Chapter Text
Sweet?
Enid’s grown delusional.
She doesn’t invite her out of the goodness of her heart. The world will freeze over before that happens.
It’s all part of her fifty-year plan to ensure their future. After all, if succumbing to the family curse is inevitable, she can only settle on bending it to her will.
She’s not naïve. Enid is a gifted musical prodigy with wicked sharp social intelligence and smiles that put the sun to shame. Members of her pathetic pack have changed course from avoidance to pursuit once she transforms, not to count the sheer number of past dalliances she gleaned out of her blog. She can only imagine the influx once she’s back on the world stage, fellow prodigies and soloists with fame and fortune ready to sweep her off her feet.
In hindsight, the curse truly chose an impeccable partner worthy of her affections. Having admitted that, the possibility of Enid leaving her for someone else will only end in bloodshed: the faceless new paramour and her own heart.
It’s been a while since her nightmares solely contain the simple comforts of scaphisms and iron maidens.
Only solution? She has to act fast and show her intentions in the most undefeatable gesture known to man - dead, undead, or alive.
Thing proves to be a steadfast assistant in her endeavor by suggesting the manor. The last thing she wants is courting Enid under the prying gazes of rumor-starved students. She has to do it properly, in the privacy of her ancestral home, with every possible resource in her disposal. Every step has to be arranged to perfection, every minute in their itinerary has to be accounted for with their sacred 2 hours untouched.
She hasn’t slept in 3 days.
It’s morbidly exhilarating.
Alas, the plan didn’t account for her own family trying to outdo her.
She’s never suffered a worse betrayal.
“Me and Tish adore your works,” her father enthuses “we have all three of your recordings! Your rendition on Velásquez’ Delirio is my absolute favorite.”
She’s counted fourteen utility poles within five minutes of their journey.
She merely wishes for one of them to fall on their hearse and end her misery.
“Elena, wasn’t it? I do like Enid better. I recall you were a brunette then, but blonde suits you.” Her mother strokes Enid’s streaked pale gold tresses with her pitch black talons, her gaze starstruck. Wednesday’s never thought such blasphemy could ever come from her mother’s own mouth. “We’ve seen your concerts too, chérie! Haven’t we, mon amour?”
“Tienes razón, mi vida!” Her father’s smile splits his face in two. She would’ve appreciated the grotesque sight if not for the incoming mortification she would surely experience. “Our first was in Boston for the Strauss sonata. You transformed quite a bland composition into a majestic masterpiece! We went four nights in a row with Pugsley, then followed you to New York to Philadelphia to New Jersey to...”
Enid is reduced to a flustered mess, thanking them with a shy smile. She’s more likely recalling the disturbing experience of two maniacal admirers shadowing her every move three years ago.
“It’s a shame our little storm cloud whisked you away right after the recital, we were dying to see you in person again!” his father piles on, delighted by the violinist’s response. Wednesday refrains from gagging by the skin of her teeth.
“This is exactly why I did it.” She mutters under her breath. Enid’s the only one who hears her, silently chuckling. Thing is already dead to the world in its favorite velvet box, claiming that keeping all three of them alive for a full term entitles it to months-worth of hybernation. She’ll have to make do without allies.
“Actually, I remember us inviting Wednesday to come along to Boston,” mother continues, a gleam of mischief in her eyes “she scoffed at the program and said “Boring. I’ll pass.”
Forget ricin and stemless roses. She’ll trap her mother in a pink coffin with a thousand maggots to gnaw at her hair.
“So we could’ve met long ago?” Enid-the filthy traitor-decides to join in, wolfish grin latching on her new target “I can’t believe your parents found out about me way before you did!”
Even Pugsley dares to toss a comradely grin at the blonde “I like you already.”
Sweet Asmodeus, she hopes the skies part and unleash hellfire on this torturous contraption.
A puff of incense smoke and bejeweled skulls greet Enid the moment she steps into the manor.
Icy terror flashes through cerulean irises, but Grandmama’s immediate grip on her arms prevents her from running away.
“Consuelda, manzanilla, girasol, quevivaelamor!”
Grandmama ends her ritual with the Addams’ notorious bone-crushing hugs, which she belatedly returns with equal ferocity.
“I-it’s n-nice to meet you, Mrs. Addams.” she valiantly stutters out. Enid has her werewolf genetics to thank for her ribs staying intact. “Thank you for having me.”
“Call me Grandmama, bomboncita.” She flicks the blonde on the nose before frenziedly sniffing her neck. “Ay, you’ve just turned! We’ll have the meat extra bloody tonight!”
The witch releases the frazzled werewolf to surprised cheers and queries from the rest of the family, all the while flinging Wednesday a conspiratorial smile.
Enid would hear the slurred incantation as vaguely Spanish gibberish, but Wednesday’s well-versed in Grandmama-speak.
“Te debo una, Grandmama.”
The Addamses have prepared in advance for their colorful guest.
Everyone is equipped with their own cache of smelling salts. Their more carnivorous plants and pets have been cajoled-with torches and spears-not to eat anyone with pink sweaters and string-scraped rainbow nails. Missing floor boards from Wednesday’s myriad of traps for her brothers are mostly replaced.
She maintains a watchful eye on Enid as they tour the manor, just in case a stray black widow galvanizes her heart to smithereens. Her mother takes the helm, efficiently parting the skeleton servers with spirited explanations for anything she finds noteworthy, from ancient portraits to batwing cornices to skull-shaped door knobs. The violinist plays the part of a politely attentive audience, but she’s spent more than enough time with the blonde to see how she yields a wealth of tells.
A minute in she starts tapping her fingers to a swift mazurka rhythm, gaze darting about so quickly as to be imperceptible. The slightest noises from the skeleton servers and sentient flytraps pull her shoulders taut and legs trembling. Still, she tilts to the left when the painting of Juanita Addams the Pirate Queen piques her interest, repeating the name on the plaque in a murmur. Her brows furrow and her cheeks puff in indignation at the tribulations many an Addams survived through, and she's the only one to laugh at her father’s tragically dull attempt at humor or smile at her parents’ off-putting displays of affection. She's clearly the only entity in the entire vicinity who's sincerely trying to learn more about her family in years, and Wednesday’s more than willing to glare at the sentient creatures who dare to gawk at her duet partner.
“And here we are.” Her mother looks almost hopeful, waiting for Enid’s verdict. “We hope it’s to your liking.”
The Addams manor currently houses 44 rooms. Only one is bereft of black.
Taffeta drapes over tall arched windows, artificial light gleaming against engraved mirrors and the polished parquet, fashioning the illusion of a sunny morning against the manor’s perpetual gloominess. Silk roses and lilies spring forth from marble vases before paneled walls of rocaille carvings. Above the stained-glass dome of the canopy, a lavish chandelier hung from gilded filigree ceilings, circling a colossal fresco of the mistresses of Louis XV in their gaudiest regalia: the four de Mailly sisters in massive ruby brooches, painted silks, and pearl-pinned braids, Madame du Barry flaunting her pink sapphire earrings, and Madame de Pompadour holding court with her necklace of many-hued jewels.
The chamber is certainly far more extravagant than her own. And warmer. And more colorful. And free from torture devices. And bedecked in softer sheets…and quite a few corridors away from hers.
If this is how her parents are enforcing proper etiquette, she’ll start digging for the maggots. Wednesday has put up with them as co-collaborators for days, tried to include their suggestions just like what Enid has advised, and this is how they backstab her? No amount of adjustments can salvage her plans, they all depend far too much on Enid sharing her room. Can she flood this rococo eyesore quick enough before the skeleton servers haul Enid’s luggage here? Should she fake a power outage in this one room?
“Wow, this is amazing!” Enid gasps, each word soaked in astonishment as she takes everything in. “Is it a gallery?”
“Oh no, mija, we built this in honor of our family’s most prolific criminal in this millennium to date! So we thought, only the best and brightest of rooms for the most prolific musician, el violinista del diablo!”
Enid’s usual lilt of honeyed prosecco turns into the palest crémant. “Criminal?”
“Fear not, chérie.” Her mother attempts a comforting hand to her shoulder. Her frigid fingers nearly causes the blonde to flinch away. “She met her untimely demise by our little Pubert’s unknowing hands.”
“I’ve a decade left to trounce Debbie in that regard.” Wednesday adds to her family’s unanimous elation.
“Four is a measly body count,” Father’s enormous hand hovers in an approximation of a pat on her back, exactly how she prefers it. “I’m sure you’ll double it in just a few years, mi infierna.”
“Yeah, sure, of course, cool.” The mazurka rhythm quickens to bulería, her claws extending and blood draining from her face.
“Enid? Are you feeling well?”
“Yeah, I’m super okay! Everything’s great!” She backs herself into the wall. “And I’m sure you’ll achieve god-tier serial killer in…no time-AAAHHH!“
The painted skies part and gigantic axes cleaves the lit à la polonaise without mercy, shreds of memory foam, stained-glass, and silk snowing down their heads as the canopy falls apart into bite-sized pieces.
Her family burst into appreciative applause.
Enid is still screaming.
“Gamóto gamóto gamóto-“ she slaps her clawed hand to her mouth, eyes wide in unmistakable terror. “I’m so so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s not your fault, chérie.” Mother is evidently ecstatic at the sudden change in decor. “Truly, the room has never looked better.”
“But I destroyed your bed! I-I can cook and clean, I can take care of your mansion for my whole life if I have to.“
“You’re far inferior to our skeleton servants, they don’t need to eat or sleep.” Wednesday explains as succinctly as she can. “And the last thing I want is you crushed to death by one of our fake dumb waiters.”
“Tienes razón como siempre, mi infierna! Such an impressive show on your first day here!” Father scoops Enid up into her third bone-crushing hug of the day. Wednesday harbors no doubt that the blonde will sport bruises. “Not to worry, we have eight other rooms for you to choose!”
“She can room next to me! Wednesday moved years ago.” It seems Pugsley has chosen death and joined the Enid Sinclair fan club, grasping hard enough to almost pull the werewolf’s arm out of its socket. “You can tell me exactly how you found that trap door!”
“Enid will room with me.” Her brother is finally competent enough not to panic when the tip of a blade is thrust short of his neck. Enid-flinching away with a yelp-simply needs time. “I’m her roommate and duet partner.”
“I gotta agree?” Enid titters, the harsh canary yellow presenting an unaffected front while fraying at the edges. Even then, she gently removes her hand from Pugsley’s grip and plasters on a cordial smile. A trip to the electric chair would better teach him about breaching personal spaces and uttering presumptuous propositions. “I’ve no idea what I just did, but we can hang out anytime. I’d love to get to know you better!”
“I’ve organized an itinerary for Enid’s entire stay,” she informs them both “you can only meet her at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.”
“The matter’s settled then.” Mother ushers Pugsley away before he can fire his rebuttal. “Now, let’s head for dinner first!”
Grandmama takes her leave with a wink. “Y parece que hay solo una cama,” she whispers.
Truly, her grandmother’s the only one on her side all along.
Wednesday has endured an entire term of bland sandwiches and lackluster coffee.
Tonight, she feasts.
The obsidian table is near bursting with tried and true favorites. Powder Point and Wellfleet oysters languish on beds of squid ink ice spheres, circled by platters of salt crusted Branzino and broiled Maine lobsters. The crown roast of lamb sits on its throne at the center, bedecked with pistachios and stuffed with ghost peppers. Aguachiles, salsas, tortillas, carnitas, and roasted scorpion kebabs are strategically laid out near Wednesday and Pugsley’s seats for them to battle over. Towering over buñuelos, capirotadas, jericalla de cajetas, and an assortment of infernally spicy paletas is a pile of rib-eyes basted rare in blood red wine.
She takes them all in: the wine cooler stuffed full with brunellos and barbarescos from Gaja, Gloria del Paraguay’s Galopera crooning from the gramophone, the mural of Pancho Villa slicing the heads of federal officers in the Battle of Zacatecas, and finally lets herself breathe.
She’s home.
She aims it’ll be Enid’s too.
Wednesday slowly and deliberately switches her dining set with Pugsley’s and pulls Enid’s chair for her brother to see. No one else can sit next to Enid for any of her plans to work.
Enid clasps her proffered hand with a giggle before taking her seat. Pugsley settles for monopolizing the scorpion kebabs instead, sticking his tongue out in hollow victory. He can sulk all he wants, Mother and Father are upstairs trying to wake Pubert. Even better, she’ll relish it.
Instantly, the violinist’s gaze is glued to her own dinnerware, an array of ebony bone china rimmed with hand painted platinum leaf scrolls, identical to every other set on the table. The only distinctive feature is Enid’s name engraved on the edge, but everyone in the family also has their own.
“Mi sol? Is anything wrong?”
“No, no, I mean it this time. Everything’s been amazing.” Alarmingly, she turns her head to the other side and swipes her knuckles over her cheeks.
Last semester’s Wednesday would brush it off. Current Wednesday has repeatedly experienced (and been rightfully scarred by) the familiar gesture to know what it means.
Her fingertips dance over Enid’s curled palm, fortunately free of claws, voice as careful as she can manage. It’s truly a boon that touching Enid never burdens her with visions. “What is it then?”
Enid shifts, hesitantly moving to face her. Something aches behind the warmth in her cerulean pools. “It’s really stupid.”
“I’m used to it,” she shrugs.
She smiles at that, but the usual sunny brightness is overcast, her chest rising and falling slowly before she speaks.
“I thought they’d hate me. I’m probably your family’s version of a tattooed stoner pursuing their crazy talented and brilliant daughter.” she chuckles feebly. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thought I’m gonna be shooed away before I even get into your car. But out of fuck knows where they gave me a room straight out of Versailles and doesn’t care that I accidentally destroy the bed and cooked me a ton of bloody steaks and got me my own tableware with my name on it. It’s like I’m drowning in kindness and my head’s having a hard time wrapping around the idea.”
“Breathe.”
Enid tilts her head up to the midnight skies of their painted ceiling, and suddenly flaxen waves are on her shoulder. “Oh, this is so much better.”
“Get off my shoulder.”
“I’ll sit next to Pugsley.”
“...you’ll hurt your neck.”
Her shoulder grows warm as Enid burrows her head even closer. “Worth it.”
It’s almost a hysterical realization, but she’s frankly never met another human being so honestly and openly content to be near her. “They’ve taken a shine to you because they sometimes have fine taste, despite your questionable fashion choices.”
Sweet Asmodeus, that’s the wrong move.
Enid breaks out into a wide grin, the sun finally coming up from behind the clouds. She wonders if she’ll ever build a tolerance to the radiance. “My, someone’s slipping! You knowthere’s no possible universe where I won’t take that bait.”
“Then take it and shut up.”
“I will, I promise!” She raises her hands in mock surrender, wiggling her brows to show she meant every word in jest. “After we talk about you saying I’m too boring for your tastes, Willa. You must’ve improved a lot since then. Is it ‘cus I ditched the middle name?”
“Say another word and I’ll roast you in place of that lamb.”
“Gosh, how scary! I gotta run far away from here.” Enid retaliates with one of her lethal sunny giggles.
Pugsley’s too engrossed in his oysters to notice Wednesday resting her cheek on top of pale gold locks. "Shut the door on your way out."
She’s the host, and that’s why she can’t hack off the pink-painted index teasingly poking her nose.
“You’re lucky I like you, smart-ass.”
The door, in fact, needs to be shut.
Wednesday’s telling Enid which flavors from their paletas won’t burn her tongue when a massive shadow looms over their table. Chill wind sweeps in with a rush, defeating every flame into wisps of smoke and plunging the dining hall into darkness. Without the fire to keep them at bay, icy tendrils creeps through every inch of glass and porcelain, enveloping the air, freezing every breath exhaled.
Wednesday finds Enid’s trembling hands curled on her lap, mindful of the claws.
A nod, and everyone springs up from their seats, knives and daggers and talons at the ready.
Pubert remains in his pool of oysters, playing with the squid ink ice spheres with abandon.
“Salute, mi familia!”
Father’s scimitar flies and embeds itself onto the spiked chandelier. He pays it no mind and raises his half-full glass of vintage barbaresco “Fester, mi hermano!”
The two run at full-speed to meet each other halfway in a tedious embrace as the rest of the family reclaim their seats. Enid withdraws her claws with an amber-hued sigh. Late night cello berceuse it is, then.
“Oh, Gomez how I’ve missed you!” Uncle Fester finally sees fit to acknowledge their presence, whirling around each member with a face-splitting grin. “Mamá, congratulations on the new wart! And Tish, looking deadly as always! Pugsley, you’ve grown such deep dark circles, they look fantastic! And Wednesday, you’ve finally found your Santa Muerte! Hello there, niece-in-law, I’m your Uncle-in-Law Fes- ”
“Not. The. Time.” she strikes her rusty knife a hair's breadth away from his open mouth.
“Of course, of course, just Fester it is then.” he gives Enid’s hands a vigorous shake “You must be the Wieniawski soloist in the Concertgebouw! Tremendous work!”
“So Wednesday’s the only one here who’s never seen Enid’s concert, right?” Pugsley wheezes “Who’s the duet partner again?”
“Shall I slit your stomach so your scorpion tacos gush out with your entrails?”
“I’m honored that you like my performance!” Enid raises her voice in a futile attempt to drown out her threat “Oh, I’m Enid!”
“Well, you can always count on me, concert master-captain! Third violinist, at your service.” Uncle Fester salutes her “I can’t wait for our string octet!”
No one has told her about this. Again.
“Absolutely not.”
“But why?” Pugsley looks up from his second helping of buñuelos. “I'm the first viola at school too! You’re just keeping Enid to yourself!”
“That is my intention, yes.”
“Please see how brilliant it is, mi pequeño escorpión!” Father’s never above groveling, but she’s not an immovable object for nothing. “Everyone is here, we can play that Mendelssohn like you’ve always wanted for Fiesta de Año Nuevo!”
“Grandmama has arthritis.“
“And I can magic it away!” the hag interjects “I’ve been busking since La Cristiada, you don’t need to worry about me.”
“Lurch is barely sentient.”
“I can charm him to play perfectly!” Mother heaps her powers of persuasion on Enid instead, “We’ll work together splendidly, chérie, I promise.”
Her head is pounding, the room is spinning, and her parents will get those maggots tonight. “I have a detailed two-month plan and you’re ruining it with insipid surprises.”
“Okay, it’s Deep Breaths Time.” Enid pulls one of her knitted dolls from her dress, a well-worn victim of her slashing and Enid’s mending. “Go on, you know you wanna stab it.”
Sinking her knife into its featureless face and picturing tendons oozing pus is indeed quite calming, as always. They’ll still get the maggots for the trouble they’ve caused, of course, if only delayed by a few days.
“Lo sentimos, mi infierna.” Father is always first to concede, at least that’s still predictable. “We’re so excited to have Enid here, we started planning out surprises without you knowing.”
“We will only schedule it with both of your permissions, ma petite serpent.”
Well, now that they’re offering…
As long as her unstoppable force agrees.
“So, what do you say to another recital?”
They truly don’t know what’s coming for them.
A devious grin spreads across Enid’s face, truly a rare sight to behold.
It’s not Wednesday they should fear now.
“We’ll agree on a few conditions.” Enid concludes. Her honeyed lilt hardens to citrine, spine ramrod straight, jaw sternly set.
Amicable angel Enid is gone, long live concert master-devil's violinist Enid.
The entire family stands to attention by the snap of her multicolored fingers. “Come on, Addamses. Let’s get down to business.”