Archive of Our Own

Heavy curtains smothered the morning light, allowing only a narrow shaft to seep into the spacious bedroom. The silence that enveloped the house in the early hours felt almost sacred. Peace like this had become a luxury over the last few years of Wednesday Addams’ life.

Then again... perhaps the past sixteen, to be exact.

Her wife's warm arms held her close, shielding her from the cool air drifting through the wide-open window. Lately, waking at her usual hour had become far more difficult. Whether it was the comfort of sleeping in the arms of the woman she loved under their own unhallowed roof or the exhaustion that came with the full-time job she'd willingly accepted four years ago, she couldn't say.

As her body reluctantly drifted toward consciousness, she instinctively tucked what Enid teasingly referred to as her dinosaur arms beneath her chin, hoping to steal a few more precious moments of quietness. 

A faint rustling came from behind the ajar door. 

A heartbeat later, it creaked open, and one of her job's many responsibilities quietly stepped inside.

Wednesday didn't react, waiting for the inevitable.

She heard tiny feet shuffling across the floor and felt a pair of sleepy— yet most likely excited —brown eyes fixed on her. Listening to the congested little sniffles, she counted down the seconds.

It didn't take long.

“Mamá?”

At last, a hoarse, slightly squeaky voice called out, carefully forced into a whisper, in a determined effort not to scare anyone.

With a slow inhale, blinking away the last traces of sleep, Wednesday finally turned her full attention to the small visitor standing obediently just beside the bed.

“Have you been awake long?”

The girl shook her head.

“My nose hurt, I couldn’t sleep.” She frowned. “The big hand was twelve and the little hand was six, when I woke up. And I fed Mr. Kitty Junior, and washed his face, and helped him brush his teeth. And wanted to see you.” 

Carefully slipping free from the manicured claws holding her, Wednesday sat up and moved to the edge of the large bed. She gently tapped the girl’s nose, still red from all the wiping.

“I’m glad to know you’re so committed to your dependents’ routine,” Wednesday said in an even voice, “but I would still suggest that washing and teeth brushing should come before feeding.” Her gaze briefly flicked toward the still-sleeping Enid before she took her daughter’s hand and led her out of the bedroom.

“Why so?” the girl asked, quickening her pace to keep up as she hopped on one foot.

“Because,” their first stop was one of the doors along the hallway. She eased it open just enough to peek inside, a faint sense of contentment settling over her at the sight of the little bundle resting soundly beneath the green covers. “one shouldn't eat before brushing their teeth.” 

For now, it was only the two of them, then.

“Why shouldn't?”

“Because the bacteria that build up in your mouth while you sleep feed on whatever you eat.”

They entered the bright bathroom, a place that had clearly been surrendered to its youngest occupants.

Children's toothpaste on the counter, a headless plastic soldier perched on the edge of the bathtub, soft towels hung neatly near the two small robes, and a purple rubber duck with a black marker scar beside one eye sat faithfully next to the soap tray. 

“And so what?”

With the ease of long habit, Wednesday slid the children's step stool over to the sink.

“And so brushing first removes most of the bacteria before breakfast. It also coats your teeth with fluoride, making them less vulnerable to the acids in your food.” Wednesday reached for the purple toothbrush, while her daughter climbed onto the stool. 

“You mean, I hurt Kitty's Junior teeth?” She said, accepting the toothbrush prepared for her and starting to work with earnest determination, leaving streaks of foam across her lips and chin.

“I think he'll survive that one time, Ophelia.” 

That seemed to satisfy her. Wednesday patiently watched her for a minute, letting her brush on her own before taking over to finish properly.

“Abre.”

Ophelia complied without protest, stretching her mouth wide enough to receive an approving nod.

Wednesday guided the brush carefully, paying attention to every tooth despite the impatient wiggles that accompanied the process.

“Top ones..."

Ophelia obediently tilted her chin.

"...and the bottom."

A muffled hum served as acknowledgement.

"There." Wednesday handed her a cup. "Rinse.”

Ophelia took an exaggerated mouthful of water, puffing out her cheeks before spitting into the sink. 

“A skincare now!”

Wednesday reached for the small washcloth hanging beside and ran it beneath cool water before wringing it out. 

“No rubbing.” Ophelia reminded her solemnly.

“I remember.”

Ophelia closed her eyes as she gently cleansed her face, careful around the little— irritated from endless tissues —nose.

“You've been blowing your nose too hard.”

“It keeps making more.” She mumbled defensively.

“Finish by yourself.” Wednesday instructed, opening the cabinet and retrieving a small amber bottle. 

Awkwardly scooping water into her cupped hands, Ophelia splashed it over her face and swept the last traces of sleep from her eyes before reaching blindly for a towel.

Wednesday unscrewed the bottle and tipped a measured amount of homemade remedy into the needleless syringe.

“Head back.”

“Oh, is it the sour thing?” Curiosity flickered across Ophelia's face as she looked at the syringe, though she tilted her head back without being asked twice.

“Yes.” Wednesday rested two fingers lightly against the back of her daughter's head to keep it steady. “Breath through your mouth.”

The first stream disappeared into one nostril. Ophelia wrinkled a bit but didn't even think of complaining, sniffing before it had a chance to trickle back out. Then, the procedure was repeated on the other side and she deeply inhaled again.

“Good.” Wednesday concluded, disposing of the syringe. 

Ophelia tested the result immediately, breathing almost freely. A pleased smile spread across her face.

“Mamá? Can I have a mwah?” She looked up, her short dark hair still wild from sleep, with a few damp strands stuck to her cheeks.

The term "mwah" was a ridiculous Enid-ism — a fluffy, childish twist on a gentle gesture. 

Wednesday knew she could never deny such a request. Especially not when Ophelia’s still a bit round, baby-faced expression was turned up at her with such clear expectation. That look alone was enough to dismantle years of carefully constructed emotional defenses—just as Enid’s had once done. Perhaps she had simply become a weak woman by that point.

Without a word, Wednesday leaned down. She pressed a slight kiss to her daughter's forehead, another to the bridge of her nose, and a third to her cheek. Her final kiss lingered at the crown of Ophelia's head as she closed her eyes for the briefest moment, drawing in the comforting scent of her child. 

“All better?” She asked, straightening.

The little girl was practically bouncing in place, her smile so wide it seemed to light up her entire face. 

“All better! Can I give you a mwah, too?”

Wednesday considered refusing, much as she didn't feel like being touched in the morning, but after all…

A weak woman, that is.

“You may have one.” She inclined her head.

Balancing precariously on the edge of the stool, Ophelia reached upward, both tiny hands cupping Wednesday's face with complete seriousness. 

"I can do one!”

She planted an exaggeratedly loud kiss against her cheek.

“Mwah! Now you won't get sick.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow.

"I wasn't aware immunity could be transferred through kisses."

"It can." The girl nodded with absolute conviction. “Mommy said all the kisses are magical.”

“Did she?” Wednesday asked in a matter-of-fact tone, offering her hand as she hopped down from the step stool.

"When I'm sad, she gives me a lot of mwahs. Then I feel better.” She explained, being carefully guided up the corridor. “Means it works.”

“Emotional comfort is not related to magic.”

“Mommy's kisses are.” Ophelia replied without hesitation.

Well, there was no arguing with that.

They entered a room whose door was plastered with countless stickers, all serving as an unmistakable declaration that the room belonged to its owner.

Stuffed animals sat in neat rows, each in its proper place. Picture books lined the bottom shelf, and a wooden tray held smooth stones, feathers, bottle caps, and oddly shaped buttons, all thoughtfully sorted. 

Near the window, beneath a hanging mobile of carefully folded paper bats and stars, stood a small bed where Mr. Kitty Junior— a plush lion —now sat upright against the pillow, freshly ‘washed’ and wearing a tiny bib.

Ophelia released Wednesday’s hand and padded straight to the bed, climbing onto it.

“I want a purple dress with stars.” She folded her arms with unmistakable authority.

“No.”

Ophelia blinked.

“…No?”

"That dress is far too light for September. Besides, your mother will have both of our heads if you come down with another fever.” Wednesday crossed to the wardrobe before Ophelia had the chance to begin negotiating. Years of experience had taught her that hesitation was interpreted as a chance to use the infamous puppy eyes. And win, eventually. 

Her hand settled on a violet long-sleeve, a pair of black sweatpants and some seamless socks with purple flowers on it.

She laid the clothes neatly across the bed.

“Agreed?”

Ophelia looked from the outfit to the wardrobe, then back again, visibly weighing the odds of success.

“…Can I wear the stars tomorrow?”

“If tomorrow's weather permits.”

The answer was neither a victory nor a defeat, but one glance at her mother's face told Ophelia there would be no changing her mind.

Then again, she could at least try…

“What if I say 'please'?”

“You're welcome to be polite, but my answer won't change.”

Ophelia's lower lip immediately pushed forward.

"But I want the stars."

"And I want you to be healthy." Wednesday replied, having already anticipated what was coming.

"But I'm healthy, Mamá!” She insisted, puffing out her small chest in a display of defiance, that would have made any Addams proud. 

Wednesday, though, remained unimpressed.

“You're recovering.”

Ophelia folded her arms tighter, glaring at the offending long-sleeve as though it had personally insulted her.

"I don't like that one."

"You did yesterday."

"I don't today.”

Wednesday regarded her daughter with the same unflinching stare she reserved for interrogation subjects. It was considerably less effective on small children who shared her DNA and all of Enid’s dramatic flair.

“Very well,” she said, voice cool and measured. “Then you may choose between this or the sweatshirt with a cat. Both are warm. Choose quickly, or I will choose for you and la conversación se acabará.”

Ophelia’s glare faltered. With a sigh that was far too world-weary for a four-year-old, she slumped her shoulders.

"Fine," she mumbled and pointed a stubby finger at the violet shirt. “But I’m not happy.”

“With that, we can work.” Wednesday stated.

Ophelia started with the pajama top, grabbing the hem and yanking it upward. The fabric caught briefly on her head and one ear before she wriggled free with a muffled grunt, dark hair fluffing up wildly in every direction. She tossed the shirt aside with more force than necessary. Wednesday said nothing, merely arching an eyebrow as Ophelia giggled, clearly amused. 

Next, she tackled the pajama bottoms, rocking from side to side on the edge of the bed until they finally slipped off.

"Do bacteria sleep?”

“No,” Wednesday replied without looking up, folding the discarded sleepwear. “They do not sleep in the way you do.”

Ophelia paused mid-motion, one foot already halfway into the chosen pants.

“…So they’re always awake?”

“Correct.”

“Unfair.” Ophelia finally shoved her second leg into the sweatpants and stood up to pull them the rest of the way. 

“If you say so.” Wednesday exhaled through her nose as her daughter was trying to wrestle the violet long-sleeve over her head. 

“Mamá?” She called, flustered.

Wednesday stepped forward and tugged the shirt down in one smooth motion. Ophelia squinted, a strand of hair fell into her eye.

“…I almost had it.”

“I’m sure you did, mija.” 

“Why do I have to wear socks?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as Wednesday reached for a pair from the bed.

“Because the floors are cold.” Wednesday explained simply, kneeling to slide them onto her little feet. Ophelia huffed, clearly unconvinced, but made no further protest. “No itching?” She checked, gently tickling covered fingers, earning a small squeal in response.

“No itching.” Ophelia hopped off the bed and spun in a slow circle.

Wednesday observed her for a second, calm and unblinking. Time had not softened her— she refused to allow that —but it had expanded her. 

She went to work, where dismembered bodies were her best companions and bloodthirsty psychopaths were her daily pursuit — and she was more than satisfied with how her career had turned out. 

However, starting the day without those slow mornings, with their rituals and small victories, left an unsettling emptiness in her chest. Even despite four sleepless nights in a row last week spent fighting a fever that refused to leave her child, and the constant worry of keeping the other from falling ill as well.

She sighed quietly. 

“Come,” she said at last, heading to the door. “We have to find Thing.”

“Mamá, wait!” Ophelia snatched up the lion and hurried over, raising her hands in a familiar gesture. “Please?”

Without a word, Wednesday crouched and scooped her up at once, settling the girl securely on her hip. She never refused this kind of affection and was fully aware her children were exploiting her weakness to its fullest extent. 

“Gracias, Mamá.” Ophelia immediately looped one arm around her neck, resting her chin on Wednesday’s shoulder while Mr. Kitty Junior’s mane tickled her throat. 

Holding her children close was the one thing she allowed herself to do without any hesitation. Looking back, she couldn’t help but admire her mother’s remarkable restraint at the moment when she, more than twenty years ago, had essentially barred everyone from approaching her. It felt like a bond only she and Enid could understand—a subtle, tender comfort that brought warmth to the heart and reinforced the knowledge that these small people relied on them completely, without questioning a thing. And the thought of letting them down was more dreadful than any fight with the most fierce monsters or just things that should not exist.

“You needn’t thank me.” Wednesday murmured, as she adjusted her grip.

They continued downstairs like that, Ophelia’s legs swinging carelessly with each step, until they stepped into the living room.

“Maybe he's in his house?”

“Maybe he is.”

The early light filtered through the large glass door leading to the yard and the round spiderweb window across the room, its two symmetrical halves contrasting colored panes with clear ones, casting long shadows over the dark wood floors and scattering faint patches of colored light.

In the far corner, reserved exclusively for Thing, stood his own— not so small —house.

“Get up, Thing.” Despite the sharp words, Wednesday stopped a respectful distance away. 

Ophelia leaned forward on her hip.

“Thing? Do you sleep?”

A series of rapid knocks answered from inside. The tiny front door creaked open, and Thing emerged, waving cheerfully before tapping out a quick greeting on the carpet.

“He says good morning.” Ophelia translated seriously, though Wednesday suspected the hand’s actual message had been more along the lines of mild complaint about being summoned so early.

“Keep her company for a while.” she said, the familiar undertone not lost on him, as she placed the child on the sofa.

“Are you going to brush your teeth?” 

The slight tilt of her head made Wednesday’s lips twitch.

“Yes. For now, tell him about your nightmares, mija.”

Thing scuttled up the cushion and tapped out a cheerful rhythm on Ophelia’s knee, earning a giggle. 

Trusting him to look after her daughter, Wednesday turned and made her way back upstairs to the master bedroom.

The bedroom remained wrapped in the same thick peaceful fog she had left. 

Enid hadn't moved.

She was still sprawled diagonally across the bed, one arm occupying Wednesday's side, paired with a leg that usually trapped her more effectively than any rope ever could. Golden hair fanned across the pillow in complete disarray, the bright pink streaks contrasted with the dark bedding. Wednesday absently noted that Enid's roots had begun to fade back to their natural light brown color. Enid would probably be refreshing them again soon.

She stepped inside without a sound and closed the door behind her.

As expected, Enid stirred the very second the latch clicked.

"...Mm?"

One charming eye blinked open.

"Wednesday?"

"You may return to sleep.”

“What time is it?” Enid frowned blearily.

“Ten to seven.”

She made a face and burrowed under the blanket, making it perfectly clear that those words had not met with her approval.

"...That's illegal."

"It is, unfortunately, the same hour every weekend."

A sleepy groan escaped her wife as she kicked her feet petulantly. 

"I was having the nicest dream..."

"What was it about?"

"You."

Wednesday paused beside the closet. She would never comprehend how Enid managed to catch her so completely off guard with words so deceptively simple.

“Go back to sleep, querida.”

“You're so cute.” She grinned. “No offense.”

“None taken. Don't push it further.”

Enid let out a soft, breathy laugh that dissolved into a yawn.

“Give me just one more hour.”

Wednesday pulled the sweatshirt on and moved across the bed, sitting down beside her.

“I will do everything that is within my power, mi vida.” She said softly, lazily scratching Enid's scalp, her fingers weaving through the colored strands. Enid made a small, contented sound at the contact, already half slipping back into sleep under Wednesday’s touch.

Wednesday remained there longer than she had intended, watching the steady rise and fall of her wife’s chest, before finally getting up and continuing the morning.

She picked up her comb, a silk ribbon, and retreated to the bathroom.

Wednesday descended the stairs once more. Any evidence of her earlier awakening had been erased. The soft pajamas had been exchanged for more convenient clothes, while her hair was now neatly brushed and gathered into a single, tight braid. Once two tiny creatures had discovered that her long hair was excellent for tugging on— and, inexplicably, chewing —the practicality of her signature twin braids had come to an unceremonious end. 

As she reached the bottom, the living room came into view. Ophelia sat cross-legged on the sofa, Mr. Kitty Junior balanced precariously in her lap, while Thing perched on the armrest like a vigilant sentinel

It had, naturally, been entirely his own decision to make their territory his permanent residence once again. His official mission had ended the day Wednesday and Enid graduated and left the academy. After returning home, he spent the following years wandering wherever he pleased — keeping Pugsley company at school, dropping in on the girls for weeks at a time during university, and generally doing whatever appealed to his disembodied soulless existence.

However, four years ago, when Pubert was marking his sweet sixteen within the confines of the infamous academy and the family learned that the colorful blessing of the house, in the face of Enid Addams, was about to introduce two new troubles into the world, Thing decided he had already endured his full allowance of teenage drama—at least for now. 

And perhaps he wished to play an indispensable role in the lives of the first leeches of his own ones.

“—the shadow had too many teeth,” Ophelia explained, leaning forward. “But I remembered what you said, Thing. I stomped really hard. Like this.” She demonstrated by kicking her socked feet against the air. 

Wednesday couldn't help thinking she'd already witnessed that very gesture sometime that morning.

He held all five fingers aloft in theatrical surrender before throwing himself onto the carpet the very moment Ophelia spotted Wednesday.

“Thing fallen!”

“Thing has fallen,” Wednesday corrected, though her attention was already on the hand sprawled across the carpet. 

Ophelia leaned over the edge of the sofa, eyes sparkling with a mix of concern and barely contained delight.

“Is he dead, Mamá?”

“Not yet. Although, he frequently shows how he wishes that to happen.” 

Thing immediately tapped out a furious response, while Ophelia squinted and slowly tried to read along his speech.

“Mamá…” she hesitated, then blinked. “Mean.”

Wednesday fought an urge to roll her eyes and kicked him slightly. 

“Don't call me that.” She muttered to him and began her way to the kitchen. “You know it's weird.”

Apparently losing all interest in Thing’s theatrical demise as soon as she spotted her Mamá, Ophelia slid down from the sofa and trotted after her, plush lion not leaving her arms.

Thing, never one to be ignored for long, scuttled after them both and claimed his usual spot on the kitchen counter the moment Wednesday crossed the threshold.

“Oatmeal.” Wednesday declared, mostly just confirming — she could guess Ophelia’s food preferences remained unchanged since the previous morning. “With blueberries. And grandmother's herbs to finish clearing that nose of yours.”

Ophelia nodded enthusiastically, setting Mr. Kitty Junior on the table. 

Following the familiar rhythm of her routine, Wednesday navigated the kitchen, glancing over at her daughter in between tasks.

“Can I help?”

“You may observe.” Wednesday replied, stirring the oatmeal, now almost ready. Ophelia stood on her tiptoes beside the counter, eyes tracking everything with curiosity, but the activity soon lost its appeal for her. 

“I want blueberries.” She asked, patiently holding out her hand while her mother took a few berries from the bowl and gave them to her one by one. “Gracias.” She popped two blueberries into her mouth and chewed them noisily. “Can we call grandpa?”

After carefully filling the little bowl with the purple caterpillar, Wednesday scattered the last of the blueberries on it.

“You're finishing the breakfast first.” 

After retrieving a spoon from the drawer, she carried the breakfast to the table and set it down in front of Ophelia's usual place. While she climbed onto her chair and wrapped little fingers around the warm bowl, Wednesday returned to the counter.

“Eat slowly,” Retrieving the mug she had been looking for from the cupboard, Wednesday filled it with water and dropped in a slice of lemon. “And both hands around the mug," She reminded, placing the drink on the table as well.

Ophelia nodded solemnly, already blowing on a spoonful of her favorite breakfast. 

Listening to the sounds of her daughter eating, Wednesday spent a moment searching through the drawer for something, then abruptly caught herself and turned her attention to Thing. 

“Could you bring me the pills from the office? I left them there by mistake yesterday.”

Thing gave a quick affirmative tap and scuttled off the counter, disappearing toward the hallway.

Wednesday returned to work, pulling out the waffle maker. She mixed a fresh batter, adding a touch of vanilla and cinnamon for Enid’s portion while keeping her own slightly more austere.

While she was busy with waffles, Thing came back and placed the small bottle of medicine near her, receiving a nod.

Gradually, the scent of baked treats began to fill the kitchen.

“Smells nice!” Ophelia watched from her chair, spoon scraping the bottom of her nearly empty bowl.

“High praise.”

Ophelia smiled, looking back at what was left of her food.

“I'm done.”

Fully aware of the situation’s magnitude, Wednesday wet a napkin lightly under the tap and sat down beside her. She wiped Ophelia’s cheeks and chin gently, brushing away any remaining evidence of food from her shirt as well. 

“Now,” Wednesday said, inspecting her work with a critical eye. “Go terrorize Thing while I finish breakfast for your mother. And don't wake her up.” 

“Mwah first.” Ophelia batted her eyes slyly. 

Perhaps you can manipulate a manipulator. 

“You are learning far too quickly.” She leaned down anyway, leaving a light kiss on the very tip of the little nose. 

Letting out a victorious shout, she jumped off the chair and hurried upstairs, pausing for a moment as she waited for Thing.

“Eres mi maldición y mi bendición.” A quiet breath of relief escaped Wednesday as she removed the last waffle and switched off the waffle maker. She would never acknowledge it to anyone except Enid, but breathing came easier when this small creature wasn’t lying in their bed, whining through ongoing feverish symptoms. 

She took the pills from the counter and swallowed one, starting to make a coffee using the next ten minutes she had to herself.

Even though Enid had put significant effort into ensuring the house was free from toxic, aggressive dyes, they were planning to go out for a walk today, and she preferred not to take unnecessary risks to strain her wife’s nerves.

Wednesday carried her coffee back to the dining table and briefly stopped when she saw the mess that had been left behind. 

She exhaled softly through her nose.

As she set her mug down and picked up a cloth from the sink, Wednesday returned the loose blueberries to their bowl and wiped away the small smears of berry juice. It didn't take long for the table to look spotless, like nothing had even happened. 

Satisfied, she finally picked up her coffee again.

Muffed footsteps followed by Ophelia’s distant laughter as she apparently resumed whatever form of chaos she and the disembodied hand had agreed upon for this morning.

Wednesday took a slow sip, giving herself a few minutes to collect some thoughts. 

Ophelia padded along the corridor with the careful seriousness of someone on a mission she absolutely was not supposed to be on. Thing kept pace beside her, scuttling over the polished floorboards, pausing every so often as if to check whether she was still committed to the plan.

She was.

The door near her own sat slightly open. She gave Thing a “we’re in this together” look, and he knew, without question, that he was doomed. 

“Shhh,” she whispered exaggeratingly, pressing a finger to her lips as if Thing might suddenly become loud, and tiptoed forward.

The room was darker than the hallway, with the curtains drawn almost completely closed. 

Her twin brother was curled on his side, one arm flung over his head, the other gripping a blanket.

Ophelia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. She crept closer and stopped at the edge of the bed, peering at him, then climbed onto the foot of the bed like an excited puppy. The mattress dipped under her knees. Emboldened, she crawled forward on all fours until hovered directly over him, her shadow falling across his peaceful face.

“Corvi,” She tried his name, watching for any sign of response. “Corvi, wake up.”

Nothing.

She poked his cheek with one finger. Then again. 

Still nothing.

Ophelia frowned, considering her options. 

She briefly entertained the idea of dropping the plush lion on his head, but that felt too simple. Instead, she leaned down until her nose almost touched his ear.

“Corvi Addams,’ she hissed in her best imitation of Mamá’s strict voice that Mommy called her ‘Intergation’ one. “The bacteria are coming. They’re awake.”

Corvin's eyelids fluttered.

She scooted even closer, balancing precariously, and used both hands to gently pry one of his eyes open.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. I brushed my teeth already. And fed Kitty. And did nose to open. Mamá says you have to get up now or you won't play with her arrows.”

He blinked slowly, confused brown eyes focusing on his sister’s smug face. For a moment he looked like he might cry or go back to sleep. 

“Ophelia?” Corvin mumbled, voice thick.

“Shhh!” She clapped a hand over his mouth. “We have a mission!”

Corvin stared at her for another sleepy second, then slowly processed the words. His eyes lit up with that same playful look they both shared. He gave a small nod against her palm.

Ophelia removed her hand with great ceremony and sat back on her heels.

“Mamá's busy making waffles for Mommy. She thinks I'm playing with Thing and your mousetrap. We can go to the music room before they know.”

Thing knocked, drawing their attention. 

He meaningfully pointed at himself. 

Then in the hallway.

Then at the twins.

Finally, he made an exaggerated slicing motion. 

Ophelia ignored him.

“We'll play the piano. Or a big cello!” Corvin's grin went wild.

The cello was strictly a "look-don't-touch" thing in the music room as well as almost everything in Mamá's office and in Mommy's…in her pink room where she showed people on her phone what she'd bought and then watched those videos again and again on her huge computer. That one kind of room.

This was a mission of the highest caliber. 

“But we have to be like spies.” 

Corvin sat up, blanket pooling around his waist, his dark hair was the kind of mess that comes from someone who permanently refuses to let anyone fix it. 

“Like spies.” he repeated after her, voice growing more certain.

Thing reminded them of himself again, signing frantically against the floorboards, the rapid rhythm making it unmistakably clear that this was a terrible idea and he wanted no part in it whatsoever.

Ophelia fixed him with the same look he knew Wednesday gave particularly uncooperative suspects.

“You can't say no now,” she informed him gravely. “You already helped.”

Corvin wriggled free of his blanket, revealing a pair of mismatched pajamas he chose himself.

Thing climbed the nightstand and slapped his palm loudly. Corvin tilted his head.

"I think he's saying no.”

"Thing says no to everything. He's boring,” Ophelia didn't even blink. "Come on." She grabbed Corvin's hand and tugged.

He slid off the mattress, retrieving his slippers— bright green monsters with googly eyes that Enid had found online and absolutely could not resist —before shoving his feet into them, nearly falling in the process.

Ophelia took his hand again and confidently led him toward the door, pausing only to peer around the doorframe into the hallway. Thing scuttled after them, tapping out something that might have been a final, desperate plea for reason. Neither child paid him any attention.

They crept past the master bedroom— both instinctively holding their breath as they passed the door —and continued toward the staircase on the third floor.

The music room was at the very end of the east wing, its large double doors always kept firmly closed so the rest of the house remained quiet whenever one of their parents tried to loosen up inside.

Working quickly, they had almost reached the top when one of the steps betrayed them, letting out a loud creak of protest.

Ophelia froze mid-step, one foot hovering in the air like a startled flamingo. She exchanged a wide-eyed look with Corvin, who had gone perfectly still behind her.

From the kitchen, the distant sound of their mother's coffee mug being set down on the counter.

Silence.

Then the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. Ophelia’s hovering foot touched down without a sound. 

“Phew!”

“Go.” Corvin nudged her a little.

Little by little, they made their way to the main destination. The music room doors loomed ahead, tall and dark. In spite of the difficulties, Ophelia reached up with both hands, straining on her toes, and pushed. The heavy oak gave way with a long that made all three of them panic for a second again. 

Nothing from downstairs. 

Success.

They sneaked in, shutting the door behind them with undue care. The room welcomed them with the faint scent of varnished furniture and reed diffusers. It was defined by its soaring ceiling, where exposed wooden beams made the already spacious studio feel even larger, while floor-to-ceiling windows flooded it with natural light throughout the day. 

Across from the windows stretched an unbroken wall of gleaming mirrors. A smooth wooden ballet barre ran from one end to the other. Neatly arranged beneath it were brightly colored stretching mats, a loose pile of satin ribbons, and a woven basket containing several pairs of ballet slippers.

A powerful sound system shared the dancing area with a vintage record player while a cabinet by the entrance held shelves upon shelves of carefully organized vinyl records— ranging from Tchaikovsky to modern pop artists —and sheet music.

A glossy black grand piano claimed the brightest part of the room. Two guitars, generously decorated with stickers accumulated over the years, hung from wall mounts beside an understated stand displaying a single violin.

Only one object in the room remained unquestionably off-limits—even to Enid.

Set in the corner on its stand, it carried a sacred weight: the cello. Its case rested within reach. Time had left a fine map of tiny scratches and worn patches across the varnish—the marks of years of pure loyalty. 

Ophelia’s eyes sparkled as she spotted it. “Big cello,” she whispered reverently.

Corvin was already drifting toward the grand piano, drawn like a moth to the light. He climbed onto the bench with only a little wobble, patting the keys softly.

Before Ophelia could make another attempt, Thing darted forward and seized the cuff of her pants.

"Hey!"

The unexpected tug threw her completely off balance. She toppled sideways onto the rug with a soft whump, staring up at the ceiling in an offended look.

Thing stood over her, fingers planted firmly on the floor, somehow managing to appear both furious and profoundly unimpressed. 

“You’re supposed to be on our side!” She pouted.

Corvin, still perched on the piano bench, turned around with wide eyes and smirked, far too entertained with her current situation. 

“He's mad at you.”

“I know,” Ophelia grumbled, getting up on her hands. “But I'll just do one tiny string…”

Thing fidgeted anxiously, clearly torn over what to do. After a moment's indecision, he disappeared through the secret passage beneath the shelves, racing toward the kitchen at full speed.

“Thing! Come back!” She scrambled to her feet, eyes full of panic. 

“He’s going to Mamá.” Corvin slid off the piano bench, his monster slippers slapping against the floor. “Here–” He beckoned her over and deftly slipped behind the long dark green curtain. With an excited gasp, his sister followed.

The heavy velvet muffled the world around them. Corvin pressed himself flat against the wall, one eye peeking through the gap where the curtain met the window frame. Ophelia squeezed in beside him, her small fingers finding his.

"What do you see?" she whispered.

“Nothing.”

"I don't think you're a very good spy.” Ophelia huffed, pressing closer until her nose nearly touched the fabric. 

"I'm still learning.” He talked back 

"Then learn faster.”

The twins paused to listen, but the silence offered no answers.

“We should've tied him up.” Ophelia then muttered.

“With what? Your hair ti—?”

An unexpected footsteps didn't let them finish the conversation.

Corvin clamped her mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. His sister pressed her palm against her own lips, stifling a nervous giggle. The curtain suddenly felt very thin.

The door creaked open.

"Corvin. Ophelia."

Wednesday's voice cut through the stillness of the room like one of her favorite blades. 

Neither twin moved.

"I know you're in here. Thing gave a rather detailed report."

Ophelia mouthed the word traitor to her brother, who shrugged helplessly in return.

"If you come out now, the consequences will be tolerable. If I have to find you myself—" She went dangerously quiet for a moment. "You will not like the outcome.”

Corvin's resolve crumbled first. He took a hesitant step forward, the curtain rustling around his shoulders.

"Don't." Ophelia hissed, grabbing his sleeve.

"She said—”

“Cuento hasta tres.” A terrifyingly calm voice reached them again.

He yanked his sleeve free from Ophelia's grip and stumbled out from behind the curtain, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

"Here, Mamá. I'm here."

Their mother stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Thing perched on her shoulder like a judge. 

"Ophelia."

A long pause.

“Uno.”

The curtain rustled. 

“Dos—”

Ophelia emerged with all the dignity a four-year-old could muster, chin raised, brown eyes narrowed.

“Both of you," Wednesday started, regarding them from where she stood. "You were told this room was off-limits without supervision. You were told the cello was not to be touched. So tell me, what are you doing here?” 

Corvin shuffled his feet, the googly eyes on his slippers wobbling with the movement.

"We just wanted to look, Mamá. Not touch.”

"Look." Wednesday repeated flatly.

"Yes." Corvin nodded vigorously. "From very far away."

"From very far away." Ophelia echoed, her voice climbing into that wheedling register she'd perfected over the past several months — which usually worked on Enid and occasionally, on very good days, on Wednesday herself.

She watched them without a word for nearly a minute, allowing the tension to build. 

"Yet you clearly knew you were doing something wrong, or else you wouldn't have hidden behind the curtain to avoid the consequences.”

Ophelia opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. 

"We were... practicing. For hide and seek. Corvin is very bad at it.”

“I am not!” Corvin protested.

“Where to hide was your idea!”

“Yours too!”

“Because you—”

"Enough." Wednesday harshly interrupted. Both children fell silent instantly. "These instruments are not your toys. The music room is not a playground, as well. Understood?” 

“Yes, Mamá,” the twins chorused, though Ophelia’s version sounded much more whiny. 

Wednesday was considering her next words when Thing gave her a pointed flick to the side of her neck. She exhaled and crouched down to them. 

“Do you also understand that my disappointment lies not in what you did, but in your decision to deceive me?” 

“Yes, Mamá.” They chorused again, this time more subdued. 

Wednesday remained crouched so their eyes met properly.

“I'd rather know you're doing something you shouldn't than learn about it from someone else afterward.” 

A heavy silence hung in the air as she waited for the children to react.

Ophelia’s eyes shimmered, but she refused to let the tears fall. Corvin nodded first, then nudged his sister with his elbow.

“We understand,” Ophelia whispered finally, voice small. “Lo siento, Mamá.”

Something unpleasantly sticky settled in her chest and slowly spread through her veins. Wednesday rose to her feet and placed her hands on each of their heads, absently scratching their scalp the same way she had done for her wife forty minutes earlier.

“Then the matter is settled.” She stated. “Am I to assume this was your first mission of the morning, mijo?”

Corvin shifted on his feet, suddenly finding the floor fascinating. 

“...Yes.”

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes wearily and offered each of them a hand. 

They descended the stairs together, Ophelia hopping from step to step. 

By the time Wednesday had finally seated her son at the table and set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, while Ophelia had already dragged half of her impressive arsenal out of the playroom and into the living room— including several dolls that had survived conditions no toy was ever intended to endure, along with a pair of mousetraps —Enid's voice floated down the stairs.

Wednesday turned with mild curiosity, having expected her wife to sleep until at least ten.

“—I'll pass that on to her. But don't expect we'll be able to make it before two.” Whoever was on the other end said something that earned an annoyed click of her tongue. "No. If they miss their afternoon nap, you'll be the one dealing with two cranky, overtired little monsters. I thought you learnt that from the last time, Grandma's curtain still bears the scars of that fire.”

At the sound of her cheerful voice getting closer, both children immediately looked up. Ophelia dropped the wooden block, barely giving Thing enough time to scuttle out of the way, before jumping to her feet with excitement.

“Morning, Mommy!” 

“Yeah, Pugs, I'm— Ah!” Enid had barely made it into the hall when a tiny hurricane came hurtling toward her, nearly sweeping her off her feet. “Morning, baby!” Her face lit up at once. She sank to her knees, peppered her daughter's cheeks with loud kisses, and hugged her tightly with her free arm, still clutching her phone in her other. “Wanna say ‘hi’ to Pugsley?”

Ophelia's eyes sparkled. She snatched the phone from her mother's hand and hurried into the kitchen.

“Pugsley!” she shrieked into the speaker. "Guess what! I brushed my teeth all by myself and Mamá only did a little and I wanted to wear my purple dress with stars but she said no! Do you think it's unfair, too?!”

“Completely unfair," Pugsley's voice crackled through the phone. "You should definitely stage a protest. Maybe a hunger strike. Or—”

“Pugsley,” Wednesday cut in. "Do not encourage her. Or I'll find the courage to do something I won't regret.”

Ophelia ignored her completely. 

"—and Corvi is still eating because he's so slow!” She glanced at her brother, now snugly curled up on Mommy’s lap. “Also Thing fell down and Mamá said he wishes he was dead but he's not because he's still here and—”

Enid caught her wife's eyes over Ophelia's head, in a look that was very much meaningful for someone who had spent half her life looking into that blue. Wednesday's expression remained unchanged, but something in the way she slightly looked away suggested she was filing that unspoken comment away for later retribution.

“—and we secretly went to the music room and Mamá wasn't even that mad and she said—”

Ophelia's mouth opened to continue her breathless report, but Enid lifted a hand, drawing her daughter’s attention. 

"Wait, wait, wait." Enid's eyes flicked to Wednesday, then back to Ophelia. "You secretly went to the music room?”

"...Maybe," she said carefully.

"Maybe?" Enid's eyebrows shot up. "Ophelia.”

“Wait, guys, I think you're blowing this out of proportion—”

“Hold on, Pugs.” Enid stopped him. 

“But it's okay now!” Corvin fidgeted on her lap, eager to defend his sister. “We said sorry and we won't try to play with instruments again!”

Enid blinked, processing Corvin’s earnest confession, and looked up on Wednesday. Her wife only nodded.

Well, it seems the issue has been resolved.

She pulled Corvin a little closer, brushing a stray lock of his messy hair. 

“Then, I’m glad everyone managed to survive this morning.”

“You still have a few more hours, sis.” Pugsley cheerfully inserted himself again.

Enid's face scrunched up in offense. 

"I haven't even had my coffee yet. Do you hate me that much? Oh, wait—!” A plate of fresh waffles was placed beside her, generously topped with strawberries and rather large dollops of whipped cream. “Okay, never mind — just know your sister is the best.”

“Did she make you a coffee?

“No, but Mamá made waffles!” Corvin quickly jumped in, already reaching for the chocolate sprinkles.

Hastily grabbing his hand, Enid brought the phone back to her ear.

“I'll text you or Eugene later— Hey! Rude! Little ears could've heard that!” She put the phone down on the table with a huff.

"What did he say?" Corvin squinted suspiciously at the phone.

"Nothing you need to know about until you're at least thirty." Enid pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then settled him into the chair beside her and scooped a spoonful of oatmeal from his bowl. “Open.” 

Corvin obediently accepted it, though his eyes remained fixed on the chocolate sprinkles.

"Mommy," Ophelia tugged at Enid's pajama sleeve. “I want, too.” 

“Hm?” She pulled her attention from her own plate, only half of a strawberry between her lips. “Are you hungry, baby?” 

Ophelia only pouted in response.

As Enid accepted the mug of coffee from Wednesday, she gave her a questioning tilt of the head. Wednesday just answered with a subtle flick of her hand toward their son. 

She finished chewing the strawberry, frowning thoughtfully while taking a sip of her coffee— letting the last 

remnants of sleep fade away —and all at once, it clicked. She smiled softly.

“Ah, I see. Come here, princess.” Enid pulled the chair over to her other side and effortlessly lifted Ophelia up. She cut off a bite-sized piece of waffle and held her fork out to the tiny bow of lips. Ophelia took the bite with a little hum.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

“You’re welcome, baby. But next time, use your words, if you want me to feed you a bit. Pouts are for when you’re negotiating with grandma Morticia or Mamá.” She gave her a knowing smirk. “Works every time.”

Wednesday raised one eyebrow.

"It most certainly does not."

Enid smiled innocently over the rim of her mug.

"I don't know, love. I seem to remember someone who claimed she was also completely immune to any kind of physical touch."

"I was."

"Was.” Enid echoed. "So, past tense, that is.”

Corvin glanced between them like he was watching a football match.

“Mamá, you're losing.”

Wednesday looked at her son, frowning. 

“This is not a competition.”

“Sweetheart, she's not losing.” Enid corrected, guiding another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. “Mamá's just realizing I'm right. One of the most important things in life is knowing when to change your mind to please your wife.”

“And this is not how it works.”

A muffled giggle answered Wednesday's grumbling, the sound filling the kitchen with warmth and Wednesday found herself watching her for a moment longer than necessary. Though was there really any boundary left when this woman sat there, licking whipped cream from the ring finger that, even after all these years, remained stained black? She absently remembered that Enid's actual ring was still in the bathroom, where she'd seen it that morning, and made a mental note to return it to her vanity.

“Ophelia! If you climb the fence again, I'll let Thing tickle you!” 

Enid peeked over her laptop, keeping a watchful eye on the twins through the kitchen's door to the yard. 

“Let her fall. If she really wants it, she'll be back on that fence in no time regardless.” Wednesday didn't look up from the book she was reading, a dense time on 18th-century toxicology that was resting in her lap as she rested in the living room across the hallway.

“You say that now, but the last time she scraped her knee, you were the one carrying her in and checking every little mark.” Enid let out a soft snort, continuing to edit her latest video. 

“And I would do it again.” Wednesday replied, turning the page. “But that does not mean I will prevent her from learning the natural consequences of poor decisions.”

"Says the one to talk about poor decisions." An absent-minded voice drifted from the kitchen. “Oh, and Pugsley asked if we could meet up later. Technically, he woke me up by calling twice, but that's beside the point.”

“And what did you tell him?" Wednesday asked, though she already knew the answer.

"That we'd try for after their nap, but no promises." Enid's fingers paused over her keyboard. "He mentioned something about wanting to show them a new trick he learned. Something about a fire and three rubber duckies.”

“Pugsley is fortunate I have not yet revoked his uncle privileges.”

Outside, Ophelia let out another triumphant laugh as she balanced the fence. Corvin cheered her on, Thing signing encouragement from the top of his head. The yard was alive with their energy, the late morning sun casting long shadows across the grass.

“I’m going to go supervise before she decides the roof is the next stop.” Enid stood and stretched, closing her laptop. “You coming, or are you going to pretend it’s peaceful while they’re destroying the outside of the house for a change?”

“I suppose additional oversight is required in our case.”

They stepped out into the yard together. Ophelia spotted them immediately and jumped down, running over with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“Mamá! Mommy! I didn’t fall this time!”

“Impressive,” Wednesday said, crouching to brush a leaf from her daughter's hair. “See that it remains that way.”

“Mamá, will you help me with the bow?” Corvin trotted up to them and lightly brushed his fingers over the end of the dark long braid.

It didn't take much for Enid to notice the unmistakable glint in her wife's eyes.

“Thing is not going to be your target.”

Wednesday looked at her from beneath her lashes, unblinking, with the faint, knowing tilt of her head that always gave her a way. Within months of being together, she had already determined that even Enid's irritation and ferocity followed certain patterns and had its own vulnerabilities.

“You get three shots.”

The children gasped, and Wednesday had to summon every bit of her self-control not to run to the shed for the bow and arrows.

“Can I have a turn, too?” Corvin’s grin was pure Addams mischief.

After quickly finding everything she needed, Wednesday went after her wife into the depths of the yard, children hurried behind. 

“No. You will not try to distract me, and you will not move. Is that clear?” Her tone left no room for argument as she stopped fifteen feet away from Enid, who stood beside the wooden targets.

“But can we shoot after that?” Corvin sighed dramatically, though his disappointment was short-lived as Wednesday aimed the first arrow, catching his attention. She drew back smoothly, her focus narrowing until Enid became the only thing in her field of vision.

“If you hit me, you're sleeping in your office and dealing with my followers.” Enid called out, hands on her hips, though her eyes shined brightly.

"You know perfectly well that I never miss, querida." Wednesday replied, a smug smirk spreading across her face. 

The first arrow flew straight and true, burying itself in the target a mere few inches from Enid’s left ear. 

The children cheered, Ophelia jumping up and down while Corvin attempted to mimic his mother's form with an imaginary bow.

“Not bad, love.” Enid acknowledged with a nod.

The second arrow followed the first, landing a perfect mirror on the other side of Enid's head.

"Mamá! Again!" 

“Put one above her head!”

“No, Corvi, better make it near the shoulder!”

“No, it's—”

Wednesday pulled the bowstring back once more, sharing a confident look with her wife.

“Silence, snails.”

The command cut through their overlapping suggestions. Wednesday held the draw for another second, letting the tension sing in the bowstring, then released. The arrow flew with a clean thwip, planting itself directly above Enid’s head.

“Okay, that's better.” Enid let out a breathless laugh, tilting her head back to see it. 

“That was so cool!" Corvin ran forward, his small hands reaching for the arrows before Wednesday's voice stopped him cold.

“Don't touch.”

“Why don't?” He froze mid-step.

“They're sharp, and I don't trust you not to purposely stab yourself.”

Enid, meanwhile, had finally moved from her position, her hands coming up to squeeze her ears as if to confirm they were still attached. 

She took her son by the hand and led him back.

“Mamá, can it be my turn first?” Ophelia tugged on the sleeve of the black sweatshirt in a fussy gesture.

“Your brother asked first, baby, but we can go check on the flowers in the greenhouse while waiting.” Enid shut down the argument before it even had a chance to start. Without a second's delay, she leaned into her wife's ear as close as humanly possible and whispered, barely above a breath: “That was hot, kitten.” A gentle kiss was left on the pale freckles near her nose.

Wednesday's composure flickered for a second as she inhaled deeply.

“Don’t go anywhere near my plants.”

“Greenhouse is boring, anyway," Ophelia declared, though she allowed herself to be steered toward the greenhouse without further protest. "Flowers don't even do anything.”

“They grow," Enid said patiently. "And change color. And some of them eat insects...”

Ophelia paused, considering this. 

"...Do any of them eat people?”

“Some kinds, yes.” 

“Cool…”

Wednesday watched them disappear into the greenhouse, her gaze lingering on the way Enid's hand rested protectively on Ophelia's shoulder, the way her wife's laughter drifted through the glass panes. Then she turned to Corvin, who was still eyeing the bow with barely concealed longing.

“Come here.” 

His head snapped up. 

She led him to the shed, where a smaller bow hung on the wall—a child-sized replica that Enid had commissioned years ago, insisting that if their children were going to inherit Wednesday's hobbies, they should at least start with equipment that wouldn't accidentally kill anyone. Or perhaps it was nothing more than a convenient excuse for her obsession with purchasing every miniature item imaginable, from tiny replicas of coffee cups to, naturally, little arrows.

They stepped much closer to the targets than Wednesday had been before. She knelt behind him, adjusting his grip on the bowstring, keeping his little hands in place as she covered them with hers.

“Keep your elbow slightly bent," she murmured into his ear, guiding his arm into position. "Pull back to your cheek, not your chin.” 

Corvin nodded, his small body tense with concentration as he tried to follow her instructions, even though she had already done all the work for him.

"Like this?" he asked quietly.

“Almost.” Wednesday nodded, her hands steadying his. “Breathe out… and release.”

Together they let the string go. The miniature arrow flew in a gentle arc and barely managed to hit the very edge of the lower target, but still hit nonetheless. 

“I did it! Mamá, I hit the thing!” Corvin’s entire face lit up. He wiggled in her arms.

“You did.” Wednesday confirmed, unhidden pride threading through her words. He was so full of pure boundless energy that it sometimes startled her how fiercely protective she felt. 

She understood that some things were inevitable. One day, someone would come along and try to put out that little flame. Before they could, however, they would have to face her.

She had spent years protecting the light her beloved wife had brought into her life, and she would continue to do so for as long as she drew breath. She wasn't about to stop now—not when she had two more precious little lights to keep safe. Gifts that the most extraordinary, mesmerizing, and formidable woman had so generously placed in her hands.

"Let's see if you can do it twice."

As time passed, the pale sun rose higher into the sky, wrapping the yard in its mellow autumn warmth.

Corvin had managed to hit the target five more times and watch his mother loose a few arrows of her own, before his enthusiasm finally began to wane.

“One more?" he asked, though his voice had lost its earlier fire. “Maybe I will hit it again.”

"No," Wednesday said, gently taking the bow from his hands. "You're tired.”

“But I’m not tired, Mamá. I can do more. Please? Just one more arrow?” Corvin’s lower lip jutted out immediately.

“No."

“But I'm not even—" A yawn cut through his protest, betraying him entirely.

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. 

"Not tired?” She placed the bow back on its hooks and turned to face him fully. "You did well today. Six hits on one session is a high level."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't true.”

Corvin's chest puffed out with elation. 

“Can we do it again tomorrow?"

"We'll see. But first, lunch," She offered him her hand with an already instinctive familiarity. "And then rest."

Corvin took it, his small fingers curling around hers.

"I don't want to rest.” he mumbled, even as his feet dragged against the grass with far less energy. "I want to stay and shoot.” He kicked a pebble along the stone path. “Want to be like you.”

Wednesday’s steps slowed. She looked down at her son. A sudden weight settled over her heart, making it ache in a way she knew all too well. She recognized the feeling instantly, yet admitting it—even in the privacy of her own mind—felt almost embarrassing. She had allowed emotions to cloud her judgment rather too much. 

She wouldn't have it any other way.

“You will be,” Wednesday said quietly, squeezing his hand. “But even I rest, Corvin. When my body demands it." 

Perhaps that wasn't exactly true. In fact, it wasn't true at all. But she intended to win this battle, and all was fair in war.

"But you never look tired."

"I've had years of practice hiding it.”

Corvin considered this, his brows frowning in the way that made him look so much like a confused puppy. She shook her head lightly.

"So you're tired right now?”

“I'd rather take a break.” Wednesday nodded.

By the time they reached the greenhouse, Ophelia was already in full protest mode, Wednesday could say. 

Her voice carried through the glass panes, high and indignant.

"I don't want to eat! I want to stay here and feed bugs to the flowers! They want to eat more!”

“Baby, we've been there enough. They're very slow eaters." Enid's voice was patient, but there was an edge of weariness creeping in.

“But they're hungry, Mommy! I can't just leave them when they're hungry!”

Wednesday pushed open the greenhouse door, Corvin still attached to her. The humid air washed over them, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming things. Ophelia was crouched beside a potted sundew, her face inches from its glistening leaves.

"Ophelia," Wednesday said.

"Mamá! Look! It caught a fly!" She jumped to her feet.

"I see. Now come inside. We have to pause."

"But—”

"Now, Ophelia.” 

The words were quiet, but it did the job. Ophelia's shoulders slumped in defeat, dragging her feet across the greenhouse floor.

“I hate to pause.” She muttered, and suddenly her eyes started watering. 

Enid reacted significantly faster. She sank down and opened her arms. Ophelia stumbled into them, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. 

“Shh, baby, I know,” Enid murmured, rubbing slow circles on her daughter’s back. “The flowers will still be there when we return. They’re patient. Mamá didn't want to upset you.”

Ophelia's small fists clutched at the fabric of Enid's jacket, her shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. 

"But I was helping them," she hiccuped. "They need me.”

Wednesday watched them for a moment longer before stepping forward. She placed a hand on Ophelia's trembling back, feeling the tension beneath her small frame.

"Plants have survived for millions of years without your assistance," she said, her voice even. "They will manage through lunchtime.”

Ophelia lifted her tear-streaked face just enough to shoot Wednesday a betrayed look. 

Enid leaned back to kiss her daughter on the forehead. She offered her a pinky and glanced at Wednesday. 

Slowly, Wednesday raised hers in response as well.

“How about we make a deal?” She started, cheerfully. “We’ll take a break for a snack, and Mamá will come back to check that all the plants are fed and taken care of. Then we’ll return this evening to give them their dinner. Sounds good?”

Ophelia's eyes darted between her mothers, weighting the offer against her desire to stay and feed the plants.

“It's a pinky-promise!” Her brother encouraged. Ophelia sniffed, looking at him then back on still extended fingers. 

"...Promise?" she asked finally, her voice small and wobbly.  

"It's a pinky-promise.” Enid smiled, repeating her son's words.

Ophelia hesitated for only a moment longer before wrapping her tiny fingers around the black and orange-painted ones. 

"Okay," she sobbed. "But I get to pick which plant gets the biggest bug tonight.”

"Deal."

Satisfied, Ophelia allowed herself to be lifted fully into Enid's arms, her head coming to rest on her shoulder. The tears hadn't stopped, but the exhaustion was written plainly across her face as it was beginning to die down.

Knowing the catastrophe that awaited them if Ophelia so much as closed her eyes before making it to bed, Enid turned to her ultimate superpower: talking someone's ear off.

As they walked back toward the house, she launched into an animated tale about the time she and Pugsley had accidentally grown a carnivorous plant that developed a taste for her grandfather's limbs. Ophelia listened despite herself, occasionally interjecting sleepy questions between hiccups, while Corvin, clinging to Wednesday, added his own silly embellishments.

Lunch passed in much the same fashion—Enid’s cheerful chatter kept the twins distracted enough to finish most of their food, though not without the expected resistance.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” Ophelia declared halfway through her sandwich, attempting to slide off Enid's lap. 

Enid caught her before she could escape, gently pulling her back. 

“You will eat three more bites. Then we go upstairs.” 

"Three bites?" Ophelia whined, her voice taking on the all-too-familiar grating tone that signaled an yet another impending meltdown. "But I'm full, Mommy! Do you want me to explode?”

Wednesday pinched the bridge of her nose and counted silently—a habit she'd developed long before the twins were born, but which had become an essential survival tool in recent years.

Corvin snorted, chewing on his apple, and earned a glare from his sister.

"That's not funny, Corvi.”

Enid tore off a small piece of the sandwich and held it up.

"Come on, baby. Just one bite for Mr. Kitty. I think he'll need it.”

Ophelia considered this, her gaze flickering to the plush lion sitting on the table, then back to the piece of sandwich. 

"...He is hungry.” She admitted.

"He certainly is," Enid agreed, moving the bite closer. "And he'd be so sad if you didn't help him.”

Ophelia opened her mouth with exaggerated reluctance, allowing Enid to slip the bite inside. 

“One down, only two to go, baby!”

As if on cue, Corvin let out a jaw-cracking yawn, his apple slice falling forgotten onto his plate. That was Wednesday's sign to retreat.

“Come, small misfortune.” 

Corvin climbed down from his chair awkwardly, instinctively reaching for his mother's hand.

“I love you both!” Enid called over her shoulder, turning to look at the stairs.

Ophelia, still chewing her second bite, watched her brother and Mamá go with a newly suspicious expression. 

“Mommy,” she said slowly, reminding Enid much of her stubborn wife. “Is Mamá putting Corvi to bed?”

“Maybe,” she said carefully, keeping her voice light. “He looked pretty tired, didn't he?” 

“You’re trying to trick me,” Ophelia announced, pointing a sticky finger at her. “Unfair.”

Enid pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of baby shampoo.

“Life isn’t always fair, baby. But you know what is fair? Mommy getting special cuddle time with her favorite girl before nap.” 

“But why life isn't always fair?” Ophelia grumbled, though she leaned into Enid’s chest anyway, small fingers twisting in her shirt.

“Well—” Enid said, shifting her daughter's weight to stand up. “Why don't we leave that one for your Mamá? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to discuss it with you.”

Ophelia blinked a few sleepy times as she processed that, her pout already starting to soften.

"Mamá always says things that make my head hurt."

"That's because she's very smart," Enid said, carrying her on the second floor. "And one day, you'll be just as smart. You'll make everyone's head hurt.”

The door to Corvin's room was slightly ajar, and Enid peeked in as they passed. Her wife was making herself comfortable on the pillow beside their son's head. One of her hands absently stroked his dark hair, while the other held an old leather-bound book that was definitely not a children's story. Corvin's eyes were already drooping, his body curled against her side as he traced patterns on her shirt with his finger.

For a moment, she found herself lingering there, secretly observing as she rocked Ophelia in her arms. 

The gesture became a second nature to her long before the little humans even came into their lives. Back when her relationship with Wednesday was still in its earliest stages, Enid had figured out that her girlfriend — despite pretending otherwise — was significantly calmer when she made them gently sway during hugs. It seemed to ease tension in Wednesday's body, quiet her thoughts, and give her nervous system the familiar repetitive rhythm she often used as a way to ground herself during particularly overstimulating moments. 

The door to her daughter's room stood open, revealing the chaos of stickers and carefully arranged treasures.

"Alright, princess." Enid murmured, lowering Ophelia onto the bed. 

"Mr. Kitty needs to be tucked in first.” Ophelia flopped back against her pillow. Enid bit back a smile.

“Sure thing," She reached over and adjusted the plush lion's position, pulling the tiny blanket up to his fuzzy chin. "Better?”

"His bib is crooked.” Ophelia squinted critically at the arrangement. 

Enid straightened the tiny fabric square around the lion's neck, smoothing it with care. 

"And now?” She reached for the neatly folded pajamas beside the bed, as her daughter assessed her effort.

"...Okay." Ophelia's voice was already growing thick with sleep, but her eyes remained stubbornly open, fighting the inevitable. 

"Arms up, sleepyhead."

Ophelia complied, though with the reluctance of someone being asked to climb Mount Everest rather than simply change clothes. Enid worked quickly, her practiced fingers making short work of the buttons, shoes and long sleeves. 

“And—” She left a kiss on the very tip of the sweet little nose. "All ready for your adventures in dreamland.”

Ophelia's hand shot out and caught Enid's wrist with surprising strength for someone so close to unconsciousness. 

“You said you want to cuddle.” 

Enid's heart melted. She glanced toward the doorway, where she could still hear the soft murmur of Wednesday's voice reading.

"You're right." She kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, and Ophelia immediately seized the opportunity to roll over and flop on top of her. “Are we sure we're not thirsty, don't need a snack or a bathroom break?”

Ophelia shook her head against Enid's chest.

"No. Just want you."

"Okay, sweetheart." Enid wrapped her arms around the warm small body, feeling her limbs slowly became heavier. "I'm right here.”

She stared in the window, watching birds and counting breaths, remaining exactly where she was, cradling her baby against her chest.

The soft patter of bare feet against the floorboards made her glance up. Wednesday appeared in the doorway, her usually perfect braid slightly askew.

“Fighting valiantly?" Wednesday's voice was barely audible.

"Lost the battle before it started," Enid whispered back. "And on your front?”

“Out within minutes." Wednesday moved into the room. She stopped beside the bed, looking down at them with an expression that made Enid smile. "He kept his eyes open until I finished the chapter. Then just gone.”

"It took some negotiating, but we got there as well.” Enid shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. With all the grace she had never possessed before in her life, she dragged herself out of bed. Ophelia stirred at the movement, a small sound of protest escaping her lips. Wednesday immediately froze. “It's okay, sweetheart…” Enid's hand found Ophelia's back, rubbing circles through the shirt. 

Ophelia's fingers, which had been reaching for her mother, curled into the blanket instead. Her breathing deepened again, lips parted slightly.

Wednesday let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

“Close one," Enid whispered, finally extracting herself fully from the bed. She let herself be led out of the room, pausing at the threshold to look back one more time. "Are you going to hide away in your sacred gothic sanctuary?” 

“Well, if you don't want either a meltdown or a homicide occurring within the next twelve hours…” Wednesday shrugged, heading to the office. “Then, yes.”

“I'd say that's a fair trade." Enid followed her up the third floor. She brushed their fingertips together first, just in case Wednesday had already reached her limit for physical contact that morning. When no objection came, she gently laced their fingers together. She glanced sideways at her wife, noting the subtle relaxation in Wednesday's posture now that both children were safely tucked away. 

The office door swung open to reveal the neatly organized domain that was Wednesday's quiet world. Unlike the rest of the house, which bore Enid's colorful touches and the children's scattered evidence of existence, this room remained resolutely hers. 

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, filled with ancient tomes whose titles Enid couldn't even begin to pronounce, and the occasional collection of obscure poisons. Among them, however, were the trilogy of novels Enid knew all too well. With the first one had been almost completely rewritten by her wife about ten years earlier, leaving very little of the original behind, and still it remained just as remarkable and comfortingly familiar. Or maybe she was a bit biased.

A large oak desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered in neat stacks of case files, a pristine laptop, sharing the space with the ever-present typewriter— on which half of the keys were painstakingly restored by hand —and a single black coffee mug that read "Tears Of My Enemies”.

Enid had bought that mug, obviously. 

A plush black sofa— that had proven useful for more than one purpose —occupied a part of the spacious room, accompanied by an ornate antique rug and, hanging proudly on the wall, a commissioned portrait of a werewolf with the same unmistakable splash of color Enid used to saw every morning in the mirror before she eventually settled on pink alone. The dense forest consumed most of the canvas, its darkness broken only by the beast's blue eyes, glimmering with reflected moonlight like the painting's silent center. Something about it still had the power to make Enid's face grow impossibly hot.

In the far corner there was also another door, leading to a room reserved for storing things she had no desire to know about—and conducting experiments she wanted to know even less about.

Wednesday's gaze lingered on the portrait as she approached her desk, a contentment blooming beneath her ribs. The squeal Enid made when she first saw it was rivaled only by the one she'd let out when Wednesday finally proposed to her the summer after their college graduation. Wednesday had rolled her eyes, muttered something about unnecessary theatrics, and quietly decided the sound was one she wouldn't mind hearing again.

Wednesday settled into her chair behind the desk, the familiar scent of old paper and ink immediately calming her frayed nerves. She reached into the bottom drawer for the particular case file, every document inside perfectly ordered despite the investigation's growing complexity. The neighboring town's recent disappearances had caught her attention almost immediately. Coincidences existed. And whenever something refused to fit, experience had taught her there was almost always someone making sure it didn't.

Enid curled up on the sofa, pulling her legs beneath her and getting comfortable. 

“I'll be super quiet.”

“No, you won't.”

“Give me just ten minutes?” She asked nicely with those puppy-dog eyes that Wednesday had long ago learned were more dangerous than any weapon in her collection. Her own eye twitched.

“Eight minutes or in ten, you'll be picking pieces of my brain off the walls." Wednesday agreed, already turning her attention to the file. "Starting now.”

Enid mimed zipping her lips shut and sank further into the sofa cushions. For approximately seventy seconds, the room remained silent. Wednesday's pen scratched across the paper as she made notes, the familiar rhythm narrowing her focus.

Then Enid lasted a heroic two minutes more before it became too much for her.

"Wedns?" She whispered, though her voice carried clearly in the quiet room.

The pen stopped. 

“Three minutes and sixteen seconds,” Wednesday said without looking up. "A new record, I suppose.”

Enid grinned, utterly unapologetic, as she rolled onto her stomach to face her properly.

“I was trying. Really. But then I started thinking about how hot you look when you’re doing that…whatever.”

“Flattery will not grant you more than the agreed eight minutes.” 

“Worth a shot.” Enid propped her chin on her hand, watching the way Wednesday’s braid slipped slightly over one shoulder as she leaned forward.

God, she was still so stupidly in love with that woman. And she loved that this exact feeling was a result of their team effort through the years.

Even after everything that had surely added a few gray hairs long before their time she couldn't be more grateful. For the catastrophe of her high school experience just as the chaos of college—and the rough attempts to fit into each other's puzzle, not only when their lives balanced on a knife's edge, but in the countless small joys that made those lives worth living. 

Ever since she was little, she'd dreamed of finding her prince. Fairy tales about beautiful princesses in sparkling dresses had shaped nearly every childhood fantasy she had. She imagined herself living in a castle, surrounded by pets, and the promise that one day she'd become the sort of mother who valued laughter over clean clothes. 

She hadn't exactly been a happy teenager, however much she'd tried to tell herself she was. And if she was being honest, she'd hardly been the brightest, either. Had she known any better, she would never have allowed her own insecurities and misplaced prejudices to stand between her and everything she would one day come to cherish most. 

She had been lucky that, when one of them faltered, the other had always managed to be patient enough to stay.

She was lucky that she hadn't broken beneath the pressure of generations of foolish traditions, settling instead for the respectable, perfect, husband-material werewolf her grandmother would have proudly introduced as the best match.

She was genuinely lucky that she had fallen for the girl who threatened to bury her alive on the day they first met. 

She was lucky that she had truly fallen for the only person who had ever wanted to give her every fairytale she'd dreamed of—a whole castle, those beautiful dresses and a life worth longing for. The only person who had painstakingly taught herself how to love in ways that came naturally to everyone but her. The only person who had stubbornly fought for her every single day. 

She had spent years dreaming of a prince, only to find that the love of her life had turned out to be a tiny gothic queen instead, whose armor never really came off, no matter how elegant the dress, and whose blade was keener than any sharp tongue, forever at the ready. 

“It's eight minutes and forty-three seconds," Wednesday said, as she continued her work. "You're thinking very loudly.”

"Can you hear thoughts now?" Enid huffed.

"I don't need another power to know when you're staring.”

"Can you blame me? You're very stare-able." She fidgeted into a new position, draping her legs over the back of the sofa and hanging her head upside down.

"Stare-able is not a word.”

"It is now. I invented it. Just now. For you." Enid stretched her arms above her head. "I'm full of inventions.”

Without stopping her review of the documents, Wednesday eventually conceded defeat and gave her wife most of her attention.

"You're going to give yourself a headache.”

“Shut up, I’m only in my early thirties. Peak of those alpha abilities.” Her orange claws, traced with pink patterns, swept through the air, carving invisible marks into it. She couldn’t help the soft, helpless smile that spread across her face as she watched Wednesday pretend to focus on her files. 

“How fascinating.”

"You know what else is fascinating?" Enid let her arms fall back, her hair brushing the floor in a cascade of gold and pink.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me.”

“That,” Enid started with a straight face. “I want to take you on a date.”

“As you wish.” She gathered some of the papers from the desk and placed them back into the folder. 

Enid’s heart did its familiar little flip, embarrassingly loyal for more than a decade now. She rolled upright again and carefully got to her feet, feeling a little dizzy from the sudden change in position.

“Then,” She made her way to the desk and leaned against the armrest of the chair, close enough to be part of her wife’s space. “We'll discuss the details later.” Before leaving, she stole one last sweet kiss from those soft lips, receiving an instinctive response instantly. “I’ll leave you alone with your favorite people. Ah, what could possibly compete with the dead?” Enid lingered in the doorway with a dreamy sigh.

"The dead don't talk back," Wednesday said, her voice dry despite the softness in her eyes, making no effort to hide the curve of her lips that revealed her dimples. "It's one of their more appealing qualities.”

“Oh, I don't know." Enid leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her grin seamlessly wide. "I think I talk back pretty well. And you seem to keep me around anyway.”

“You're a notable exception.”

“Sure thing, kitten.” Enid called over her shoulder as she disappeared down the stairs.

The sound of Enid's footsteps faded down the staircase, leaving Wednesday alone with her case files and the lingering warmth of her wife's presence. 

Her laptop made a beeping sound.

Enid — My Spouse:

I’ll wake them up ~in an hour (12:08PM)

You'll hear that anyway tho 🫯 (12:08PM)

Then she opened one of the police reports and resumed reading it as if nothing had happened.