Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Oh, looks like an accident.  I hope the driver's okay."

"He's dead. Broke his neck."

"How can you tell from this angle?"

Principal Weems' words rang hollow in her ears as Wednesday absent-mindedly fidgeted with the pendant that her mother had given her before leaving her at Nevermore. If she hadn't been so dead set on making sure her mother knew how angry she was for shipping her off hundreds of miles away from home (civil and the more costly criminal charges notwithstanding), she might've been more honest; the pendant wasn't as inelegant as she'd made it out to be. It was even clever, since she often underlined the idea that she was the upside-down opposite of her mother Morticia Addams, the smoldering ink-haired temptress who turned heads wherever she strode.

Though, one might say in the case of Wednesday Addams, the lady doth protest too much.

As hard as she fought against them, Wednesday couldn't completely eliminate the thoughts in her mind that she was more like her mother than she'd like to admit, especially when it came to sex and the male species. Since middle school, she'd found herself attracting them left and right, particularly the kind of boys that repulsed her: dumb, clumsy, loud, smelly---exhaustingly immature---boys her age who would ask her out just because they were dared to. (All of which would end up meeting a certain colorful---and personalized---doom. After a while, they stopped asking.) 

But it would be more than a grave mistake to embrace the idea that Wednesday Addams was one of the prefix-pedantic-sexuals, or anything other than Gomez and Morticia Addams' hot-blooded part-Castilian child. And as such, she had long left her childish pursuits in between the pages of the forbidden books of her father's very extensive library of erotica from around the world. 

Left to her own devices as her parents were constantly in bed when not working, Wednesday had already read through most of the clean classic literature in the library by the age of eight, but even before then, she had suffered immensely against the power of her genetics; a toddler who rid herself of her diaper and potty trained early because the feel of the diaper's friction against her tickled until she felt like she would pee, and the plateau was just too frustrating and distracting to the other skills she was determined to master. Her first actual (albeit mild) orgasm by herself from the black heirloom rocking horse in the salon had taken her by surprise; she needed to know more, but that more would not come until an afternoon of ennui several years later led her to the books high up on the shelf where Lurch had refused to reach for her before. (Thing, however, proved to be the perfect partner in crime.)

Page after page, book after book had words she needed to look up and illustrations she needed to turn around to conceptualize, but the effect was instantaneous, and feelings she couldn't explain came from places she barely understood; she'd given herself multiple orgasms after a long afternoon of reading through alleged first editions of Anonymous' My Secret Life and John Cleland's Fanny Hill .

But it was her father's first edition, signed copy of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita that became her favorite. Not for the purely excruciating story, but for its florid language and the saccharine way its protagonist (or antagonist, as it is) speaks about his charge. She found herself in hatred with the stupid, childish Dolores, but in love–if you could call it that–with the arrogant, possessive Humbert. She thought that perhaps she wanted herself a man like him to speak about her in the same fashion, while at the same time detesting how Dolores would speak at him. She was caught several times with the book in her possession, Gomez first chastising her about it ("My little spider, this book is not for a girl of your age." "How can it not be, since it's about a girl of my age?" ), then pleading with her to leave the edition alone until her extended cold shoulder forced his hand, and he purchased a used, but in very fine condition (Random House Vintage), copy of her own.

(He ended up having to replace it a few months later with a brand new copy because his first gift was soon just a cover with loose-leaf pages, having been obsessively read to death. Plus, Thing had annoyingly absconded with her favorite pages.) 

Her addiction to the sensual and overtly sexual led to concern by her parents that perhaps there was something physiologically "off" about her, but testing by various growth specialists revealed nothing but high testosterone levels with the peculiar absence of secondary masculinizing effects. Beyond those tests, Wednesday refused to be evaluated by any psychologists. "Most of them are idiots and wouldn't know how to handle me."  

Had she gone to see a therapist for evaluation, she may have received several diagnoses and confirmations of addictions, not excluding hypersexuality. She was cautioned about non-consensual relations and sexual assault (there had been none in her past that she remembered, and her memory was razor sharp) and her parents adopted their own "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy with Wednesday about what she was doing with her body, which worked out…for the most part.

(Perhaps if she did know what was clinically "abnormal" about her, she wouldn't be as tightly wound as the A string on her cello. Finding relief as a hypersexual youth wasn't easy when all of a sudden in the 2020's, American society frowned upon anything to do with adolescent sexuality.)

Suffice to say, by the time she reached high school, she was very in tune with her own body and knew what she wanted – a worthy adversary to test her knowledge in all things sexual and sensual. But she wanted a specific kind of adversary; someone with experience, someone with a brain that wasn't hooked on selfies, video games, and internet porn. Someone who spoke in full English sentences instead of Zoomer slang. Someone masculine, preferably with facial hair. Someone older. Someone she could learn from. Her very own revolting creature.

As she flipped the letter of the pendant with her thumb, her mind fixated on the image in her head of Sheriff Galpin's eyes piercing into her own. At the time, it excited her; so much so that she couldn't help but cast a lingering grin before Weems' Amazonian arm rudely twisted her away from his extended finger and ushered her out the Weathervane's doors. During the van ride back to school, her interaction with Tyler became a vague memory speck against the vignette of the cold grey of those eyes and the stern promise that he'd keep one on her. 

He wasn't by standard means handsome, and aside from his eyes, he was averagely average. For some reason other than his strikingly light eyes, Wednesday found him intriguing and intuited that the man had seen some rough shit in his life that those who remain beautiful and strapping don't ever see. Well, he is a sheriff. People who wear badges see all the things that the ignorant masses only poorly imagine from watching the mindless refuse that passes itself off as entertainment . However, the weariness of his gait and the droop of his posture told her that whatever horrid shit he'd been through had to have been deeply personal, as only deeply personal traumas are the mental sculptors talented enough to chip away at marble gods and transform them into defeated mortals. Whoever carved his lines was an artist…and that beard must feel like sandpaper .

Alas, those thoughts didn't mesh with her escape plans. Whatever spark there was, Wednesday would just have to shake it off.

But those eyes....

*+*

"Look, I don't care what she was doin' in here, I don't want my son hangin' around an Addams ," he snarled, gripping the edge of the bar counter.

"Okaaaay…I won't…hang around her then," Tyler replied, a bit taken aback by the way his father treated her name like it was a nasty slur. "Wasn't planning to anyway."

Sheriff Donovan Galpin noticed how heated he'd gotten and glanced around, hoping that no one had picked up on his tone, or knew that he was speaking about a Nevermore student. The last thing the sheriff's office needed was any perceived bias against outcasts. 

"Hmnf. I'mma take that to go," he tapped his fingers on the counter. "I gotta get back to the station."

"Of course you do," Tyler muttered.

"What's that, son?"

Tyler continued making Donovan's coffee to go without a word. Selective deafness was an oft-played game between father and son whenever the doubt and resentment boiled up between them. As the game rolled on, neither ever felt like owning or expanding on their words. Some times would be worse than others, and this was one of those worse times, given Donovan's mood set by meeting the spawn of Gomez Addams. Tyler set the cup through its sleeve on the counter and wiped his hands on his apron.

"There's money in the kitchen for take-out if you need it," Donovan said as he picked up the cup to leave. He didn't  acknowledge Tyler otherwise, and his son returned the favor.

As he was leaving, one of the Pilgrim World pilgrims who had gotten their asses handed to them was sitting in the booth closest to the doors: Lucas Walker, the mayor's son. He was pinching his nose, a mess of bloodied up napkins littering his table.

"Sheriff Galpin, sir."

"So is what uh…what my son said true?"

Lucas hesitated. Donovan raised a brow, to which the boy exhaled. 

"Yessir. But please don't tell my dad."

"I'm not gunna tell your dad," he said. "The girl who did this to you, you uh…you happen to catch her name?"

"No sir."

The sheriff examined his bloody nose. It had already stopped bleeding and the way Lucas had been pinching it, it wasn't broken.

"Looks like it'll be alright. Stay outta trouble, k?" He patted him on the shoulder and left, holding the door open for the next customer.

*+*

He sat in his cruiser and glanced around at the bustle of the townsfolk in the afternoon, but the girl still invaded his thoughts.

Well, she's an Addams...probably got some weird name like Elvira or something. "Gomez" and "Morticia", though…maybe it's a Hispanic name. Imagine if her name was something like "Carmen" or "Angelina". He chuckled at the latter. "Angelina Addams" . Considering the source, he wouldn't be surprised if they named her Lilith.

Thank God she got her looks from her mother. Those eyes, though. Neither Addams parent had such large eyes, from what he could remember. The girl was a living, creepy Keane painting, like the reproductions that Donovan's parents had hanging up on their walls. I would've remembered those lips, too. Tiny little thing as well. Genetics are weird.

"Weird alright," he mumbled to himself, turning on the ignition and mulling on that last thought. 

*+*

Except Donovan didn't go to the station, as he'd told Tyler; instead, he headed home. Straight to the garage. Partially to feed his dog Elvis, but mostly to dive straight into his old files.

Mountains and mountains of paper files that he'd saved from destruction once the local government of Jericho went digital. Anything and everything he could load his truck with, he did, for he despised digital, wishing that the suits in charge wouldn't "fix what ain't broke". They were old closed files, old cold cases, some current cases that he'd made copies of, all labeled and filed in his file cabinets with the unending overflow labeled and tossed into labeled boxes that lined the walls of the garage he never used for anything but storage and small home projects.

He looked to where Elvis's food should've been, but there was nothing. He checked in the kitchen as well–nothing. He cursed Tyler under his breath, certain that he'd told the kid to grab some dog food at the market because they were out. The only thing he could think of that could suffice for the time being were some tri-tips he had in the kitchen freezer. He looked down at Elvis's hopeful eyes.

"Well aren't you the lucky boy tonight…you're gettin' freezer steak for dinner," he said as he poked the package open and dropped the meat into the clean part of the sink. He ran some warm water over it to get the frost off and grabbed it, enticing Elvis to follow back out to the garage.

After tossing the meat into Elvis's bowl, he reached into his garage fridge for a beer. As soon as he turned around, Elvis was gnawing on the frozen meat on his garage bed.

"Might as well be comfortable while you're gettin' yer teeth into that thing, eh boy," he crouched and pet his head until Elvis growled. "Ah k, no need for that, I was just pettin' ya," he held up his hands and let him be.

He set his beer down on the workbench. There was one file in particular that he needed to see, one file that he zeroed in on in his file cabinet: the one that said "Gomez Addams" in faded red type. He plucked it out and went over it for the first time in a few years. He flipped it open and recoiled at the young Addams' mugshot. 

Gads, how'd this guy land a babe like Morticia Frump? He must've had the…what do the kids call it these days…the rizz. 

(Not that Donovan thought himself much of a prize; he was pretty average even as a young rookie when the Gates murder case happened some 30-odd years ago.)

He read and re-read the booking sheet and the subsequent murder charge that was inexplicably dropped as a case of "self-defense", but was drawn back to the mugshot out of curiosity. She definitely doesn't have his nose, but his eyes are pretty big. Maybe that's it…but not really. He just couldn't see the resemblance, so he closed the file and put it back. 

He sighed and went into a smaller, locked cabinet for some other files that he'd been meaning to grab since the first murders in over a decade happened just a week ago. There were three files, two labeled "Sullivan", and one with his own name, "Galpin". He opened none of them before pulling the light and exiting back out to his truck.

Murders in Jericho were rare, but when they were suspected, the whole town would be set on edge. There were far too many places to hide a body up there; one would have to be insane to leave one lying around to be discovered. But that's not what was happening now, nor was it what happened about twelve years ago, and it seemed like Donovan was the only one who cared enough to remember.

Or perhaps he was just the most scarred from them.

*+*

Harvest Festival 2022, Midnight

There was just no way. No way, no way, no way.

Yeap, way.

The emergency lights of the first responders were still flashing everywhere in front of the Harvest Festival entrance. Donovan looked over to the girl getting her blood pressure checked by an EMT on the top of the closest ambulance's rear step about thirty feet away. She was staring in his direction, so he turned, but there was nothing and nobody else around him. He chalked it up to shellshock as his deputy, Officer Ritchie Santiago, approached him from her direction with her notepad.

"So what's the story?" Donovan asked, peering past the responders' vehicles.

"Girl says she witnessed a murder in the woods, but we're having trouble finding the body. She fainted while relaying the story to another classmate, so they're checkin' her out now."

"Who's the victim?"

"Nevermore student, she says his name is 'Rowan'."

"Ah jeez, an outcast?"

"Mmhm, we're trying to find Larissa to confirm a surname."

"We got any other witnesses?"

"You're not gonna like this, but there are people sayin' that your son might've been a witness."

"My s -- …I told him to stay the Hell away from her," he glanced back at the creepy girl on the step, who was still staring. "Where is he now?"

"I assume he's lookin' for you."

"Tshh, arright, let's get some combs up in these woods, see what we can find," he started to turn but then it occurred to him. "Just a sec, uh…what's our witness's name now?"

"Uh, her name is 'Wednesday Addams', sir."

" 'Wednesday'? Like the day of the week?"

"That's what she said," Santiago said, barely able to suppress her amusement.

He pursed his lips and glanced over at the girl whose stare seemed frozen in their direction. 'Wednesday'. You've gotta be kiddin' me . "Arright, start organizing northeast, we'll sweep clockwise south and then back around. Imma have a word with Wednesday to be sure."

His boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the girl in the ambulance, whose stare was apparently meant for him as her eyes followed him the closer he got.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Miss Addams," he said as he scanned her for any injuries. "You alright? I heard you took a tumble, you hit your head?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Sheriff Galpin. Perhaps you should be more concerned with retrieving Rowan's body from the woods."

"Yeah, we're workin' on that. Can you tell me exactly which direction you came from?"

"The far end, by the ferris wheel," she pointed. "That way." 

Donovan peered in that direction. "Ah, okay, I think we might've been lookin' a little west of that. And my son? Was he with you?"

Wednesday hesitated. She'd overheard the cranky sheriff yell at Tyler for showing up while she was there. But at the same time, she honestly didn't know where he'd gone before she was attacked by Rowan.

"I lost him when I went to investigate the noises."

He squinted, his unconscious bias against the truth of her words showing. He nodded. "Okay, no big deal. You get yourself back to the school, k? These woods aren't safe for anybody, let alone a pretty little thing like yourself."

His condescending chauvinism was both disgusting and attractive at the same time. She pushed off her seat to face him; she was a head shorter than he was, even in her platform boots. "If I can survive the monster once, I can do it again. It's the others you need to worry about."

"What others?"

"Everyone else."