Work Text:
"Can you please repeat yourself, dear, because it sounded as if you said my daughter has begun forming a mating bond with a monster?"
Gomez paused the rhythmic shaking of her martini and lifted an eyebrow. On the other end of the line, Isadora Capri cleared her throat primly.
"Monster is a bit harsh—" the former Nevermore teacher protested, heat in her voice.
"You misunderstand, Isadora," Morticia interrupted. "The best people I know are monsters."
There was a wicked smile from her husband at her words. He poured the icy contents of the shaker into a razor-thin glass, adding a skewered pickled eyeball before presenting it to Morticia with a bowing flourish. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The action should have been chaste, but like everything between them, the soft caress of skin-on-skin sent a simmering current all the way to her heart and groin. Reluctantly severing the connection, Gomez stepped away again to mix another cocktail for himself.
"Yes, well," Isadora stammered ever so slightly, "as I said, I feel it might be beneficial if we could discuss this," she cleared her throat again, "delicate situation in person."
"I quite agree," Morticia responded, taking a sip of the cocktail and offering Gomez a beatific smile in appreciation before continuing. "Is Wednesday aware that you've contacted us?"
A barked half-laugh crackled over the static-filled connection, "Contrary to what most would think about my work, I do not have a death wish, Mrs. Addams."
"What a pity you only moonlight as an educator," Mortica noted. "Your instincts with children appear to be spot on. If she's still in residence, I assume that she's ignorant to the bond's existence?"
"As far as I know. She and Miss Sinclair left for their planned lake day just after breakfast. I’ve asked one of the more motherly pack members to try and get more information from Mr. Galpin as soon as we get off the phone," the woman explained, continuing to use formal addresses as if they made the information surrounding them easier to digest.
"Hmm," Morticia hummed, her long coffin nails idly tracing patterns on the armchair as she turned over each element of the situation like a complex explosive. "Might I recommend an alternative tactic? Tyler's history with mother-figures is fraught at best. And father-figures as well," she added with a frown.
"I am well aware of Mr. Galpin's history," Capri returned in a clipped tone.
Morticia’s nails paused their sequence and she took another slow sip to allow her turgid silence to speak for itself.
"I apologize. I just—" Isadora sighed, "this is a bit more complicated than I'd expected when I encouraged Enid to invite Wednesday to visit."
A sabre-sharp smile bisected her bloodred lips as she purred, "If my daughter is involved, it will always be more complicated than one expects. That's part of her charm.”
"So I’m learning," Capri agreed, though she sounded less than charmed. "I'll need to send you the coordinates, but GoogleMaps estimates the drive from the address in Wednesday’s student file to be just over three hours. When can I expect you and Mr. Addams to arrive?"
Morticia side-eyed the grandfather clock's bat wing hands. "We'll be there before sundown."
As they hung up, Gomez's hands clapped together, a wonderfully wistful look in his eye. "Our little scorpion is growing up so fast, Tish! A mating bond? With a wanted fugitive?"
"So it would seem, darling," Morticia murmured, almost absentmindedly. "Lurch! Please bring the car around, we need to depart within the hour."
As elated as her husband was by this development, Morticia couldn't help but feel a singular sort of dread—and not the kind that got her blood pumping. Her fingers resumed their course up and down the armrest, eyes losing focus.
Her daughter was magnificently independent and perfectly stubborn, two traits that Morticia had cultivated with the same diligence with which she attended to her beloved African strangler, Cleopatra. But Wednesday was also convinced that love, marriage, and everything that went along with such attachments were beneath her. She would undoubtedly view this burgeoning mating bond as a betrayal from her very biology. There was a legitimate chance that she may reject the poor boy on principle alone.
Not that Morticia was positive she wanted her daughter tethered to Tyler Galpin. And not for the reason other mothers might flinch away from the young hyde. His Outcast classification had less than a whitefly’s weight to do with her apprehension. Despite her trepidations about the match, there was a part of her that pitied Francoise's boy. After losing both his father and his mother in quick succession, he now stood an honest-to-sin chance of losing his mate as well. If not to death’s sweet embrace, at least to Wednesday’s own hubris.
Long lashes fluttered closed until they rested on her chilled cheeks as she gripped her talisman loosely and focused her Sight inward. A pleasant frigidity seeped through her limbs akin to the pins-and-needles of early stage frostbite. Opening her dark heart wide, she made space for a vision–if the spirits were willing.
Her psychic powers manifested in a contrary fashion to the rest of the Frumps. A dove in an aviary of ravens. Before Nevermore, her foresights were not celebrated. After all, what was a girl from a macabre family thrilled by nightmares and all things that went bump in the night doing with so much happiness within that it directed all her premonitions? But at school, Morticia had been adored for the first time in her life. She fascinated and enchanted her peers and teachers alike with her balance of both dark and light. To her dismay, their approval did little to alter her mother’s opinion of her powers, nor of the man who’d helped her learn to embrace both sides of herself with unabashed authenticity.
Morticia swiftly released the amulet at the mere thought of her mother’s life-long remonstrations. She would not be her mother. No vision was required to guide her resolution; she would staunchly support Wednesday’s autonomy in this important decision.
"Cara mia," Gomez broke into her meditation, "perhaps I can interest you in a bit of a distraction for our drive?"
He waggled his tufted eyebrows at her, as if she wouldn't immediately comprehend the low seduction dripping from his tone. A secretive smile tugged at Morticia's lips in answer. The constant gleam Gomez's eyes sparked higher, his pupils dilating with a medically concerning speed.
"Shall I fetch you to your carriage, Querida?" He asked, though he swept her legs out from under her before she could reply, cradling her to his chest like one of his most precious artifacts.
***
The last town–if one could call a settlement brought to decay by a rerouted highway a town–blurred past their windowed view thirty minutes before they reached the coordinates for the converted summer camp. Lurch turned off the ill-maintained county route without hesitation, though the wildness of the trees and bushes obscured the mouth of the dirt road entirely. They rumbled on for another ten minutes under a heavy canopy before the trees parted to reveal a meadow and various wooden structures arranged in a horseshoe shape. Once parked between a pick-up truck and a vintage Citroen, the couple exited, leaving their driver standing at thoughtless attention beside the hearse.
The largest structure stood the closest, its weathered but clean sign read: Mess Hall.
The screen door opened with an unoiled screech before they reached the porch. A head of red curls Morticia recognized from gala planning meetings at Nevermore appeared, Isadora’s tight smile followed soon after. Her greeting was polite, if curt, as she held open the door to invite them into the dining building. Inside was spartan, yet clean–though Morticia thought it could do with a few more cobwebs for ambiance.
From the kitchen, a statuesque woman clad in hunting gear, minus the reflective vest, appeared. A kettle grasped firmly in one hand while a number of kitschy mugs hung from the fingers of her other. Her long-legged gate reminded Morticia of the maned wolves she and Gomez often observed during their trips to South America.
"Janelle Williams," the woman introduced herself as she poured water over the tea bags already allocated to each of the mugs.
"Morticia Addams. Many thanks, Janelle," Morticia replied, selecting one of the steaming mugs.
The cup she selected featured a delightful design of a humorously cranky black cat holding a mug of his own that read “coffee because murder is wrong”. It was nice to feel the ceramic heat her fingers to near blistering even if she doubted she'd actually imbibe in the steeped leaves. Even other Outcasts rarely stocked her preferred sweetener: arsenic.
Silence settled over the group as Isadora folded and unfolded her hands on the table between them.
"How familiar are you with mating bonds?" she finally managed to eke out.
An entire conversation passed between Morticia and Gomez in a single puckish glance.
It was Gomez who spoke for the both of them, "Hyde mating bonds? Regrettably, as far as we know, Francoise is the only hyde my wife or I have ever been acquainted with and we were unaware of her classification until after the whole unfortunate business with that Gates woman."
Dark cherry spirals bobbed as Isadora took in their answer, unsurprised. "My father was a hyde. He and my mother," she looked away, blinking furiously.
Janelle's warm brown fingers wrapped around Isadora's wrist with a fortifying squeeze. Isadora gave the older woman an appreciative smile.
"They were the only bond I've ever experienced. It's extremely rare," she explained. "It's sort of like," she looked towards the beamed ceiling hunting for a sufficient explanation.
"Others might equate it to the concept of soulmates," Janelle broke in calmly, her gaze steady.
Gomez's palm enveloped Morticia's thigh through the velvet of her gown. "We may not be familiar with hyde bonds, but soulmates are intimately familiar with the Addamses," he said.
"And the Frumps," Morticia added, her thumb gently caressing Gomez's knuckles.
"It can be quite destabilizing," Isadora interjected, "for both parties. Imagine two people unable to be separated for a few hours without feeling as if a part of themselves is missing. It can—it has," she corrected emphatically, "lead to psychosis."
Morticia’s lips pursed incredulously. "We'd expect nothing less of a partner—mate or not—for our Wednesday."
Capri gapped, clearly taken aback by the Addamses’ seemingly serene acceptance of their daughter’s circumstances. Janelle, on the other hand, took a sip of her tea to cover a small smile, eyes flicking knowingly from Morticia and Gomez.
"As thrilled as we are to find you are more open-minded than most," Janelle said after swallowing her drink, "we should be clear. Tyler and your daughter are young. Their bond is just forming. If they were to go their separate ways now, there may be no adverse reaction for either."
"They are older than Tish and I were when we fell in love," Gomez’s ardent gaze burned into Morticia's profile as he spoke.
"And I, for one, will support the pair in whatever they choose to do," Janelle said and Morticia felt nothing but sincerity from the woman. "But it should be a choice."
"Once again, we find ourselves aligned," Morticia smiled kindly at Janelle. "Am I to assume that this mating bond is similar to blood bonds in their crystallization?"
Recognition flickered on Capri's face and she looked at the macabre couple before her with fresh eyes. Her nose twitched reflexively, as if the curiosity of her werewolf couldn't suppress attempting to sniff out whatever lay between them. But their shared magic was more subtle. There would be no pheromonal signature for her keen senses to glean and analyze.
Janelle nodded. "Yes, the relationship must be consummated for the bond to be completed."
"Well, querida mia, I suppose it's time for us to revisit 'the talk' with our eldest progeny," Gomez grinned.
***
Morticia sensed the moment Wednesday detected their presence.
Enid led their daughter by the arm between a pair of cabins on the north edge of the residential area. A picnic basket treaded over her other, swinging gently as she chattered ceaselessly. Though her hair was duller than Morticia had seen, her face was flushed and full of life. Wednesday, by contrast, trudged along. A spectre-like pallor to her skin and appearing as lively as one to those who may not know her–or ghosts–well. But Morticia knew her daughter and the distinct lack of tension in Wednesday's shoulders spoke to how relieved she was to have her roommate back.
That tension re-coiled between her scapulae a heartbeat before Wednesday froze, head swiveling to the Mess Hall. As if her bright pink sweater had snagged on a door handle, Enid jerked back. The blonde's brow furrowed as she followed the raven's gaze, azure eyes widening at the sight of Morticia and Gomez standing on the porch. Wednesday shook free of Enid's grip and stomped toward the mess hall.
"I thought I informed you both that I was more than capable of handling this on my own," she snapped, the chill in her eyes enough to freeze hell.
The door to the cabin furthest from the rest slammed open, a tall, mop-topped boy filling the doorway. Tyler's face went a charming shade of grey-green at the sight of his potential mate's parents. Morticia could almost hear the expletives running through his mind as his hands braced the doorframe so hard the wood groaned. The corners of her lips twitched. Had he been listening for her return? Or could he already feel the shift in her emotions through their tenuous bond?
"It's dreadful to see you, too, Wednesday," she responded placidly. "We need to talk. "
Morticia spun gracefully, the ink-spill train on her gown following. Gomez, of course, waited for their daughter at the top of the steps, a stream of affectionate diminutives pouring from his lips in greeting. Wednesday paused just long enough for Gomez to crush her to his chest. A grimace twisted her already irate face into an especially petulant scowl, but she accepted the hug dutifully.
Morticia tried to ease the envy that threatened to sink its poison-slicked claws into her heart. Cognitively, she understood that teenage years were difficult for most mothers and daughters. Her fear, however, lay with the fact that her relationship with her own mother remained fraught despite being well beyond her teens years herself. Again, Morticia staunchly refused to allow such a chasm to be created between her and Wednesday.
Once Wednesday passed through the mess hall doors, Gomez called out, "You may join us, my boy."
The sole of Wednesday’s boot squealed against the plank floorboard at the offer, but her face remained carefully blank while she lowered on the bench opposite her mother. Obsidian eyes cut to where Isadora stood near the kitchen.
"This will not be forgotten," she promised vengefully.
Capri's lips pursed, but the woman chose to keep her retort to herself. During their earlier discussion, they determined that Isadora would be on hand to answer any technical questions that might arise—well, the non-sexual ones. Wednesday’s commentary of her upbringing indicated that living with her parents had been more than enough of an education on the mechanics of sex. Morticia had no frame of reference; her own mother had been bitterly alone for as long as she could remember.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion, Mother?" Wednesday asked sharply once Gomez settled beside his wife on their bench.
Instead of answering, Morticia addressed the boy hovering in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over his vital organs. "Would you like to sit, Tyler?"
"Uh, I think I'm good over here," he grumbled in a way that made the statement almost sound like a question.
Morticia returned her attention to her daughter and took a bolstering breath. It had been decided to approach this like ripping off a bandage—or dropping a guillotine.
"You are on the verge of creating a mating bond with Francoise's boy."
Tyler visibly flinched at the sound of his mother's name. Wednesday, however, did not so much as blink. After a bloated moment, her eyes slid from Morticia to her father, as if expecting him to begin laughing and declaring the whole thing part of a mediocre prank.
"Your mother speaks the truth, hija."
That made her blink. Yet still Wednesday did not speak.
Her sooty eyes drifted back to Capri who repeated the answer to the unspoken question with a single, solemn nod. Jaw tensing, Wednesday hesitated before slowly rotating to look at Tyler over her shoulder. Morticia could no longer observe her face from the new angle, but she could see how the boy's brow crumpled, mouth grimacing. An almost apologetic plea filled his hazel eyes. The pale column of her daughter's throat rippled with an audible gulp before she unwound to face her parents once more.
"Explain," she demanded through her teeth.
Morticia obliged. "Apparently, there is a rare mating bond that can occur between a hyde and their chosen. Our understanding is that it's similar to a blood binding."
"A blood binding," Wednesday repeated, eyes oscillating wildly between her parents, understanding dawning. "Marriage," she all but whispered, something proximate to fear trembling in her usually self-assured voice.
Despite the near silent word, Tyler straightened as if he'd gripped a live wire. He looked to Isadora, desperation welling beneath his obvious panic. Whether he'd been dismayed by the prospect itself or by Wednesday's reaction to it, Morticia couldn't quite parse.
"Of sorts," Morticia confirmed dispassionately, recognizing just how precarious this conversation was becoming.
"But only if it's consummated," her dark raven stated flatly, though everyone in the hall knew it was a question.
There was no shame or discomfort when Gomez responded, "Yes, the bond will remain incomplete unless you and Tyler have sex."
"Penetrative sex," Wednesday clarified.
From the way Tyler's grey cheeks rapidly bled into a fluorescent pink rivaling Enid's sweater, Morticia was willing to bet every plant in her prized conservatory that her daughter had already engaged in non-penetrative acts with the boy. Isadora had been right to call them when she did. Wednesday needed to know what she may be risking.
Which is why Morticia looked at Tyler while she said to Wednesday, "Your father and I will support whatever you decide. Though you know where our opinions lie on the matter."
Tyler's shoulders crept closer to his ears, arms hugging his torso even tighter as if to comfort himself–or perhaps strengthen the shield over his more vulnerable organs.
"Was I not clear when I said I will never be you, Mother? I will never fall in love, or be a housewife, or have a family."
There was a moment, before his face went vacant, where Tyler looked as if Wednesday had kicked him with her steel-toed boot.
"And I thought we raised you to be intelligent," Morticia drawled with the precision of a mortician’s scalpel. "However, if you are incapable of adjusting your position when presented with new information, new experiences, then I suppose we have failed."
The muscles in Wednesday's jaw that only seemed to tighten when she argued with her mother spasmed wildly.
"What your mother means," Gomez reasserted himself as the peacemaker, hand tracing soothing circles at his wife’s side as he spoke to their daughter tenderly, "is that we hope you will approach this decision with the same singular focus as you approach a cadaver. Investigate it. Inspect it. Dissect it."
Silence smothered the room so completely, each heartbeat could be picked apart. The one across from Morticia fluttered like a trapped bird who, rather than seek an alternative exit, threw itself violently against the window ceaselessly.
Without a word, Wednesday stood and retreated through the back door so she wouldn't have to pass the hyde lurking in the front. Tyler's bronze curls flopped forward as his chin hit his chest.
Morticia checked in with Isadora wordlessly. The werewolf’s frown deepened, but her head bobbed with consent. Rising from the bench, Morticia floated toward the dejected teen.
His head snapped up when he realized she was aiming for him rather than the door. If Wednesday’s eyes could freeze hell, Tyler’s would surely set the heavens ablaze. Jaw tightening, his defiant gaze dropped to the hands she held joined at her navel.
He’s bracing himself for attack, she realized with a wave of maternal fury.
There were many things for which Tyler Galpin deserved her fury, even her violence, but Morticia still felt sick at the obvious expectation of a physical blow.
Each second that she didn’t strike only served to nettle the hyde further until he taunted, "You should keep her away from me."
The warning was probably meant to sound threatening, but to her ears it rang brittle and scared.
When Morticia originally warned Wednesday off from Tyler Galpin, she had not believed her daughter's interest in the hyde to be sincere. She'd been sure her headstrong storm cloud was focused on one thing and one thing only: controlling what should not be controlled. Today put a heavy question mark over her former certainty.
The soft smile she gave him was tinged with pity. "I already advised her not to court you, Tyler. That only resulted in her nearly binding herself to you in an entirely different manner. No, if my daughter chooses the bond—chooses you," she amended, "there will be no force, magic or mortal, that will be capable of keeping her from what she wants."
A visible lump traveled down his throat with his next swallow. The boy’s youth became painfully evident in the way he rubbed at the back of his neck, unable to meet her eyes any longer.
"I tried to kill her," he murmured. "Almost succeeded."
Of that, Morticia was excruciatingly aware.
For every single one of the fourteen days Wednesday spent suspended in the veil between life and death, Morticia had sat by her daughter’s bedside. Her fingers skimmed the frigid digits lying limp in her corpse-like repose, hoping against hope that her little death trap might wrap a hand around Morticia’s forefinger as she had as a delightfully stoic infant. By the second week, she’d begun to long even for the flinch away from her touch that had become all too common in recent years. She'd read until her voice became hoarse, all from Wednesday's favorite stories. Macbeth. Mary Shelley. The Salem Witch Trial transcripts. And whenever Wednesday’s little red-headed stalker was unable to slink away from campus, Morticia took on the task of rebraiding her daughter's hair. Careful to part with a precision as not to disturb the staples holding her skull together–it was heartachingly fragile for being so thick.
When she finally spoke, it was with a lethal calm, "That you did. And while I am willing to let bygones be for the sake of my daughter's cold, black heart, let me be clear as crystal. If you harm her or my son again, even in spirit, I will not kill you, but you shall wish I had. My dear plants consider fresh meat a treat–one I could harvest indefinitely, horrifically, with pleasure. Am I understood?"
The boy's upper lip twitched into a sneer, the instinctual reaction of a predator baring his teeth at a credible threat. Morticia didn't flinch–she would never ask an Outcast to deny their nature. When it became clear she wouldn’t be backing down, Tyler’s shoulders curved inwardly and he nodded solemnly.
"Good," she hummed.“In that case, please know, you are welcome in our home, Tyler Galpin."
Three long blinks of those calculating hazel eyes passed before he looked over Morticia’s shoulder to find Isadora.
“Are we done here?” He asked flatly.
“For now,” Capri released him. “I’ll let your team know you’re skipping kitchen duties this evening.”
Tyler returned his attention to Morticia, lifting a brow sardonically. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some forest creatures to terrorize.”
The dry droll made her lips twitch to fight back a grin. She took a step back to allow him to freely move past. Gomez, who’d stood at her back in unflappable support throughout the exchange, snaked an arm around her waist.
The boy was halfway to the woods, already tugging off his outer layers so as not to shred them with his transformation, when Gomez said, “I like him.”
Morticia’s eyes rolled good-naturedly. “Of course you do. You’ve always had a soft-spot for the vicious and the damned.”
Her husband pressed up on his toes to reach her temple, his lips trailing kisses down her jawline, nipping lightly. “That I do,” he purred against her skin.
As she and Gomez lustily tripped over one another on their way back to the relative privacy of the hearse, Morticia found herself hoping against hope once more. This time that Wednesday would realize that she was her father’s daughter.