Work Text:
The gala evening is a success. The fat cats and other 'significant' people clearly enjoy themselves; Morticia, who had a hand in organizing it, managed to surpass herself.
Though unpleasant to admit, her mother has taste. Dort, who put on hilariously gross pirate trousers, is nothing but thrilled.
Wednesday walks carefully among the guests, looking around. She takes a glass of champagne from the tray—disgusting—for appearance's sake, presses it to her lips, and raises her head without taking a sip.
Everyone is wearing masks. Too many unfamiliar people to recognize in time...
Wednesday lowers her glass and moves into the shadows, changing her vantage point. Too late, focused on her task, she realizes that someone is behind her. His hot, broad chest presses against her back, his hand reaches for her mouth—not to cover it, but to let her know who he is. As if it wasn't obvious.
Wednesday forces herself to breathe evenly and her body to remain still.
"Dead dance is over."
"Such a pity."
"True. Your pathetic attempts at dancing could have entertained the audience."
"Ah, so you admit that you would like to dance with me."
"You wish."
"Perhaps I do."
Standing next to him, in front of him, felt familiar, dangerous, and painfully pleasant. To Wednesday's grim surprise, it's much more pleasant than bickering with him through the glass. Might be due the fact that then she had to attack her own feelings in order to hurt him.
As if at this distance, despite the fact that his hands are free now, his attitude softens.
A foolish illusion. Hydes are cunning, she reminds herself. He wants something. Just as she had wanted his assistance back then. Doesn't matter anymore. She is capable of taking care of it herself.
"You're thinking too loudly," he says in a low voice. "Not that I mind. Haven't had you in my arms for so long..."
Wednesday suppresses the urge to flinch. And also the instinctive urge to take a step away from him; She won't let him see her weakness.
"You finally washed properly, and you're definitely not going to kill me now."
"You sure of it?"
"Yes."
"So you're paying attention to my scent?"
Wednesday doesn't immediately recognize that he's joking. Probably.
"Says the Hyde who memorized mine a long ago," she retorts feebly.
Tyler is silent, but she can feel him shuddering behind her. It takes her a few seconds to understand that he is actually laughing. Such a pity.
"I'm glad you're alive," The hoarseness disappears from his voice, and something shifts subtly.
"That's the worst thing you've ever said."
He smirks and loosens his embrace, as if preparing to let her go and step away.
"Pleased to know that my cockroach assumption made it just right," he says quietly, the tints of emotion fading from his voice, the warmth of his chest withdrawing from her back.
Wednesday mentally chastises herself for what she is about to say.
"That sounds better."
Her approval catches Tyler off guard, and he freezes. Hesitates.
Covering up self-produced absurdity, Wednesday takes a sip from her glass and grimaces. Gross. Just what she needs to distract herself from the much more unpleasant aching feeling in her chest.
"You know," he leans a little lower, closing the already barely existing distance between them once again. "If you want to keep me here, all you have to do is… ask."
Wednesday is too focused on the sensations of his proximity. She can't help but notice that his voice has grown lower again.
Worth analyzing. She prefers to ignore the essence of his statement, though.
And instead of talking about the projection of his desires, she approaches it from another angle. The non-denial one.
"Are you even able to repeat that without your Hyde?"
He grows tense, she feels it. Her lips twitch before she suppresses it.
"Would that change anything?"
His voice takes on a deeper tone. He sounds detached, almost bitter. That's how he was when she said she would go to the RaveN's with Xavier to have her cover.
"Hardly," she allows herself to be bluntly honest.
There is nothing to change between them now.
"I'll take the chance anyway."
A smooth move is all it takes for Tyler to make her turn and face him.
A dark suit, a dark mask to match... Exhausted face lacks its usual color. Clean hair. Shining eyes, piercing into hers.
Apparently, she's studying him for too long.
"Don't tell me you were expecting a cliché like venetian half-face," he says neutrally, but his lips curl into an almost-non-mocking smile.
Wednesday ignores the burning sensation in her cheeks and the fact that his hands are still resting on her waist.
"Never have been into The Phantom of the Opera."
"Jekyll and Hyde isn't very original either."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. Since when has his sarcasm been directed at himself?
"After your untimely demise, I'll consider writing something more worthy," she promises.
And when she's done with publishing her novels.
Tyler's lips curve into a bitter smile. He removes his hands from her waist.
"Then there's no point in delaying the inevitable."
She knew he killed Laurel, of course. Assumed he should be going mad. But seeing him so human, right here, in front of her, is simply too much. As if she could trust him, knowing the true nature of the Hyde.
Especially since he was behaving much more calmly now than he had in the asylum.
For some reason, Wednesday hesitates.
"You wanted to dance."
"I didn't say that."
He's not playing along. Perhaps it's his way of bluffing?
Regardless, this is all she can allow. If he didn't come here to finish what he once started, there's no point in keeping him around.
There's no point in keeping him around at all; she won't be able to trust him. Ever.
Never say...
"I didn't specify the time," Wednesday counters, despite herself.
Because once upon a time, he wanted to dance and invited her.
The disbelief in his eyes is replaced by something akin to obsessive admiration. A familiar smile slowly graces his face. Who does he remind her more, the ordinary guy who played it like he accepted her as she was, or the Hyde who offered to stand together above this miserable world?
He offers his hand.
Wednesday, gathering all the composure she has left, makes a decision. She knows their dance will attract attention, and that's not what she needs right now.
"The balcony," she mutters, ignoring his palm. That way, there's a chance the others will mistake him for a student.
Tyler clenches his fist before lowering his hand and following her. Wednesday doesn't turn an inch. And yet, with each step, she keeps asking herself: why is she doing this? What are her reasons? Giving him an opportunity to get rid of her without anyone noticing. Trusting him..? The last thought makes her wince.
He could be useful, she counters mentally. He might know something about... experiments, about some other shady dealings at Willow Hill — if she doesn't pressure him right away, lets him get close, creates the illusion that he could help voluntarily...
Weak attempts to convince herself. Plunging into the darkness of the stairwell, she quickens her steps.
When they step onto the modest, fenced-in balcony, she can hear his heavy breathing. The music reaches them as a muffled echo, the frosty air pleasantly hitting her cheeks.
There is no sense in delaying the inevitable indeed, so she turns around and places both palms just below his shoulders.
Tyler lowers his head, looking down at them. Slowly, without uttering a word, he begins to sway their bodies in something akin to dance. The way that more fits for a lame school disco, not gala evenings.
The silence thickens between them.
Wednesday is aware of the sounds around. The rustling of leaves in the breeze, the echo of music, his breathing—barely audible because the orchestra is playing too loudly.
She thinks. Pushes her feelings aside, of course, but when he keeps holding her in his arms calmly, speaking the way she asks, and does not try to kill her, they inevitably flow back, forcing her to relax slightly and let herself believe for the moment that this monster can truly be hers. That he is able to give way to the human side of him. If only she could've known it.
In her stubbornness, she remains silent. Tyler waits for a moment before reaching for her hand, and for a split second, she expects him to pull it toward his heart, as silly and corny as it would be. Instead, he only removes it from his shoulder and offers his palm again, not pressing it against hers right away, but inviting her to close the distance between them with her own decision.
Wednesday knows she will regret it. Her gaze burns holes through his skin before she makes another decision.
Slowly, after a few long moments, she reaches for him, no rushing — creating contact. First, fingertips to fingertipss. Then, to the ends of their phalanges. Slowly, to the creases of their palms in the end.
Even Pugsley's charge didn't thrill her like this. Such sensations, she thinks, should be prohibited by law at the very least. That would make it easier to justify her willingness to touch him. To admit that these touches managed to make her less impassive, Wednesday thinks grimly.
"Don't be afraid, I feel it too."
She looks up at him, snapped out of her sensations and reluctantly grateful for the distraction.
"That's corny."
Tyler snorts.
"Ah yes, that's me, a poor sap." He says dryly and softens. "It was a quote."
She doesn't recognize the book, so she waves him off.
"You should be more picky in what you read."
His lips curve into a hint of a smile, not revealing what he is truly thinking. Wednesday makes an unsatisfied note that their banter this evening feels a bit too mild.
Her task was to play along. As long as she doesn't show any emotion...
"And you should be more picky about who you are spending your time with," he replies after a while.
"Took so long to come out with this?"
"Wasn't sure if I should compromise myself."
Wednesday snorts and sees that he is smiling himself. Right. Not compromising at all.
"So which bum did you steal these clothes from?" she changes the subject abruptly.
Tyler tilts his chin down, examining himself. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly.
Good.
...or bad?
"I took it here, actually," he states simply. "There's a whole makeshift costume room in the back of the house."
Wednesday has no doubt what it's for, but there shouldn't be anything of Tyler's size.
Mother...
Why can't some power block her visions?
"Do you like bums better?" Tyler sneers. "In that case, I might as well not have changed. Judging how I was at Willow Hill, you should've been really into..."
"That's not the point," she interrupts, not letting him finish.
Tyler falls silent. His palm feels unbearably hot against hers.
"Mom knows you're here."
His shoulders tense under her hand before slowly relaxing. Wednesday doesn't share his mood.
"Shouldn't your parents be thrilled about the Hyde you fell for?"
She wants to believe that he can't read her emotions. Much.
"Grandma would be happy to help me bury you," she says dryly.
Ignoring the fact that he's right: on both counts.
"So I've heard," He states, and Wednesday raises an eyebrow, surprised that he knows about her grandmother. Tyler smirks, "Drunkies love to gossip."
That's dumb. The older Frump has a good ear. And enough snitchers.
"Not for long," Wednesday states grimly.
"So that's who you get your cruelty from..."
There is a dark tenderness in his voice, barely concealed by the hoarseness of the Hyde, but still—if she is beginning to pick up on the hints— the tone is leaving room for human sarcasm. Wednesday looks at him with grim satisfaction.
"She buried five husbands."
Tyler almost stops; she senses his fleeting confusion and realizes that it's sincere.
"Color me flattered. Let's hope you listened to her closely and will stop at one."
"At most. If I'm really unlucky."
He doesn't answer, but nods eloquently before looking away and staring into the distance over her tiny shoulder.
To some extent, she liked his undisguised emotionality better. But not the threats. Not the sarcasm with which he tried to hurt her — it was too close to be true.
They sway for a little longer before the melody breaks off and another begins. Wednesday knows she can't afford another dance. She has her own mission tonight. And the understanding that he can be three times as calm, but there is still an insurmountable gulf that remains between them.
When she stops, Tyler lets go of her hand smoothly. Reluctantly yet swiftly, Wednesday removes her other palm from his shoulder.
She can't help but notice how his eyes darken, how he leans forward, but then forces himself back and takes a deep breath, looking away again. Just like at 'Willow Hill', when he was electrocuted during their… discussion.
She awaits with cold curiosity, intrigued with what he will do next.
"I should go."
"Go then."
His gaze remains soft, yet somehow pierces her, as if he had been expecting exactly that. And yet he asks, demands...
"You wanted to kiss me."
Simple as that.
That's daring. Wednesday clenches her teeth, forcing herself to remain impassive, and gives him a dark look. Tyler smiles softly, his tired features smooth out slightly.
"I didn't specify the time, though," he adds nonchalantly.
She admits, that was a good one. Using her own words in a different context and offering her a way out of this. Wednesday is sure he read perfectly well how she looked at him—there's no point in denying it now. Not to herself anyway.
Another bluff? Wednesday admired good players, like her father, for example, but with Tyler, it's completely different. She won't stand a man who plays her. Twice.
To possess such a beast, to be on equal footing and above — that's what she wanted. But giving credit to cunning and strength and to trust to be around, as it turned out, were completely different things. Hyde is capable of killing and tricking anyone. Even his master.
Too many things disappoint her in an unpleasant way.
"So...? May I...?"
It annoys her that he asks. Now, standing on the tiny balcony, fenced off from the others, it feels like sincerity.
In a way, it would have been much easier if he had simply done it. Taken full responsibility; Wednesday knew that for a moment, she would have given in to him. And then pushed him away right after, never allowing anything else.
Never.
Never say...
Tyler is waiting. She sees that even through the mask, his face darkens with every second of her silence.
Wednesday barely lifts her chin. Blinks once.
And that is her, his, theirs answer.
His eyes widen slightly, his eyebrows move imperceptibly, but now it's enough for her to know that he wasn't expecting this after all. His upper lip twitches, and Tyler leans toward her; his pupils and irises are even, so unlike...
She exhales into the kiss against her will, and he freezes; Wednesday blinks again, scolding herself for such a vulnerable reaction, shaking the tremor from her shoulders only to feel it again a moment later—when his lips are already claiming hers much bolder. Covering them in such a familiar manner...
She is drowning.
His tongue gently lifts her upper lip before retreating. Their kiss could be called almost innocent—if it weren't for the heat, the emotion that Tyler clearly puts into this small, meaningful touch.
He steps away too soon, his chest heaving, and Wednesday is ready to move toward him, but forces herself to stay still. To not move. To not let him know what she really felt.
His Adam's apple bobs, and he takes another step back. Each word comes with an effort, letting depth mingle with hoarseness, forbidden hope with a fact.
"See you around."
So curt and reluctant; Wednesday watches his back as he turns and jumps off the balcony, then calmly walks deeper into the forest... and stops to give her one last look.
Why did he come at all? Why did she allow him to…?
Wednesday knows she must return to the gala. She will think about it later.
And yet, even as she steps to the hall to hear more inane praises from Dort, who is beaming at the stage, the main question remains.
Will they ever be able to talk without masks?