going to believe that."

"I really don't need to be telling you how to do your job, Harvey. I'm sure you'll think of something; I have absolute confidence in you!" Harvey lugged himself to sit up, his head lulling on his shoulders like a precariously balanced beach ball. He finally accepted his fate and grabbed the glass tumbler, tipping the entire drink down with one uncomfortable and desolate gulp as Ferguson watched with some amusement.

"That's the spirit, Harvey!" Ferguson chuckled triumphantly. "I knew I could depend on you!"

Chapter Text

Gomez Addams's newest contraption was a loop of paracord knotted over the chandelier and tied in a clove hitch, just loose enough to ensnare his leg enough for him to comfortably dangle from it. He'd insist to all who'd listen - whilst swinging around seven foot off the ground - that the blood rushing to his head made it easier to think and was therefor an ideal position to read the newspaper. 

"You know, Darling, with Lurch away, there would be no one able to get you down if the rope slips again." Morticia stated absently as she knitted, all the while her husband swayed in the draft above her head.

"Doesn't that make it all the more exciting, querida?" Gomez grinned through his plumes of smoke, his sharp teeth gripping his cigar, keeping it from dropping to the floor.

Morticia sat for a moment and her lips twitched a coy smile. "Of course, you're right dear." She mused before dropping her knitting to sigh and gently smile as she gazed off to nowhere in particular. "I wonder if they're having a wonderful, romantic time together in Vinegar Hill."

"I doubt they'll be allowed to do much together staying with Lurch's mother, and anyway, Cara, I should think they have enough children." 

"True, darling." She smiled as she resumed. "Anything interesting in the newspaper this morning?"

Gomez hummed. "Well, not really... An oil crisis here, a little war there... something about a Water-gate."

"Must be one of those new fun-parks Wednesday's been talking about dear."

"I believe you're right querida. Oh - "

"Gomez? What is it?"

Morticia looked up to see her husband gripping the paper in a way that she knew meant he was upset, peering past the paper she saw his cigar limpen, slack in his mouth, ash dropping over his moistening eyes as he read the offending article with a shuddering breath. "It's ole Picasso. There's an article here all about his life's work..."

"Oh, bubulah..."

"Y'know I aught to be glad for him - passing onto the great below, but I can't help but mourn the fact that he's painted his last painting."

"Which we have, darling! And we hang it with pride above the rocking bath."

Gomez sighed and with some effort he wriggled out of the loop of rope that held him, flipped the right way up and dropped to the floor in a heap. He scuttled to the edge of his wife's rattan peacock chair on his knees rested the paper on her lap. Morticia rested her delicate arm on his shoulder and straightened the newspaper up so she could read along. Gomez continued. "It says here his work has skyrocketed in value for some reason!"

"Art is always all the more enigmatic when the artist is dead."

"Wise words, Tish. Y'know I can't help but feel we should do something more to honour him, but what?"

"Why darling, you've already honoured him. What about all those underprivileged art students you funded full scholarships for?" Morticia purred as she cupped his chin. The gesture visibly comforted him but his dark eyes still betrayed his deep mourning. His only reply was a sad sigh. "However can I cheer you up, bubbulah?" 

The pet name seemed to send a jolt through Gomez as he twitched a slight smile and his dark brow arched as he thought. "Do the bullfrog, Tish, please."  

Morticia pursed her painted lips and smiled, eyelids limpen with a dark and sultry an expression that would put Theda Barra to shame as she ribbited like a bullfrog to her husband's utter delight. 

Chapter Text

Where Gomez Addams religiously read the daily paper, his old friend Oscar rarely had cause to. The newspaper for Oscar Webber the one time 'human knife-nibbler' and now struggling Carnival ringleader, was merely used to line lizard caged and patch up the paper mache on the Fiji Mermaid. Leading such an interesting life had meant that the newspaper had held no appeal to Oscar, but as the showman waited in the drab mechanic's office for his painted circus truck's tire replacement, he found himself skimming through the morning news which he justified to himself as just to pass the time.

In truth, poor Oscar was searching for good news of any sort. It had been one thing after another recently. Ever since his star act 'Gorgo the Domesticated Gorilla' had retired from the circus to join the New York Zoo, things had gone from bad to worse for Oscar's troupe. In one last ditch search for some new acts, he had circled the caravans back to New York. The newspaper he found in the city, sadly, only bore more tragedy.

As he read the piece about the artist Picasso, he realised that his old friend had been dead for over 18 months and he had been none the wiser. He shivered and sighed and rubbed his face with guilt and misery. It had been well over ten years since he had last seen Picasso but that didn't mean that Oscar didn't miss him. They had last met in a seminar for escapologists and Cascadeurs on the Upper East Side, Oscar had been leading workshops in advanced knife swallowing which Picasso had observed with wonder. He couldn't help but well up as he remembered the charming charcoal sketches the artist had drawn of Oscar mid-scimitar swallow and gifted to him in a crocodile-hide folio.

He had been a dear friend and Oscar realised that in all the business and stress of running the travelling circus up and down the country, he had sadly neglected his friendships. His mind slipped to the time the he had first met Picasso when he was a young man working as a sword swallower at the Circo Price in Madrid. Oscar and his then girlfriend, Tattoo-aru-ralulah the painted Colleen (Tatti for short), had spent the long hot Spanish summer working in the big top, being muses for Picasso and double dating with some other neglected friends, Gomez and Morticia Addams. Picasso often joined the two younger couples as they dined on red wine and Manitas de cerdo between seances at the Casa de las siete chimeneas. The old artist would paint and sketch and the group would watch in delight as he produced charcoal sketches on the pavestones, painted in wine on the tablecloth, and had even once spent an afternoon tattooing a cubist bullfighting scene on Tatti's chest. Although that particular relationship with the painted lady came to a dramatic, plate-smashing conclusion at the end of that summer, It was still a happy memory of a simpler time. When all he had to worry about was keeping balance during his handless sword-chin stand and the besieging advance of middle age didn't yet pursue him.

Gomez had always been a force of pure joy, he was a man that could keep up with Oscar, he was an equal and a worthy opponent in swordsmanship and axe throwing. Oscar had gone way back with Morticia, it felt like he had always known her. They used to play together as very small children and he had always felt a strange familial sentimentality for her.  They had much in common, including a fascination with abstract art and a whimsical, a positive outlook on life and a love of dangerous plant life. He remembered that he missed them and wondered why he didn't see more of them. 

He was already in New York anyway; Oscar thought to himself. It was only an hour's drive to the Addams's and the clan never begrudged an unexpected visitor. It was about time he took a break from the failing circus and spent some time in company that didn't eat thumb tacks; at least not for profit.

The mechanic rounded from the garage forecourt into view, by the look on his face Oscar knew it was only more bad news. "Look buddy, it's got more wrong with it than we first thought. I-I honestly never seen nothing like this. You've got about a pound of solidified Johnson's baby powder seizing up your crankshaft! It'll be a total engine rebuild." The mechanic exclaimed as if expecting not to be believed, but Oscar just sighed. 

"Yeah, that figures." Oscar clicked his tongue. "Everyone in the troupe uses talc as setting powder. Much cheaper than that fancy Leichner blending powder stuff. And the young fella that pumps gas and patches the tires, well he's a French mime you see so he uses more powder than your average maternity ward. I should have seen this coming."

"It's gonna be pricy, and it'll take a good week at least."

The showman, gave a rolling sigh and patted his knees as he rocked up to his feet. "Oh sure, it's badly damaged, I don't mind about the cost; I'm good at loosing money - it's one of my many talents although I never worked out how to work it into a show. Anyway, I got somewhere I want to visit while I'm in New York, you take all the time you need and if you need to call..." Oscar took out a slip of paper and an ornate fountain pen from his breast pocked and scribbled down an address and phone number. "Here's the number to reach me on. "

He chuckled absently as he scored under the note and handed it to the mechanic. "Funny I never forget this number; it's so easy to remember with all the 6's."

Chapter Text

Mr. Harvey had been cornered. Ferguson, knowing his employee's aversion to the family had personally phoned Gomez Addams to inform him that Mr. Harvey would be visiting and had even arranged to have him driven to the house. The cab driver had even been tipped $5 to personally watch and ensure that the attorney made it into the old mansion.

Harvey rung his hands and cast a glance over his shoulder; the cabby was still glaring from the drivers seat, watching closely as Harvey left the sidewalk and scampered through the swinging gate of the looming mansion. The gate slammed and caught the tail of his rain mac in its hinges, catapulting him backwards and leaving him slung across the gate. Harvey wrangled free, ripping the coat in the process and swivelled round to throw a desperate silent plea at the cabby. When the cabby did little more than shrug, the attorney could only gulp down his anxiety, summon up the last of his dignity any try to reach the door in one piece. When he finally reached the porch he ran his fingers through his hair, giving his face a few light slaps to try and calm himself down. He knew better than to pull the door bell but knocking had its own dangers since the last time he tried that he ended up accidentally knocking on Lurch's chest.

Lurch; Harvey could never forget him, he didn't like to admit he was scared of another man but Lurch was a class unto himself. Harvey had confessed to Ferguson that Lurch was one of the reasons he didn't want to visit, but Fergusson only laughed.

"Oho, Harvey, Harvey! Haven't you heard? Lurch has mellowed! You're really not up to date with the town news are you?" Fergusson beamed, a cheeky glint in his eyes as he unashamedly gossiped. "Everyone's been talking about it - how he married the most outrageously gorgeous Californian beauty queen not too long ago; my wife told me they even had twins last year! Three kids already and I can't say I blame him, his little wife is simply divine! Oh Harvey, You've got to see her, you won't believe it!"

"I think I'd rather avoid her if marrying that goon is the sort of life choices she makes."

"Well I'm sure she does wonders for his mood and besides she has reigned him in. I heard she stopped him from fireman lifting the Mayor at the Thanksgiving Gala so that's something."

"Oh wow, that is progress for Lurch."

"There you go, love's softened him. He might not even crush your hat if his little woman's watching."

Unlike most of the town, Harvey couldn't have cared less about Lurch's private life. He could have married the Queen of Spain for all he cared, all he wanted was to avoid Lurch at all costs. Unfortunately it was highly likely he was about to come face-to-lapel with him once more. Harvey cast a final scornful glance at the still watching cabby before lifting his lead-weighted fist to begrudgingly knock the mansion's door.

With each moment that passed he grew more an more hopeful that they were never going to answer. Maybe they had gone on a world tour, maybe they had all been locked up. Harvey started to ease up, he turned again and shrugged at the irritated driver, but his relief was short lived when suddenly, despite not hearing the huge creaking door open he was interrupted by a delicate voice.

"Hello" The voice was dull and morose, but light and polite in equal measures. Harvey jumped and turned back to look at the teenage girl. She was certainly taller although the large black eyes hadn't changed a bit other than they were now shaded in plum eyeshadow and black mascara. It was Wednesday, a now 17 year old Wednesday but unmistakably still her. Her hair was parted in the middle and hung in glossy crimps around her glum expression and terminated at her middle. She wore a shapeless dark floral jacquard dress with a high frilled collar over glossy black pantyhose and cream knee high boots. She looked as ridiculous as most teenagers did, awkwardly tall in her platforms, only a fraction shorter than him in his modest rubber crepe soles.

"Oh, Wednesday, I nearly didn't recognise you." Harvey managed collecting up his dignity and greeted the teenager with the usual patronising spiel an adult gives an almost grown child.
"You won't remember me, the last time I saw you you were still playing with your headless dolls. I'm -"

"Mr. Harvey. Why of course I remember you, you nearly married Cousin Melancholia. Are you recovered from the heartbreak of her jilting you?" She asked with her mother's oblivious sincerity.

"Quite recovered." Harvey glibly replied as the teenager invited him in. "Are your parents home?"

"They're always home." Wednesday stated as she breezed into the Livingroom. "Father is in the kitchen preparing supper. He's taken to cooking ever since he spend that week in Yakutsk, he's making Stroganina. I'll let him know you'll be joining us, he'll be delighted."

"Oh, now, that- that's very kind, but I haven't much time, I just want to ask a simple question -"
"Nonsense." Wednesday stated; she sounded eerily like Morticia. "After how Melancholia so cruelly shattered your heart it's the least we can do."

Harvey tried to keep up as she continued to glide from room to corridor, ghosting through the bizarre mansion at a speed that caused him to awkwardly jog. He tried to protest further but Wednesday didn't seem to hear as she finally reached the kitchen door. Behind the door was a vicious chopping sound of a heavy clever on wood. The last thing Harvey wanted to do was go through but Wednesday pushed the door open and a flash of ice wind to hit him.

There was Gomez Addams in a stance that was utterly bizarre but totally unsurprising to the attorney. He wore a Cossack hat and a maddened expression as he stripped down the pink flesh of an oversized whitefish in the frozen kitchen. Harvey gripped his shoulders and tried his best not to freeze solid on the spot.

"Father, look who's come for supper."

Gomez stopped, turned and looked from his daughter to Harvey. His face light up and he raised his hands aloft, cleaver in one hand, half a frozen fish in the other.

"Harvey old man! He exclaimed as if reunited with a family member instead of an attorney he had only interacted with a handful of times almost a decade ago. He chuckled and lunged at the cowering visitor, gripping him in a terrifying hug never thinking to put the clever down.

"How wonderful it is to see you!" Gomez released him from the hug, put down the fish and clever and shook him by the shoulders. "Do you like Stronganina?"

Harvey gulped. "Never tried it."

"Oh you'll absolutely love it! It really is excellent! Nothing healthier than raw frozen fish."

"Really?"

"It's true." Wednesday interjected. "It makes wonderful baby food; Lurch makes his daughters mashed ice-squid every Tuesday!"

"You used to love ice-squid too when you were their age, my dear" Gomez cooed as he leaned over and fondly nudged Wednesday's chin.

"Oh yes, I heard I owe Lurch my congratulations."

"How unfortunate, I'm afraid he, his wife and the children are on vacation. You must be so disappointed." Gomez, thumped his hand on Harvey's shoulder.

"Oh dear, that is a shame." Harvey sighed feigning disappointment. 

"Nevertheless! I'm sure it shan't ruin tonight's festivities!"

"Oh really Mr. Addams please, I'm just here to ask one little question about a few paintings-"

Gomez just laughed and shook Harvey by the shoulders, guiding him out into the corridor again. "Oh it's always business, business, business with you. You know there's more to life than just work! You don't need to worry about that right now. Just relax, put your feet up until supper." Gomez gently grabbed the scruff of Wednesday's dress like a puppy and guided her out of the kitchen. "Child! Take nice Mr. Harvey to the playroom, Uncle Fester will be practicing his throwing darts he'll entertain until it's time to eat!"

"Yes Father." She said obediently and grabbed Harvey's arm with shocking grip as she dragged him through the ever darkening labyrinth of hallways. "Come on Mr. Harvey. I'll let you have a shot of my blow dart." 

Chapter Text

Mr. Harvey suddenly missed the foreign legion; the tinned food, the khaki pants and the knowledge that each day was only slightly different from the last. He felt significantly safer on his never-ending trek across Chad than he ever could in this Man Ray Menagerie. The girl had pulled him down into the guts of the old house and eventually he was led into a windowless room, adorned with ancient instruments of persuasion; affectionately called the 'playroom'. There he was cornered by a fur-clad bloated water-corpse who held a very different perspective on Mr Harvey and Melancholia's short lived entanglement.

"You business sorts! You big city collars! I bet you flit from love affair to love affair!" Fester jabbed, backing Harvey against a spray-gold sarcophagus. Prior to his time as a legionnaire he might have cowered, but age and experience had given him some backbone and he raised a finger to match the accusing gesture.

"Now look here, Mr. Frump! There was never anything between myself and your Niece!"

"Sheer callousness! Don't you remember how you so eagerly proposed marriage?!"

"No, oddly, I don't remember because I never did! That was all a projection, a fantasy!"

The old man's pickled egg of a head glowed red with the indignity. "So now you're calling my Niece is a fantasist!" Fester's accusing finger curled into a shaking fist.

Wednesday watched on from the bed of nails with a vague curiosity, her boots swinging absently off the side of the side.
"But Uncle Fester." She calmly interrupted. "I don't see the big deal. Fred and Melancholia have eight kids together; Mr. Harvey's hardly a homewrecker."

Fester turned to scold Wednesday with a stare. "Young people today! I say, you act as if it were all water under the bridge!"

"Well, surely it is, Uncle. I mean, to Melancholia it must be; Tristesse is nine years old next month, it's a very established family. I doubt Melancholia and Fred remember any of this; to be quite honest, Uncle, I don't really understand why we seem to remember it so well." Harvey was taken aback by the teenagers odd demonstration of sense, where she had inherited it from he had no idea.

"This young attitude of fleeting romances, of one engagement after another! In my day we courted with civility, with poise, with modesty! We daren't not hold hands until the 6th date!" Fester swivelled like a spinning top back to Harvey and shook a finger. "You proposed to my Niece within an hour of meeting her!"

"I did no such thing!"

"And you, my girl!" Fester turned back. "If I see that poncy Pomoroy punk sniffing around here again I'll shoot him in the back! I don't care if he's an 18 year old kid, he needs to learn that this family still has some decorum even if the rest of the world has forgotten its."

"Feel free, dear Uncle." Wednesday shrugged. "He's a terrible driver, I'm sure the traffic cops would thank you for the service."

"You've been in that boy's car!" Fester looked ready to explode. The attorney's army training kicked in and instinctually Harvey restrained the ancient man before he began pinballing around the room. "No more dynamite caps! No more blow darts! You're grounded for 46 years, young lady!"

Wednesday didn't have the decency to convincingly feign remorse. She sighed as Fester continued his tirade but suddenly her eyes switched and seemed to stare past her Uncle at the sarcophagus behind him. Her expression puzzled and she seemed to try to interrupt, eventually she just pointed. Harvey glanced over and saw that the door was gradually opening, from where he was standing he couldn't peer at what was emerging, but the door was well and truly opening from within, although Fester remained oblivious. 

Wednesday's expression switched from confusion to dread and finally to delight as Oscar Webber the delightful circus ringmaster partially emerged, lifted his finger to his lips in a shush gesture and leaned over and flicked Fester in the back of his head and disappeared back into the sarcophagus. Fester erupted, turned and tried to slap Mr. Harvey. Wednesday burst into laughter as the Attorney began to run around the bizarre room, using the various antiques to shield himself from the riled up Fester who pursued him like an irate goose. All the while, Oscar appeared from crooks and shadows, lunging out occasionally to impishly harass Fester. Finally from beneath the flatbed of the medieval rack, Oscar grabbed Fester's ankle, pulling him over and in turn Harvey was knocked flat like a domino.

As Harvey raised his head and the room spun and jiggled, he only made it back to his feet when a friendly pair of hands lifting him from under his arms and dusted him down. "Apologies mister!" Boomed the voice. "Just my little joke, I hope you aren't hurt! Webber's the name, but do call me Oscar - I insist!" 

Harvey's eyes adjusted as he took in the face of this very strange stranger. His face was long and weather-beaten, his hair was glossy with brown pomade. Harvey's senses were slowly returning to him as he registered the man's hands dusting down his suit, patting him on the shoulder and gripping him in a firm handshake. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly feeling so whiplashed; so oddly taken aback. He stammered his name out as he found himself fixed in place by Oscar Webber's stormy grey stare. " M - my name's Mr. Harvey - Charles P. Harvey. Nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too, Charlie." Was Oscar's forward reply as he held onto the handshake and gaze. "I hope we're going to be good friends."

Chapter Text

Harvey couldn't have sat more awkwardly at the table. His eyes skirted around the room eyeing the various taxidermy, the contorted oil-paintings, the warped daguerreotypes adorning the dark wallpapered wall. He fixed his gaze on the chandelier which flickered as it softly burled on chain-link and threatened to drop wax. He held his hands retreated on his lap for fear of a burn. His food was equally threatening; cold and mushy and laid shiny and slack in a blue and white china bowl, he swallowed hard as he tried not to look at it too long. He was suddenly acutely aware of the eyes fixed on him. The uncanny faces that were illuminated in the dim light at the round table closed in as they stared. The teenager, the old uncle, Mr. Addams, Mrs. Addams and finally Oscar Webber sat between him and the girl.

Finding an opening in the conversation wasn't easy, but between the subject of Tibetan woodworking and the Edinburgh Vaults, Harvey took his chance.

"Mr. Addams, I'm just wanted to quickly ask a question about your collection of Picassos -"

"Of what?"

Morticia interjected. "Picasso, Darling. Why we were just talking about him this morning, dear, don't you remember?" She placed a concerned hand on her husband's forearm.

"Was this before or after I practiced my Indian Clubs?"

"Before."

"I see." Gomez slipped his fingers under the brim of his fur hat and rubbed his head with a sigh. "Apologies Harvey, old man, you'll need to remind me of this Piccolo fella."

Harvey ruffled and floundered for words but before he could go any further, there was a clatter in the hallway and the circus of faces turned to look at the curtained arch behind Harvey.

"Well Mr. Addams he's-"

"Mrs. Lurch!" Gomez raised his hands cutting Harvey off. He and his wife rose to welcome her.

Harvey turned to face the fabled Mrs. Lurch that he had already heard so much gossip about. Half-lit by the dim light of the hallway, she stood seeming harassed by the elements but regardless she was undoubtedly exquisite; Ferguson's gossip didn't do her justice. The wind had done little more than loosened her perfect platinum curls, she unbuckled her smart trench revealing a dark, plaid dress pinched at her perfect waist. She smiled at him before elegantly receiving and returning two continental kisses on the cheek from Mrs. Addams.

"Come and sit down, you're just in time for supper." Gomez welcomed Marilyn with one of his booming laughs and looped his arm around her shoulders, taking her carry bag.

"Just you, my dear?" Asked Morticia, glancing past her for any sign of Lurch and the children.

Marilyn smiled slightly and sighed. "Are you surprised?"

"She really is a little cyclone! You mustn't take it to heart, dear!"

"What was it this time?" Gomez asked with a sigh, gently easing her over to take the seat between Harvey and Wednesday.

"Oh you know, the usual. I'm spoiling Cain then I'm too firm with him. I'm dressing the girls all wrong, they're wearing the wrong colors on the wrong day, their clothes are the wrong fabric. I can't brew coffee right, I can't cook supper right. I'm combing the children's hair wrong. I'm holding them wrong. I'm not letting them nap enough, I'm taking them on too many walks. Their bathwater's too hot, I'm not using the right soap, their yak milk's too cold. I shouldn't be feeding them this - I should be feeding them that. Really, I can't do anything right for her. After two weeks I couldn't take anymore, she's worse than my mother and that's saying something! I simply had to go, I was just making her miserable anyway. Oh, she makes me feel so small and inadequate!"

"I think she makes everyone feel that way, especially Lurch. What did he say about it?" Replied Gomez.

"Even he was being pushed to the brink and wanted to come home with me but I told him not to. She's very frail and I'm afraid not long for this world. I want her to spend the time she has with her grandchildren. She's really very sweet with them, although I think she wishes Sonny found them in a cabbage patch."

"I think I know what you mean, she's not a fan of women Lurch's age. Freud would find her very interesting I'm sure. She took issue with Morticia even being under the same roof as her son because she had committed the crime of being too beautiful!"

"I think the phrase she used was 'shameless witch' and 'hussy of a maid', darling." Mused Morticia glibly.

"Oh yes, when you pretended to be Sonny's servants?" Marilyn cracked a smile, bemused by the lengths her husband would go to just for the approval of his tyrannical mother.

"Yes, what a trial that was!" Quibbled Gomez, his eyes bulged as he replayed the trauma of that encounter in his head.

Morticia took Marilyn's hand in hers and comfortingly patted it.
"Put it out of your mind dear, we must introduce you to our delightful guests!" Morticia gently guided Marilyn's shoulders as Gomez pulled out her chair for her to sit.

"Mrs. Lurch meet Mr. Harvey, our old attorney and old friend, and meet Mr. Webber, another old friend of a different vocation, he's a circus ringmaster!"

"How do you do Mr. Harvey, Mr. Webber."

Marilyn's voice was breathy, delicate and just as beautiful as she was. If women were of any interest to Harvey he would have surely fainted.

"It's nice to meet you Mrs. Lurch." Harvey politely replied.

"I'll say!" Concurred Oscar with a coy touch of impropriety. "Lurch always did have a way with beautiful women!"

Marilyn smiled and arched her eyebrows, deciding to subtly ignore the compliment. "Oh really? You know my husband do you, Mr. Webber?"

"Call me Oscar, please!" He chuckled, "Oh, all ancient history Mrs. Lurch; I daren't say more whilst your husband isn't here to defend himself!"

She laughed her reply. "How sporting of you, Oscar."

Harvey had to veer the conversation back. He smiled and chuckled and when he saw his split second chance he took it. "Mrs. Lurch we were just talking about Mr and Mrs. Addams's Picasso collection."

"Oh, yes isn't it wonderful!"

Gomez nodded, his expression vaguely dizzy. "Mrs. Lurch, you know all about art and history and that sort of thing, could you tell me what a Picante is?"

Marilyn puzzled for a second, sighted and looked at Morticia. "Indian Clubs again?"

Morticia nodded. "Indian Clubs."

Marilyn laid her hands on the table as she gently explained. "Well, Picasso is the greatest artist of our time Mr. Addams -"

"- and you happen to own America's largest private collection!" Harvey continued.

"How about that." Gomez petted his lip, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Still not ringing any bells, I'm afraid."

The attorney continued. "He-he's Spanish, he's a surrealist, cubist, impressionist. He died not very long ago - it was in all the papers!"

"I'm still not sure who you mean, old man."

"Come on, Gomez!" Oscar exclaimed, almost leaping across the table. "Picasso! You remember 20 years ago, those nights in Madrid, the seances, the sword swallowing, the romance!"

"Romance?" This peaked Gomez's interest.

"20 years ago! Morticia and you - you were young, beautiful and on your extended honeymoon. I doubt you remember much beyond the cuarto de casados; but we spent two months in Madrid, Me, Tatti, you, Morticia, Lurch and of course Mr. Picasso! We painted, drank, ate, played and fought it was wonderful surely you haven't forgotten!"

"Ah yes!" Gomez clicked. "The old fella that done that wonderful tattoo on Tatti's chest; yes I remember now!"

"And he's back! Well done Gomez you remember now! Oh Tatti!" Oscar cheered and laughed before leaning across Harvey to speak to Marilyn. "Did your husband ever tell you about Tatoora Loora Loora?"

"It rings a bell, an old girlfriend of his?" Marilyn giggled, Gomez had once coyly mentioned the name and she had wondered why it made her husband shudder.

"Of ours!" Interjected Oscar with a laugh, Gomez chuckled reminiscing in the fun as Oscar settled into his chair to begin the story. "Don't worry dear this is all ancient history" He coyly reassured Marilyn, patting on her arm. "This was oh, over twenty years ago now. Oh I'll never forget Tatti, she was marvellous, excellent on the trapeze - really quite the gymnast. She was so beautiful - like a living painting, completely covered head to toe in ink. She had a new tattoo every week - perhaps that's why it took so long for me to notice the portrait of your husband she had on her thigh."

Gomez chuckled and Morticia couldn't hold back a smirk.

"My portrait on her left leg Lurch's on her right. Turns out while I was working on the hocks salto on the trapeze she was busy practicing some other tricks with a certain Gentleman's gentleman; of course he's not to blame. He was as shocked as I was when I walked in on them in the scene dock."

"The heartbreak of youth!" Morticia proclaimed, completely oblivious to Wednesday's mortified expression.

Oscar chuckled. "Oh we nearly killed each other! And whilst we were brawling in the trap room ready to gore each other in the back with a costume rail, we didn't notice she had ran out the fire escape and left us both for a Fuller Brush man."

"No wonder he never told me the story!" Marilyn laughed, shaking her head.

"Can you believe it? Jilted for a fuller brush man, the shame! But I must admit, my old love-rival has had the last laugh finding a lady like you!"

Morticia leaned across and patted his forearm. "Oh Oscar dear, there's a special someone out there for you!"

"If only he or she or they would show up! I'm not getting any younger." Oscar laughed softly.

"Can we please stop talking about such impropriety!" Fester shuddered, obviously still simmering from his earlier tirade about modern attitudes. "Lurch's personal histories does not make for suitable conversation!"

"Oh I don't know Fester," Gomez chuckled, an evil expression spreading across his face as he took delight in setting off the old Uncle. "I've always wanted to know the when, where and who of how Lurch was made a man."

Morticia turned and tutted at her husband although from her slight smirk it was obvious she wasn't quite as appalled as she should have been.

"Vulgarity!" Squeaked Fester. Wednesday having now changed her tune, concurred with a glassy-eyed nod.

"Apologies Mr. Frump. I'm sure that sort of thing would never have happened in your day." Oscar crooned, feigning remorse.

"Certainly not!"

"Pardon me." Harvey tried not to sound rude, but his patience was running thin. "If we could return to my question. What I wanted to ask, Mr. Addams is whether you would be interested in selling any of your collection to Ferguson-Riche and Fisher?"

"Collection of what?"

"Picassos, sir!"

"May I ask, Mr. Harvey" Morticia gently queried whilst neatly picking up a forkful of frozen fish. "Why would Fisherson-Flick and Richard want to buy paintings? The last time you came to call you asked for a quote on a parcel of Nairobian bat caves as I recall."

Harvey had rehearsed his bull spiel, he took a breath and detached from his own self-respect as he recited practiced hogwash that he was embarrassed to hear himself say. "Oh, well, you see Mrs. Addams. Since Picasso has died his work has been decreasing in interest and value and since this family is a long-term client of Ferguson-Riche and Fisher we would like to reward that loyalty by buying the paintings before they decrease any further causing you a loss."

Marilyn, lowered her fork and furrowed her brow as she leaned forward towards Harvey. "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Harvey, but what you've been told simply isn't true. You see I was an art Major and a qualified curator; I assure you that Picasso's work is the most sought after and expensive pieces in circulation, and since his death his work has only went up in value."

"Oh, well, I've been told that... Well, I'm just passing on what I've been told t-that now's the time to sell!"

"I agree that now would be the time to sell but I don't think making a loss is much of a concern at the moment." Marilyn continued, elegantly taking a sip of something smoky and green between sentences. "Perhaps if Mr. and Mrs. Addams were willing to sell, it would be best to take the paintings directly to an auction house-"

"Oh, that really wouldn't be best, Mrs. Lurch." 

"Well if you're right and the paintings have decreased in value, then Ferguson-Riche and Fisher can always pay the reserve." 

"Well I- I -" 

"I don't know if we want to sell, Mr. Harvey" Gomez announced. "Picanto was very important to me - to us. His paintings mean an awful lot. We don't need the money, we don't need the trouble. I don't see any reason we would have to sell." 

Harvey stared defeated for a second and took a shivering breath. Suddenly his frustration turned to a wash of something close to anger. He didn't know why he was here, he didn't know why he had just endured an hour of being knocked from pillar to post in this mad house, being forced to listen to conversations about tattooed ladies and made to eat frozen fish. Before he could think he found himself telling the domineering Gomez Addams exactly why he should sell those paintings. 

"Look Mr. Addams. With all due respect you owe me this. Now, I-I don't think you realise that that situation with your cousin Melancholia really affected me! Now I even joined the foreign legion it affected me so bad! Now you put me in that unpleasant position and I feel you owe it to me to sell. Fergusson wants a painting - not all of them, just one and if I want to keep my job I've got to get you to sell!"

Gomez stared stunned, only the occasional puff of his cigar betrayed that he was still alive. Morticia's blue eyed pierced, painted eyebrows aloft, Marilyn looked from Gomez to Morticia to Fester in shock. Wednesday smirked, trying not to break the silence with a snicker. Uncle Fester was apparently frozen with outrage. After a few dense seconds Harvey felt a heavy hand squeeze his shoulder as his unlikely ally chuckled. "Hey, you did that to him? Melancholia? How could you be so cruel! Y'know Picasso would be appalled, simply appalled! You do owe it to him Gomez!"

Gomez's eyes rolled around as he though before his lips began to twitch into an maniacal smile under his moustache. "You know" He said slowly, I like you Harvey! You're straight to the point and I like that! Alright, here's what we'll do."
Gomez nodded at Marilyn before striking another cigar. "We'll go with what Mrs. Lurch says. We'll go directly to the auction house, if it bombs well then Ferguson can take it for the reserve." 

It wasn't ideal but it was more than Harvey had a right to ask for. "W-what piece will you be selling?" He stammered. 

Gomez looked to Morticia who answered. "We Addams's always give until it hurts. We're going to sell Picasso's final piece, his most intimate, beautiful piece."

Wednesday smiled cryptically as she turned to Harvey and completed her mother's sentence. "Self portrait Facing Death."  

Chapter Text

"Didn't expect Mamie Van Doren over there would be the one to rustle you, huh?" Oscar closed in on Harvey all the while eyeing Marilyn who stood at the console expertly conditioning the portrait.

Marilyn rarely wore her cat eye glasses due to a comment made years prior, where a college classmate likened her to the lead character from 'How to Marry a Millionaire'; wounding her terribly, but the analysis of the paining was fine work. She peered in close and scrutinised the paintwork, cross referencing her observations with a thick modern art curator's reference book. The family had somewhat dispersed after dinner although stayed in each other's company as they wound down for the evening. Gomez was strung up in the chandelier again, dangling absently from his ankle, he had seemed to have fallen into an after-dinner nap, either that or all the blood flowing to his head had knocked him unconscious; no one seemed worried though. Wednesday, sat cross legged by the fire, playing a shrill little piccolo like she was trying to charm a snake out of the chimney. Morticia, knitted whilst Uncle Fester sat stark on the opposing bench holding the yarn between two ham fists, occasionally complaining that tenrec yarn made him itch. 

"I wasn't rustled" Harvey replied flatly. Oscar circled him and sat adjacent to him on the tete-a-tete. Turning, he rested his patterned arm on the sweeping backrest that joined them. He glanced at Harvey, followed his gaze and tried to figure out if the attorney's attention was fixed on Mrs. Lurch or the painting.

"She's a knockout huh? What do you think?"

"Oh sure." Harvey compliantly agreed. "Her hair's a bit out of time though."

"How does your wife wear her hair?"

Harvey glanced at him, trying not to seem annoyed, he sighed. "Why does everyone assume I have a wife?"

"Well it's the way you dress." Oscar swept his hand down, gesturing to him and tugged playfully at the shoulder of his suit coat. "The gabardine suit, the stripe tie. Don't you know no one wears pleated pants anymore? You look like you've fallen out of a Sears front window. You're either the most normal suburban man I've ever met, or you're pretending to be one."

"So normal men have wives?"

"And about 3 kid. And a station wagon."

"You ought to be careful, that makes Lurch more normal than both of us put together."

Oscar erupted into laughter, and Harvey twitched an absent smile.

"So what about you?" Harvey continued, he wasn't entirely sure why. "You said you were still waiting?"

"I'm not a normal man. And why should I want to be?"

"It's difficult to be not normal."

"Oh is it? I haven't noticed." Oscar chuckled still eyeing Harvey's starched collar.

Marilyn clicked and sighed, seeming somewhat bemused by the painting before her as she concluded. "Yes, I would say it's consistent with what we know about Picasso's brush style and medium. The distorted, anguished expression of the sitter and the chilly, brittle, darkened blues indicative of decomposition; certainly have that Picasso vibrancy and beauty."

Harvey stood up and joined her at the console, nodding as if he understood, his blank expression failed to convince her of any real interest, he stared into the ghastly, contorted painting and wondered why anyone would ever pay money for such a picture.

"Although, I must add that I'm not a specialist in the works of Picasso." Marilyn continued, looking to the attorney.

"What are you a specialist in?"

Her face lit up, pleased to be asked. "European physiognomic Death Masks of the Victorian era. I'm just so mesmerised by the divine faces of the last century's condemned prisoners. "

"Oh Yes," Morticia joined in, putting her half-finished five armed jumper to the side rising from her wicker throne. "Mr. and Mrs. Lurch have the most enviable collection of posthumous criminal plaster casts lining their dining room wall; it gives the room a simply divine ambiance!"

"Wh-where d'you get a thing like a prisoner's death mask?"

"Well, my husband knows a guy."

"I bet he does." Harvey muttered, Marilyn smiled failing to take any offence. 

Oscar's heavy, signet ringed hand thudded Harvey's back. "Hey now, Chaz, not everything comes out of Sears y'know!" The ringmaster gently shook Harvey as he playfully gripped the nape of his neck. "Say Mrs. Lurch, you don't happen to have a ballpark of what it's worth?"

"Why Oscar, some things are priceless!"

"Sure, a baby's smile and summer rain is priceless but art is only worth what people will pay for it."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Mr. Webber." Marilyn playfully feigned offence, crossing her arms and turning back to the painting. "I'm not an auctioneer, and I'll say again that I am not a specialist in Picasso, but I wouldn't be surprised to see bidding ascend to over $200,000."

Harvey's head span. He routinely oversaw land deals for less money, that sort of money could buy a white collar suburban street. In that brutal, course and frankly unpleasant painting laid out unceremoniously on the console was around fourteen years of the attorney's annual salary. That painting was worth as much as half of his entire career and it had been hung in a downstairs bathroom and forgotten about.

"How nice." Morticia said plainly before touching a gentle hand to Marilyn's wrist. "Perhaps we could donate the some of the money to that lovely mongoose sanctuary we visited last year?"

"Oh yes, they were ever so nice to retrieve Cain from the enclosure for us."

Harvey nearly asked, but decided against it. He didn't really care. He didn't care about his work or Picasso or even the money, he had done Ferguson's bidding, that was surely enough to hold on to his pay packet. He mentally tallied the years until he could retire and then a wave of familiar dread washed over him as his mind went blank thinking of what he could do for the remainder of life after work.

Marilyn giggled as she chattered about her little son and how he nearly became a permanent fixture of a mongoose pack. Morticia lamented on her own children, the conversation veered away from the painting altogether, Oscar laughed along. Harvey lost all concentration and zoned out, he stood in the bizarre sitting room almost completely dejected, drowning in disillusion as the happy conversation only echoed in his empty head. Gomez swayed absently, the slight spinning of the rope did little to wake him up, the half-cast lamps flickered, the rumble of the lulling evening traffic outside grumbled beneath Wednesday's shrieking piccolo. The attorney could feel his mind slipping, he almost didn't feel as if he was there at all. Suddenly he felt himself returning, something was reeling him back in. He took a breath and glanced to his side where Oscar Webber's friendly gaze seemed to be the only one in a long time that didn't look past him. The ringmaster's thin lips curled up at the corners before cracking into a brazen grin, Harvey dug down for his last scrap of energy and smiled back.

Chapter Text

"I obviously meant get them to sell to us - not put it up at an open auction! How are we supposed to cut a profit out of this Harvey!? Every art dealer, National Gallery, and Oil Baron in the land will be at this blasted auction!" Ferguson's striped tie was slack, his brow shiny, and his grey eyes frenzied. He was brandishing a battered copy of the New York Times, frantically jabbing at the offending headline; "Picasso's Final Work To Sell At Open Auction this Saturday". 

"No, no." Harvey asserted. Leaning forward in his much lower seat on the opposite side of the disorganised but imposing desk. "You said get them to sell. And they're selling. Fair and square."

"It's not meant to be fair!" Ferguson shuffled his papers in agitation, gesturing incessantly at his letters of request from his precious millionaire clientele. "This business isn't about what's fair. It's about profit! How am I supposed to tell these clients they'll not be getting prioritized bidding?"

Harvey shrugged.

"Who's organizing all this anyway?!"

"Marilyn Lurch."

"Lurch's wife? For God's sake, she does know this isn't a bake sale, right? Why'd you let her of all people take over like that?"

"She's a qualified fine art curator with a master's degree and fifteen years experience working in restoration and gallery trade. She's knows exactly what she's talking about and she's no fool; she saw right through that ridiculous 'sell to us before Picasso's work depreciates' baloney you made me say. It was embarrassing."

Ferguson seemed to relax a fraction and managed a slight chuckle. 

"Come on Harvey, you've really been pushed to the wayside by that dear little lady? Here's what you do; convince her to hand over the reigns. Insist you take the burden of such an arduous task from her delicate hands. Women must be charmed; give her a few compliments, take her out to dinner, buy her roses. Be her knight in shining armour; chivalrously saving her from such a miserable chore."

Harvey stared aghast at his boss for a pause. He could appreciate Ferguson was old, but he was now bordering on Jurassic. He stammered and chuffed and finally found the words.

"Don't you think blatant sexism has led to enough embarrassment? Besides, you honestly want me to make a pass at Lurch's wife? Basic morality aside, do you really think that's a good idea?!"

"Alright Gertrude Stein; I suppose you have a point. You're not nearly as attractive as Lurch, you couldn't possibly compete." Ferguson shook his head, almost defeated. "Look you need to fix this - this is your mess!"

"My mess?!"

"Wait, stop talking for a second Harvey, I think I've got it." Ferguson bristled, hands sifting about his desk for a pen and notebook. He scrambled as he scribbled, jotting down a rough but devious plan. "We can't change Mrs. Lurch's opinions or involvement - but maybe we can invalidate the auction? Spread rumours, make the buyers doubt the Addams's legitimacy?" 

"And how will we do that, sir?" 

"You're going to go back to that house and find where the bodies are buried."

"That shouldn't be too hard."

You're going to snuffle for dirt and we're going to run a smear campaign on Addams so it looks like they're not the eccentric millionaire friends of an iconic artist, but are actually a shifty bunch of weirdos that can't be trusted. We'll scare all the other bidders off!"

"Snuffle for dirt? Is that what I've been reduced to?" 

"One of the clients wanting this painting owns two of the main Newspapers in the state. You've got three days to get me something on Addams and his brood. Get me something like Gomez Addams making dirty investments, or having a secret love child - something scandalous. We're going to tarnish their reputation and when everyone else is too unsure to make a real bid for the painting; we'll swoop in and get it for cheap!" Ferguson clapped triumphantly. The opposing crumpled attorney only sighed and rubbed his head.   

"Do I have to go back there?"

"Not if you've got something already?" 

Harvey winced and concentrated, desperate to produce some information that would get him out of this finger trap of a job. He hummed and looked to the ceiling before he finally recalled something, snapping his fingers. "Lurch lost his virginity to a painted lady."

Unfortunately, Ferguson looked less than impressed. "Say your prayers Harv, you're going back in there."

Chapter Text

He was in terrible danger of falling into a routine. Every night since Sunday he had called for supper. On Sunday it had been roasted shoebill in a gravy of grilled tadpole and whirligig, followed up by an elaborate liquorice and dragon fruit truffle tower dripping in molten brandy treacle. Monday had been a simple affair of seakale broth, Tuesday was a cactus salad which Harvey hated to admit he rather liked. Now on Wednesday, Harvey insisted to himself more than anyone, that this was not social, rather he had called to be a part of the planning of the auction and of course to did up the dirt on the family. So far, no real dirt had been dug, only damp curiosities. Despite Gomez Addams seeming to not really have much of an investment technique, his business dealings all checked out. It was little concern to the tabloids if he did or didn't have an extra rib as he claimed. Speaking to Blooker only cemented that even if Addams did fall into under-table investments, Blooker would immediately block it on account of the financial benefits of keeping his most overgenerous client out of prison.

On Sunday, Harvey had learned of an ex-betrothed of Morticia called Rupert Styx who's party trick was that he could climb your average woodchip interior wall with nothing but a pair of wool socks and his sloth-like talons. Morticia reassured, that despite his talents and prominent front teeth, he was no match for her beloved husband who's beauty was far more tan just external.

On Monday Mr. Addams recited the story of how Grandmamma had switched Winston Churchill's cigar for a stick of dynamite during the suffragette movement, causing his lopsided smirk and leading to her fleeing for the continent and landing eventually in central Spain. Of course, there she met Señor Addams and the rest is history. Four years after Gomez Addams was born, the family were fleeing the bull ring quite literally, eventually landing in New Jersey which seemed little better.

Tonight's discussions were truly fascinating, Oscar had recounted his colourful career in the circus and his inspiring story of adversity.

"Webber, that's an English Surname" Harvey spoke quietly as he crunched another fork of leopard seal and black olives.

"Is it really? I wouldn't know." Oscar chuckled. "My Grandfather picked it to go with his act when he got to America. He had webbed fingers and toes and could hold his breath for 20 minutes so he bought a caravan and the biggest lobster tank he could find and billed himself as 'Caspian Webber the Red Sea Merman'. Figured it pulled more crowds than Uri Kravitz."

Oscar explained that he was all his life an outcast; the black sheep of the family. A fatherless only child of a bearded lady who although had a fine head of downy brown hair, cruelly could not grow a beard. It was enough to make you cry, but painfully ordinary Oscar endured regardless. He trained his naturally unremarkable body to pull remarkable daredevil, sword swallowing, fire juggling feats. His mother died proud of her smooth-chinned child, although she never did get to teach him how to shave.

At this, Fester turned from ash to mould to pink and appeared to quietly weep into his fur sleeve. Morticia draped her arms around her uncle. "Oh Uncle Fester! It is a moving story!"

"Oh yes." He squeaked. "But you know, I didn't realise she was your mother! I was a friend of dear Queenie when we were all young and beautiful and the summers were full of dust storms." He lamented, patting his bloated hand over Morticia's. "It's just such a shock to hear she's passed on to the great abyss."

"Say old man, I didn't know you knew Oscar's mother." Gomez, commented, passively swirling his wine.

"Oh only briefly, many years ago..." Fester lamented, gazing off through the plated windows at the moon. "Although I'm not sure I ever really knew her, she was ever so fascinating."

Oscar furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. "When was this, about 45 years ago?" He asked plainly.

Fester pondered before nodding, "Yes, I suppose it will be, how time flies! I'll never forget her! May she rest in peace!"

"How about that." Oscar replied flatly and looked to Harvey who only seemed confused. "Enough about ol' Ma and me. Tell us about yourself Mr. Harvey!"

"There really isn't much to tell." Harvey shrunk as all at the table turned to look at him.

"Oh come on! I've bore my soul, my story my great triumphs, my terrible failures, my murky origins." Oscar's decorated hands gestured wide and patted Harvey on the shoulder. "We don't know the first thing about you, Charlie!"

"Well." Harvey stammered and inhaled. "There really isn't much to tell. I was born in 1929 in Wilmington. I have an older sister called Nora and a twin brother called Floyd." He coughed. "That's it really. I've got two nephews and a niece. I'm an attorney. What more is there to say?"

"Oh there's more to say Charlie. Like; you're a handsome man, a normal man too. Surely handsome normal men should take a regular, pretty wife?"

Harvey's face went hot as Oscar spoke. He wasn't a handsome man. he was a bean pole with a hairline like the gulf of Mexico, what the hell was Oscar doing saying such a strange thing in the first place, never mind repeating it?

"I believe you've asked me such a question before." Harvey asked, Oscar only smiled slyly and shrugged.

"You don't have to answer, I just mean was it your work that got in the way?"

"I suppose so."

Gomez had the habit of fanning fires, metaphorical and otherwise. He owed this trait to the ancestor who burned the library of Alexandra. Grinning he listed forward into the arising conversational smoke, revelling in the tension. "You're awful stuck on this marriage thing! Especially for a bachelor, Oscar!"

"What can I say, I find Mr. Harvey fascinating!"

"You always did have an eye!" Gomez smiled, glancing to his wife.

"What do you think of Oscar, Mr. Harvey?"

Morticia asked this sweetly, like a school girl sharing a crush. There was no condemnation, no cruelty in her eyes but Harvey felt consumed by the cruellest sort of umbrage. He looked to Gomez, then to Oscar who's gaze scolded him like a boiled teaspoon. Eyes dating, red heat rising. Anger was the ugliest sister of shame. The wooden chair screeched back as Harvey scrambled to his feet.  

"Forgive me. I've left something in my car." Harvey stated, his voice wobbling slightly as he pulled himself tall and avoided the eyes of his very puzzled companions. Oscar's shoulders dropped and he reached for his wine, allowing Harvey to leave with no protest.

Harvey turned and marched before they could speak. The question circling in his head, he tried not to answer. All his life he had lived in avoidance of all of this. The fear, the self-loathing, the pathologizing that made Walter Jackson Freeman a wealthy man. He somehow made his way quickly to the corridor, the playroom, the hall, then the staircase, another passage and finally the parlour. He climbed the final steps to the front door of the great mansion and without incident he made his escape into the hot summer night. 

"I suppose you don't think very much of me Mr. Harvey." Came the oddly flat voice of Oscar. Harvey stopped and turned cautiously, half-looking to Oscar perched on the porch railing under the moon like a Poirot. "I'm sorry if I have crossed a line. I hope we can remain friends." 

A tense moment passed, the air was like soup. The attorney gathered his thoughts and drew a deep breath.

"Truth be told Mr. Webber. I think entirely too much of you." Harvey stated coolly, not sure whether it was the pull of the moon that brought on this sudden attack of authenticity or the weight of a lifetime of self-defeat catching up with him. He still tried to bottle any emotion, never directly looking at Oscar.
"How I wish I didn't, but I suppose you already know that." 

Oscar smiled. "Charlie." The showman said. "Won't you let me change your mind?"