Chapter Text
The funeral was ostentatious. Immensely so. The room looked, and felt, like a botanical garden. There were palm trees and carved golden urns filled with tropical plant specimens. The air was warm and humid. Wednesday began to sweat around her collar almost immediately. She despised sweating.
While she enjoyed funerals, of course, she had not been excited to attend this one. A friend of Grandmama’s. It wasn’t even open casket.
Wednesday had met the woman over tea and cake in the solar once. She and her grandmother had enjoyed making jokes at the young girl’s expense. Teasing about what a beauty she would be when she was grown. What she would accomplish; romancing and swindling men out of their fortunes, reducing the almighty into ridiculous, pleading, desperate worms.
But none of that had ever interested her and when she told them so they smirked at one another.
“You sound as silly and simple as my godson!” The friend remarked. “Always going on about his career as an artist. No real ambition.”
“I like art,” Wednesday informed them.
“Do you like silly drawings of birds and dead lizards? Because that’s all he likes to draw.”
Wednesday had crossed her thin black covered arms over her chest, nodding once, “I would like those drawings.” She cocked a brow in challenge and the older women cackled, one winking, the other grinning. It was embarrassing and she wanted to stamp her foot and charge out of the room at the insult but knew it would only lead to more laughter at her expense.
“Well, perhaps I’ll have to introduce you to him some day,” the woman said, her head bobbing once as her feather plumed hat shifted precariously. “Xavier, is his name. About your age too.”
Grandmama smacked her lips, “Could be a fine match, you know. A Frump and a Thorpe.”
“Oh hush,” the other woman admonished, sipping her tea. “This one is far more Addams than Frump.”
The response was a palm slapping the table. “Look at her! She’ll be just as pretty as Morticia. You mark my words! And twice as deadly.”
They had crowed over it together as Wednesday strode stiffly from the room, disgusted.
It was two years later that Wednesday found herself at the other woman’s funeral. Grandmama dabbing her eyes with an old lace handkerchief, making a wretched fool of herself.
When Wednesday asked where the body was, she had been shooed away without a second thought. She pouted, fuming silently. What was the fun of a funeral without a body?
And then she had seen him. A boy her age. About her height. Chubby, uncomfortable, frowning as though he had been told it would never rain again. That he would be forever forced to live in sunlight, reveling in the warmth of its beams. He was miserable. And she liked it.
As he struggled to adjust his black tie, the collar of his white shirt, he caught her looking, watching. She could see him swallow even at a distance. See his skin turn pink, mottled, as his eyes shifted, glancing around to see what she might be staring at besides himself.
His hair was fair and fell into his face. His skin was pale. He was clutching a battered purple hardcover book in one hand. He attempted to move it behind his back before she could see.
He was with an older man, his father presumably, who kept turning his back on the boy even as he tried to insert himself into the adult conversation carrying on above him. He sighed.
As she approached his eyes grew exponentially. He never turned his gaze from her. Smart. A prey animal should always keep a predator in its sights. And this boy was prey; she was sure of it. He was meat for the beast. But Wednesday had always been told to play with her food. And she intended to enjoy playing with the boy.
“Let’s go,” she told him as she passed, without waiting for him to agree or even speak.
He followed her without pause or question.
Obedient. She liked that too.
When they were far enough away from the adults she explained, “We’re going to play hide and seek. You will hide first. If I find you in under a minute, you will forfeit that book to me.”
He grimaced, looking uneasy, “But it’s my Treasure Island.”
She raised her brows.
“I’m Xavier Thorpe, by the way,” he stuck a hand out toward her. It was white and soft like a baby’s.
Wednesday said nothing and kept her arms resolutely at her sides.
He cleared his throat, moving the waiting hand to his collar, once more attempting to loosen it. “This is my godmother’s funeral,” he explained. She stared back silently so he continued while shifting uneasily from one foot back to the other. “And who are you?”
Her gaze narrowed but eventually she gave in with an exhale. “Wednesday Addams.”
“Oh!” He grinned, “Viola told me about you!”
Wednesday frowned in response, thinking back to that conversation years before. What a good match she would make with this insipid boy and had to grit her teeth to stop herself from tearing his ear off, his throat out. Making a scene and embarrassing her mother and grandmother. Again.
“One,” she announced instead. “Two,” his eyes went wide. “Three,” he inhaled sharply. “Four,” she raised her voice. Was he dumb? Why hadn’t he run? “Five,” and he was off like a hunted jackrabbit.
Xavier Thorpe was ridiculously easy to find. He hid behind a curtain; the most obvious place in the room. It had taken her a count of twenty. And when she yanked the thick damask fabric aside she had rolled her eyes as he stared back, sucking on a piece of candy.
It was almost as bad as being forced to play with her little brother.
She yanked the offending fruity smelling thing from his fingers, his lips, as he watched in horror, and dropped it to the dusty floor, grinding it into the tiles with her black dress shoes.
Pathetic.
She didn’t wait for his reaction. “My turn,” she told him with a superior smirk and darted off, doing her best to be unseen, silent, as he stared after her with bated breath.
The ancient old crone, sitting along the aisle, in a row at the very back of the room, with voluminous black and deep purple floor length skirts was the perfect place to hide. Glancing around, checking for Xavier or anyone who may be paying attention to the slip of a girl with black pigtails, she dropped down behind the woman’s chair and settled herself underneath the flounces.
It smelled of mothballs and cat urine and took Wednesday remembering her training with Uncle Fester to control her breathing, to not gag, as her warm respirations heated the fabric and the smell intensified.
How long would it take the boy to find her? If his own location was anything to go by she doubted he would be creative in his seeking, finding. She wondered if he had seen his godmother’s body. If he could, or would, help her sneak a peek inside of the coffin when he discovered her.
It had been at least five minutes when Wednesday sighed, utterly exasperated. Funerals were supposed to be miserable, so why was she not enjoying herself?
Footfalls, rushed and scrambled, went by, and paused very near to her hiding place. She inhaled, counting her heartbeats. There were four, loud to her ears and even, before the steps scurried away, vanishing into the distance.
Pathetic.
Wednesday was forced to let her toes show; just slip out from the ruffled hem of the skirt. She hoped next time Xavier passed he would catch a glimpse of them, a gleam from their shiny patent leather surface.
It was still another count of one-hundred before long pale fingers lifted the dark fabric shrouding her. The fresh air was invigorating and Wednesday gulped it greedily as she emerged. The woman, noticing them, squawked indignantly, raising a gnarled veiny finger. “You little,” her lips curled back to reveal yellowed teeth. “What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp, steel running through it, and the children spared only a glance for one another being darting off, disappearing around a massive pillar.
When they stopped in a far corner, nearly opposite where the woman had been seated, Xavier doubled over, wheezing uncomfortably. “You should try running more,” Wednesday suggested as he huffed, glaring at her. And that was when she saw it, the gleaming polished wood of the coffin, tucked back into a niche, flowers cascading from large vases on either side.
“Is that your godmother?”
“Yeah,” he panted, trying to straighten up.
“Did you see her?”
“Viola didn’t want anyone to see her,” he replied with a shrug. “I think it’s because she got old or something. But she’s dead, who cares?”
“I care,” The side of her mouth curved upward while he looked back quizzically.
“Okay?”
“Let’s go,” she turned, striding over.
“Wednesday, wait, what are you doing?” He gasped, quickly following behind her, glancing after them to see if anyone had heard, noticed.
“It’s like an adventure, Xavier. Pretend there’s buried treasure in there and you’re Jim Hawkins.”
They peered at the coffin before them, Wednesday’s fingers itching to open the lid.
“You’ve read Treasure Island?” The boy beside her breathed as she turned to look and found him close. Too close. She blinked at him. He licked his lips.
“Yes,” she finally replied, eyeing him warily.
“Did you like it?” His voice held a level of wonder that made her uncomfortable.
“I suppose,” she lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “Though I felt the pirates were very tame and the story would have been improved by an outbreak of scurvy or yellow fever. And murders. Pirates are supposed to be blood thirsty.”
“One day I’m going to be an explorer,” he offered.
Her small dexterous digits were working the first latch on the coffin as she commented off handedly, “I thought you were going to be an artist?”
He stared as she felt her own gaze widen.
Wednesday huffed, “Your godmother mentioned it.”
His lips stretched into a wide smile.
“Are you going to help me or just stand there like an idiot?”
He stepped around her, expression never changing, and worked on the far latch, fumbling over it in his haste.
Pathetic.
Finally, when they had the four latches open, the lid seemed to decompress, lifting half an inch on its own. Wednesday turned to Xavier, joyous and excited. He, however, was nervous, wriggling, tugging at his collar again, as he looked to her with fearful eyes.
“If anyone catches us we’re going to be in so much trouble,” he worried.
“No one will catch us. You’re the look out. Don’t mess up.”
He swallowed, nodding.
Wednesday attempted to lift the top but it was far heavier than she had supposed and the coffin was tall, chest height. She groaned in dissatisfaction, eyeing the boy with disgruntled acceptance. “Help me,” she demanded.
“But I’m the look out.”
She rolled her eyes. “That won’t matter if we can’t get it open.”
“I don’t think…” She glared forcefully, the look that made Puglsey dissolve into tears when she turned it upon him. He released a stuttering, pained sigh, biting his lower lip. “Okay,” he exhaled, reaching to aid her.
The two of them managed to wrangle it open; the lid standing in its full upright position.
Inside, Viola Swamp, Xavier’s godmother, her grandmother’s best friend, rested in stately repose. Her skin was papery and pale, too much blush was smeared across her cheeks. It was garish. Her lips were a deep red, like congealed day old blood. Her hair was a coiffed heap of grayish blond piled on top of her head, diamond clips holding it back from her face. Her arms were crossed over her sunken chest, black satin gown, hands wizened by age and embalming.
“I did not realize she was so old,” Wednesday stated.
“She never looked that old when she was alive,” he returned with a shrug.
Both children tilted their heads, examining the body, what they could see of it.
“Is she being buried with that necklace?” She wondered allowed.
Xavier shook his head. “She’s being cremated,” he explained. “But probably. It was the thing she loved most. She had some torrid affair with a French millionaire when she was young. And she blackmailed him. He paid her with the necklace. It was from Tahiti or something, had been in his family for generations. They’re true black pearls,” he pointed. “They’re really rare.” Frowning, he added, “She never even let me touch them. I wonder if his ancestors were pirates. French pirates were really famous in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, you know.”
She found an odd amount of respect for Xavier as he explained further; he was truly passionate and knowledgeable about pirates and adventuring. Maybe he was not a total loss. Not completely pathetic.
And the necklace. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. Not that Wednesday cared for jewelry or finery typically. Her family had a vault, a treasure trove, that would knock Xavier over stone dead. But they had nothing like that strand of gorgeous midnight dark orbs. She breathed, eyeing it intently, sick over the fact that such a woman would allow it to be incinerated with her mean withered corpse.
“You like it?” He observed.
She nodded, “It’s perfect,” and grinned into the coffin, imagining it heavy on her neck.
There was a shattering sound, porcelain, ceramic, breaking across the floor somewhere else in the room and a shout. The two children turned and as they did the lid of the coffin slammed down behind them making both jump. Xavier looked as though he may have swallowed his tongue, skin flushed and sweating in panic. Wednesday did nothing more than blink once.
Swinging back around to take in the closed top, Xavier asked in a nervous tone, “Do we have to reopen it?”
Wednesday sighed, dispirited. “No, that was enough. We shall return to our game of hide and seek.”
“Oh,” he exhaled sounding both dejected and relieved in the same moment.
“I will step over there and count to twenty. Perhaps with more time you will find an adequate hiding place,” she scowled, rolling her eyes to let him know without words what she thought of his skills at the game.
Xavier straightened, puffing up his chest, and picked up Treasure Island from where he had set it on the floor. “I’m going to find the best spot this time. You’ll see.”
She hummed in reply, walking away without sparing a glance over her shoulder.
Wednesday never would have thought Xavier Thorpe, soft, nervous, pathetic, would have had the guts or the nerve to climb into his godmother’s coffin, beside her, and close the lid for a game of hide and seek.
And she definitely didn’t think the coffin was in that niche because it was beside a well hidden cremation oven.
The whole thing happened so quickly, so unexpectedly.
When she heard the muffled shouting, saw the coffin rocking and shaking as it trundling along the track, once again sealed and locked, toward the wall of flame, she rushed forward to hit the red stop button beside the mouth. Everything screeched to a halt, the room going silent until Morticia’s voice gasped out an angry but frantic, “Wednesday!” Then the whole place erupted into a cacophony of voices, chairs scraping, feet pounding.
“She’s alive, Mother! I heard her. She’s trying to claw her way out!”
“Viola!” Grandmama called out, rushing forward. And before anyone could reach her, stop her, Wednesday popped the first two latches on the coffin and hoisted the top. A hand joined hers in the opening of it and even the macabre young girl found herself transfixed and mildly terrified, inhaling sharply. But on the other side was Xavier, choking and shuddering, eyes huge and wet, as he gazed dazedly back at her.
“You saved me,” he rushed. She gaped.
“Xavier?” A man’s voice boomed from behind.
He brushed her to the side, hauling the boy from his godmother’s coffin, away from the body, and set him on his feet. After a cursory look over, he grabbed Xavier by the upper arm, and dragged him off, away through the crowd, berating him openly.
That was the last time Wednesday saw Xavier Thorpe before their second meeting at Nevermore Academy.
But it was not the last time she thought about him. Not that she would ever admit it.
“Ha! I knew it! You’ve totally had a thing for me since we were ten, Addams. Admit it.”
As Xavier said, “Thing,” the appendage in question popped into view from within a heap of Enid’s pillows. When he realized they were not calling him or talking about him, he slunk back into his cushy nest once more.
“Games of this sort are puerile and beneath me. I can not believe I allowed you two to talk me into this.”
“Well, how is it possible you’ve never played Truth or Dare before?” Enid demanded, still surprised and affronted by the information. Wednesday fixed her with a death glare, mouth turned down, as Xavier smirked. She nodded, “Right. That’s probably how,” and dropped the subject.
“So, what was it that did it for you first?” He asked, batting his lashes suggestively. “The nervous sweating? The tight collar I couldn’t stop tugging on? My skills at hide and seek?”
She shoved him, hard, and he rocked back onto the floor of the girl’s room, laughing. She hoped he would choke on his tongue. “If you must know,” she released an aggravated breath through her nose, “I’ve always enjoyed just how pathetic you are.”
He sat up, grinning like the fool that he was. That he always have been. “I’m desperately pathetic when it comes to you. Always,” and kissed her cheek like some simpering lovesick idiot.
Her roommate lit up like the preverbal Christmas tree, turning to waggle her eyebrows suggestively at the interested hand as he peered over at them.
With one palm against his sternum she knocked him back to the ground.
“Ouch,” Xavier replied, rubbing the afflicted area, without attempting to get back up. Wednesday felt the corner of her mouth tilting upward, a small secret smile.
That night, wrapped around him, head on his chest, darkness fallen over his still room, she intoned quietly against his bare flesh, “Pirates.”
“Huh?” He responded sleepily.
“The way you talked about pirates.” Xavier lifted his head, upper torso, minutely so that he could stare down at her, as she raised her gaze to his. “What did it for me first.” She held him tighter.
He huffed a laugh, even as she felt his heart rate pick up, thudding beneath her ear.
His voice was low, barely more than a whisper as he began, “Jean Lafitte was a French pirate operating in the Gulf of Mexico during the early years of the nineteenth century. He was known as ‘The Terror of the Gulf’. He and his brother operated a smuggling warehouse in Barataria Bay, Louisiana before obtaining a small fleet of ships and turning to piracy to support their business…”
Wednesday grinned against him, planting a small kiss against the lean muscle there, and listened to him talk until she fell asleep.