Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In another universe, maybe things would have ended differently. Not well, necessarily, but at least better than whatever hell this is. Wednesday has never been an optimist, though, nor a dreamer. 

Goody told her that she was destined to be alone. She was right.

It goes like this: Wednesday, alone and bleeding, in a crypt. Goody saves her with the last of her life force before passing on. Wednesday makes her way back to the school, hell-bent on saving her friends and ending the prophecy. Tyler intercepts her, but Enid arrives in wolf form before Wednesday can be harmed.

Wednesday runs and runs and runs. She gets back to a Nevermore set ablaze. She fights Crackstone, takes an arrow for Xavier, and Bianca helps her finish the job. 

It almost seems like an ending. That is, until Laurel comes charging in with a gun. Wednesday stares down the barrel and thinks to herself: well, it'd be disappointing if, after all of this supernatural bullshit, it's a gun that manages to kill her. 

She's about to accept her fate when the bees arrive, swarming Laurel. Eugene comes out from the shadows. The woman screams.

But she hasn't dropped her gun. Even in her panic, it's obvious to Laurel that Eugene is the cause of her pain. In her desperation, she points her gun and fires. Eugene's triumphant smile turns into an expression of shock as he looks down at the gaping wound. He collapses. The bees scatter.

Wednesday wants to go to him. To help. But Laurel is still alive, and she has a loaded gun, so Wednesday has to take care of her first. Once Laurel is dealt with, Wednesday kneels at Eugene's side. He holds a weak hand to the injury. It must've hit an artery somehow, Wednesday thinks, with all that blood.

She tries her best, but there's not much she can do. She screams for help, but no one can hear her - they all left as quickly as possible to avoid the fallout. So Wednesday sits, alone, as she watches her friend bleed out for the second time. 

When someone comes to look for her, they find her staring blankly at the courtyard's blackened walls, Eugene's head in her lap.

She doesn't find out until later, when she wakes up in the infirmary and asks, that Enid met a similar fate. Enid was strong, but it'd been her first transformation. Tyler had experience.

They didn't tell her until she'd asked. Wednesday supposes they'd been trying to save her feelings.

Not that she had any to begin with.

Wednesday is no stranger to a lack of feeling. The thing is - usually she chooses not to care. It's an act of rebellion. Against the world, against those traitorous stirrings in her heart that she refuses to admit to.

This is different. This numbness is much stronger, more all-consuming, than any apathy she's ever experienced. 

It's a blessing because it's something to hold onto. And cling she does - through the apologies from her classmates, through the memorial ceremonies, through the ride home in her parents' hearse.

She'd never had a problem with their choice of vehicle before. But it feels wrong, somehow.

It seems like the only thing Wednesday does feel is wrong nowadays.

Her family notices, because of course they do. They've always been annoyingly in tune with how she's feeling. She can see the way their murmurs quiet when she enters the room, the way her mother's eyebrows tighten slightly with worry when Wednesday doesn't comment rudely on whatever infernal family activity they have planned that day.

They poison her in new and creative ways. They bring her cadavers to dissect. Pugsley has even asked for her to waterboard him more than once.

And she's tried to find enjoyment in these things. She has. But as she removes organs from dead bodies, she can't help but think of fetching the smelling salts for Enid in their shared dorm. Every time she tries to torture Pugsley, she can't bring herself to do it. 

(Wednesday had told Eugene that he reminded her of Pugsley. She never expected the reverse.

A few days after coming home, she threw a knife at him because he dared to interrupt her writing time. She hadn't really been writing, per se, more like glaring at her typewriter. But it was the principle. He knew what he was getting into. 

Except, Pugsley hadn't been expecting the throw, his reflexes dull after months of Wednesday's absence. The knife went through his hand. 

For a moment, she was somewhere else. For a moment, her hands were stained with blood. She'd locked herself in the bathroom for hours afterwards. Even after the blood disappeared from her vision, she could still feel it under her fingernails.

It never really went away.)

She can't stop thinking of them. Can't stop seeing them out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes when she walks into her room, she expects Enid to be laying on her bed, kicking her legs while reading some teen magazine with disgustingly bright outfits and gossip articles and humming some vapid pop song.

(Wednesday always hated it when Enid encroached on her personal space like that. Now, to her disgust, Wednesday might just miss it.)

As a child, she'd fantasized about a good, old fashioned haunting. It was on her bucket list. Goody had fulfilled that goal in the form of visions. It wasn't all that it was cracked up to be, she'll admit.

But now, she's being haunted in all the wrong ways.

Or maybe Wednesday is the ghost. 

It would make sense. There's been a sense of unreality permeating her days recently. She wanders the manor at night - the nightmares are too visceral for her to get any enjoyment out of them - in a dreamlike state.

It's one of those nights when she comes across the book. She's in the Addams' family library, a large room filled with thousands of tomes. It's in the right wing of the house - a place not many in the family go to unless they're specifically searching for something. She's taken to exploring the shelves when the rest of the family is sleeping - a habit grown from a few too many times of her waking the house crying out - a disgusting display of vulnerability.

It's an unassuming book, for the most part. Untitled. The one thing that stands out is its age. It's old, very old, and more delicate than even the oldest of the other books in the house. That alone piques her interest. 

It's there that she finds the answer to her problem.

Time magic is a funny thing - changing the timeline can cause a butterfly effect that spans farther than one can imagine. The outcome is never assured, and there is always a price.

The thing is, Wednesday doesn't have much to lose. There's her family, yes, but reversing the last several months wouldn't affect them all that much, and she doesn't particularly care about anyone outside of her small and still shrinking world.

She never came back from Nevermore, not really. Her body may still remain, but she's convinced she died in all the ways that matter. 

Wednesday has always been hungry. Not in the literal sense - she eats like a bird. But there's always been something missing. A gaping hole in her stomach, a sense of wrongness. And for a few months at Nevermore, to her shock, that hole got smaller. 

Wednesday has always known about this defect, this traitorous longing to be a part of something. For the longest time, she thought that she was strong enough to ignore it. That if she shielded her heart with titanium, she'd never have to deal with the pain. 

But as much as she hates this fact, Wednesday has never been anything but human. She can pretend, yes, but in the end she still bleeds red. 

Here's the thing about deep wounds: you can stitch them up, but they always leave a mark. And if you leave them to heal on their own, there's a chance that they will fester - that the rot spreads through your blood and into your heart faster than you can seek out help.

Wednesday can't save herself. She knows this. But maybe she can save them.

The candlelight snuffs out when she completes the ritual. Her vision dims, then fades to black.

She wakes up in a hearse.

Chapter Text

Wednesday blinks. It's jarring, waking up in her old body. She doesn't feel like she's settled into it yet. Her ears are ringing, senses muted, mind fuzzy.

It takes her a moment to get her bearings.

Her parents are singing. They stare into each other's eyes adoringly as they serenade one another before going in for a long kiss.

Wednesday's lip curls in disgust.

After finishing up with their shameless display, Wednesday's mother redirects her attention.

"Darling, how long do you intend on giving us the cold shoulder?"

Wednesday tries to remember what she said last time. She'd been angry at them, hadn't she? She'd been angry about a lot of things, before.

She isn't sure of what to say this time around, so she doesn't say anything. They can assume that she's still giving them the silent treatment - it'll give her a chance to get her head on straight.

"Don't be that way, my little viper. You will love Nevermore. Won't she, Tish?" Gomez says, squeezing his wife's hand.

"Of course she will," Mortician croons in response, "It's the perfect school for you, dear."

Wednesday doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Nevermore is a wonderful place, Wednesday," Morticia continues, "A place full of magic. Your father and I met there."

She keeps her gaze on the window.

"Maybe you could even make some friends."

Wednesday pauses. Thinks of Eugene's lifeless body in her arms. Of Enid's pale marble grave. Of the school burning, burning, burning to the ground.

"I don't think anyone would survive me," she says honestly.

They don't bother her for awhile after that.

…

Principal Weems is just as irritating as Wednesday remembers, with her patronizing smile and positive disposition.

(She decidedly ignores the memory of the last time she saw Larissa Weems. How the woman's mouth began to foam, facing turned blue from the lack of oxygen circulating through her body as the poison paralyzed her muscles.)

Wednesday doesn't engage much in the conversation, instead choosing to sit in her chair quietly. She half listens to the adults exchange pleasantries, allowing her mind to drift elsewhere. She'll be meeting Enid soon. Wednesday doesn't know how she feels about that.

"Larissa, what about Wednesday's… therapy sessions," Morticia inquires, "The court ordered them."

Wednesday starts to listen, now, cursing to herself. She'd forgotten all about having to go through those infernal sessions once more, too fixated on her end goal. Dr. Kinbott was trying enough the first time around.

She can try to escape, yes, but that won't work forever.

"We have a relationship with a therapist in Jericho. Wednesday can see her twice a week."

Wednesday's father shoots her what is supposed to be a reassuring smile. It isn't effective.

"Did you hear that, my little storm cloud? You're in good hands," he says.

Yeah, Wednesday thinks as she glares a hole into Weems' desk, she doubts that.

…

She can feel her parents' eyes on her as they traverse through the school's halls. They're clearly concerned about her silence - they've been giving her looks ever since they spoke in the hearse.

Wednesday can't bring herself to care.

She traverses the school's hallways in a haze, only just barely remembering to let Weems take lead - there's no reason for Wednesday to know her way around, after all.

It's so strange being back here. The atmosphere seems lighter than before. Granted, they'd all been mourning when she left.

Time is moving oddly. It feels like seconds, rather than the likely ten minutes, have passed between leaving the office and arriving at the dorm. Weems opens the door, and -

Wednesday's eye latch onto Enid immediately. She's sitting at her desk and turns as the door opens. Wednesday drinks in the sight of her - her hair: an abominable pastel color, her eyes: blue like the sky. She's wearing pink eyeshadow and sparkly lipgloss.

Enid bounds up, a brilliant smile on her face.

"Howdy, Roomie!" she says. Her expression quickly turns to one of concern, "Are you okay? You look a little… pale…"

Wednesday is tongue-tied.

"Wednesday always looks half-dead," Gomez responds for her.

It's when Enid steps in for a hug that Wednesday realizes she isn't ready for this. She should flinch away, it's what everyone around her would expect of her to do. It's what she did before. But Enid's body is so soft and warm and alive (she's alive she's alive she's alive) that Wednesday just. Lets her do it.

A traitorous feeling emerges.

Wednesday wants to hug back, to grab Enid's wrist and feel her pulse beat steadily underneath her skin, to remind herself somehow that this is real, that Enid is here and alive and not going anywhere anytime soon. It's an overwhelming, desperate emotion.

But it's out of character enough for to accept the hug to begin with, so she doesn't. She stays limp in the taller girl's arms, body rigid, hands digging into the sides of her skirt.

Enid smells like bubblegum-scented body spray. Wednesday hates it. Wednesday doesn't want her to let go.

The moment is over far too soon. Wednesday is riddled with the desire to pull Enid back into her arms when she steps away. She wants to bury her face in Enid's shoulder and breathe in that disgusting bubblegum scent once more.

"Too much?" Enid asks nervously.

When Wednesday says nothing, her mother steps in.

"You have to forgive Wednesday. She is allergic to physical contact. And color," Morticia says, shooting her daughter an odd look.

Enid looks concerned again. She opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted.

"Enid, please accompany Wednesday to the registrar's office to pick up her uniform and schedule while we discuss how to make Wednesday's time here as enjoyable as possible. You can give her a tour along the way."

Principal Weems then directs her attention to Wednesday, "We special-ordered you a uniform! You're going to love it. On you go!"

Enid smiles another one of her (terrible, burning) sunshine smiles, grabs Wednesday's hand, and pulls her out of the room.

She finds that, strangely, she doesn't mind the warm hand in her grasp.