Chapter Text
Wednesday Addams steps off the plane with the particular grimness of someone already regretting the act of returning home. She hasn’t even set foot on Addams soil yet and already she feels the chains tightening: the familial expectation, Morticia’s honey-voiced insistence that she must appear, Gomez’s dramatic pleading through increasingly melodramatic letters.
They have managed to convince her to come back for a wedding of all things, Pugsley’s no less (a grotesque enough occasion to lure her back from her hard-won solitude in New York).
Her boots click across the linoleum of the terminal, her black coat trailing like a shroud behind her. She refuses the idea of taxis and public transport is equally revolting, so she chooses the one option her family might find unseemly: she walks, luggage rolling like a reluctant accomplice at her heel, until she finds herself in front of a dim, peeling-paint bar on the outskirts of town. The sign flickers and the door groans… perfect.
Inside, the air smells of stale beer and cigarette ash that has long since burrowed into the carpet. A handful of locals clutter the stools, their chatter as dull as their appearances. She sets her suitcase down by the door, strides to the bar, and orders a drink without ceremony: something sharp, something bitter (something that burns).
Wednesday does not expect the familiar voice behind her. Low, cultured, and laced with the same impossible poise it carried years ago. “I must say, I didn’t picture you walking straight off the plane and into a bar, Wednesday. Though perhaps I should have.”
The glass is halfway to her lips when she turns. Larissa Weems sits several stools down, immaculate as ever, as though the years have done nothing but polish her further. She wears a tailored suit in dove-grey silk, the lapels catching the light like silver. Her hair is swept back in its usual sculpted waves, not a strand out of place. The sight of her here, in this dreary place, is absurd enough to make Wednesday pause mid-sip.
She lowers the glass, the burn of gin trailing down her throat like a promise of relief. “Principal Weems,” she says, her tone flat, but the flicker in her gaze betrays the faintest ripple of surprise. “Larissa, if you please,” the older woman replies, one long leg crossing over the other as though she were holding court in a far finer establishment. She lifts her own glass (whiskey, neat) and tilts it lightly in Wednesday’s direction. “After all, it has been some years since you were my student.”
Wednesday slides onto the stool beside her without asking permission, mostly because she enjoys the disruption of Larissa’s composure. The bar stool squeaks under her as she sets down her drink. “And yet you look as though you’ve not aged a day… suspicious.”
A faint smile curves at the corner of Larissa’s mouth, sly and practiced. “Flattery, from you? I’ll have to mark the occasion in my calendar.” Wednesday ignores the bait and gestures for another drink. Her patience for small talk is slim, but curiosity gnaws. “What are you doing here?”
Larissa tips her glass toward the bartender, as if that alone explains her presence. “Drinking.” Her eyes, sharp and crystalline, hold Wednesday’s gaze with infuriating calm. She waits long enough for Wednesday’s silence to stretch before adding, “And as it happens, I’m in town for your brother’s wedding. I was… invited.”
Wednesday’s expression doesn’t shift, though inside her mind sputters with a mix of horror and inevitability. Of course Morticia would invite Larissa… of course her mother, who has always had an affinity for elegant women with long legs and sharp tongues, would think it delightful to have her former headmistress in attendance.
The second drink arrives and Wednesday downs half of it before speaking again, her tone drier than the gin. “My mother will attempt to pair me off at this event. It has been her primary campaign in every letter she’s sent these last few years. Apparently, my failure to engage in any carnal or romantic pursuits is a personal failing in her eyes. She wishes me to experience the ‘raptures of passion,’ as she calls them.”
Larissa chuckles, the sound warm and unguarded in a way that makes Wednesday’s jaw tighten. “And you thought it best to dull the pain in advance.” “I thought it best,” Wednesday replies, staring into her glass, “to arrive armed.”
A beat of silence stretches between them, heavy with the hum of the neon sign above the bar, the low mutter of voices in the corner. Wednesday turns her gaze back to Larissa and studies her with the same unyielding intensity she once reserved for corpses on mortuary tables. “You should accompany me.” The whiskey glass pauses halfway to Larissa’s lips. “Pardon?”
Wednesday leans back on her stool, her expression perfectly deadpan. “You are unattached and you are attending regardless. If you arrive with me, my mother’s campaign is cut short. The family sees me with someone, they stop their tiresome attempts at matchmaking. It’s simple.”
Larissa regards her with one finely arched brow, her amusement barely contained. “You’re asking me to pretend to be your date?”
“Not asking,” Wednesday corrects, her voice edged like steel, though her cheeks hold the faint warmth of gin. “Proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Larissa laughs then, a soft, disbelieving sound, before she tosses back the rest of her whiskey. She places the glass down with delicate precision, her red-polished nails catching the light. “That’s the most Addams thing I’ve heard all week. And I’ve only been here three days.”
“Is that a yes?” “It’s an are you serious,” Larissa answers, her smile widening as Wednesday’s expression remains perfectly grave. She orders another round despite the bartender’s skeptical glance at two women who are clearly out of place in this small-town haunt. Wednesday doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny (she sits with the stillness of a vulture on a tree branch, waiting for her prey to weaken).
The fresh glasses arrive and Larissa curls her fingers around hers with the grace of someone who could make even something as pedestrian as drinking look like theater. She studies Wednesday over the rim, her blue eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and disbelief.
“You’re actually serious,” she says finally, the whiskey sliding past her lips in a measured sip. “You want me to pretend to be your… what? Girlfriend? Partner? Convenient shield against Morticia’s meddling?”
Wednesday takes a smaller sip of her gin, though her words cut sharper than the alcohol. “Call it camouflage, I’ll endure less prodding if I’m seen already attached and you will avoid being cornered by my mother’s endless questions about why a woman like you is still unattached.”
That earns a startled laugh from Larissa, a real one that slips through her careful poise. “You’ve thought this through.” “I’ve thought about how best to neutralize my mother.” Wednesday sets her glass down, the ice clinking like punctuation. “This is efficient.”
“Efficient.” Larissa’s smile lingers as she swirls her drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Do you always treat personal relationships like military campaigns?”
“Personal relationships imply sentiment and I have none,” Wednesday answers coolly, though there’s a faint, tipsy lilt in her voice now, just enough to soften the steel. The corner of Larissa’s mouth curves higher. “Oh, darling, if you think I’m going to agree to be paraded as your lover in front of an entire wedding party, you’ll have to do better than efficiency.”
Wednesday narrows her eyes, her fingers tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. “What would it take, then?” Larissa leans in, close enough that the faint perfume of jasmine and whiskey clings in the air between them. She lowers her voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Convince me.”
The challenge hangs heavy. Wednesday doesn’t shy from it, but she also doesn’t immediately rise. Instead, she allows silence to stretch again, forcing Larissa to meet her gaze, black eyes unwavering. Eventually, she leans in as well, so close the tip of her nose nearly brushes against Larissa’s cheekbone.
“Think of it as a performance,” she murmurs, her breath cool with gin. “You have always enjoyed being admired, haven’t you? They will all be watching you, not me. The statuesque headmistress who, against all odds, has tamed an Addams.” Larissa exhales a laugh, though it trembles faintly at the edges. “Flattery again… twice in one night, I must be dreaming.”
“Dreams are rarely this well-dressed,” Wednesday replies, glancing meaningfully at the perfect cut of Larissa’s suit jacket. The words hang between them, heavier than intended, and Larissa tilts her head, her expression sharpening with a kind of curiosity that borders on dangerous.
She sets her glass down and folds her hands neatly in her lap, as if grounding herself. “So… say we arrive together and we somehow endure the stares, the questions and the inevitable commentary. What happens when your mother inevitably asks how long we’ve been… involved?” Wednesday doesn’t hesitate. “We lie.”
“Of course we lie,” Larissa replies smoothly, “but lies require consistency. Details and familiarity. Do you intend for us to improvise?”
“Improvisation is for the lazy.” Wednesday signals for yet another drink, her cheeks just touched pink now from the steady pace of alcohol. She fixes Larissa with her unwavering stare. “We rehearse.”
Larissa blinks, then lets out a startled, throaty laugh that draws the attention of a man two stools down. She waves him off with a flick of her manicured hand and turns back to Wednesday. “You mean to practice being my lover… here, in a bar, over gin and whiskey.”
“Would you rather wait until the wedding?” Wednesday counters, her tone matter-of-fact, as though she were discussing taxidermy. The absurdity of it sets Larissa laughing again, shaking her head in disbelief. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still managing to make the outrageous sound like common sense.”
“Outrageous would be allowing my mother to set me up with some unfortunate banker’s son from Madrid,” Wednesday says crisply. “This, by comparison, is tactical.”
Larissa props her chin delicately against her palm, watching Wednesday with an expression that mixes amusement with something warmer. “Very well, little tactician. What does rehearsal entail?” Wednesday doesn’t answer with words, instead, she reaches out (slow and deliberate, as though testing the texture of danger itself) and sets her hand against Larissa’s knee. The silk of the suit trousers is cool beneath her palm, the pressure light but unmistakably intimate.
The air between them sharpens and Larissa’s breath catches just slightly, her carefully schooled composure flickering before she schools it back into place. “That,” Wednesday says evenly, her dark gaze never faltering, “is convincing.”
Larissa arches a brow, her lips curling in something between amusement and challenge. She covers Wednesday’s hand with her own, her nails glinting under the dim bar light, and gives the faintest squeeze. “Convincing indeed.” (She doesn’t move the hand away).
Wednesday’s lips twitch at the corner (not a smile, not quite, but something dangerously close). She lifts her glass with her free hand and takes another sip, the taste of victory far sweeter than the gin. Larissa studies her over the rim of her whiskey, and for once she doesn’t bother hiding the flicker of intrigue in her eyes.
The drinks keep coming, each round smoothing the edges of Wednesday’s clipped delivery and adding a softer lilt to Larissa’s laughter. The bar has thinned out, leaving only a pair of old men muttering into their beers and the bartender pretending not to eavesdrop.
Wednesday’s hand remains on Larissa’s knee longer than necessary, and when she finally withdraws it to reach for her drink, Larissa almost misses the weight (almost).
Larissa is the first to break the comfortable silence, swirling the ice in her glass as she speaks. “If we’re to convince your mother, or anyone really, we’ll need a story. A proper one… people will ask.”
Wednesday lifts her eyes from the rim of her glass, her expression as dry as the gin itself. “Lies are an art, one I happen to excel at.” Larissa tilts her head, lips curving. “Then paint me the picture, maestro. How did we meet?”
There’s no hesitation. “A chance encounter. I was in a graveyard and you were visiting a dearly departed friend, perhaps. Our eyes met across the headstone.” The older woman laughs so suddenly she nearly chokes on her whiskey. She presses her napkin to her lips, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious,” Wednesday replies, her stare unwavering. “It’s romantic in a morbid way. Entirely believable, considering who I am.”
“It’s believable, yes,” Larissa admits with a faint smile, “but perhaps a touch too on the nose.” She leans back, fingers drumming against her glass. “If you want them to buy it, you’ll need something… softer. Something plausible but not so perfectly Addams.”
Wednesday considers this, the silence stretching just enough for Larissa to savor her triumph before the younger woman speaks again. “Fine. A café, then, I was writing and you were correcting the staff’s pronunciation of ‘macchiato.’ Our eyes met across a cappuccino.”
The smirk that spreads across Larissa’s lips is infuriatingly self-satisfied. “Now that is believable.” She lifts her glass in salute. “And who made the first move?”
“I did,” Wednesday says without blinking. “You?” Larissa arches a brow, clearly amused. “Darling, you don’t strike me as the type to initiate anything of that sort.”
“That is why it will be convincing,” Wednesday replies smoothly, her voice as matter-of-fact as if she were explaining a chemical reaction. “No one will question it if I claim the improbable.”
Larissa chuckles again, her eyes sparkling with both whiskey and mischief. “Very well. And how did you make this supposed first move?” Wednesday allows the question to hang before setting her glass down and leaning in, close enough that the faint scent of Larissa’s perfume fills her lungs. Her voice drops to a low murmur. “I told you I found your height intimidating. You found my morbidity charming. One thing led to another.”
Larissa feels the warmth crawl up her throat, and she laughs softly, shaking her head. “God help me, that actually sounds like us.” “It is us,” Wednesday replies.
Something about the way she says it (calm, final, with no trace of irony) makes Larissa reach again for her glass, if only to occupy her hands. She swallows another sip, more to steady herself than for the taste. “And the first kiss?” Larissa asks lightly, though the words land heavier than intended. “People will ask.”
Wednesday doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, she watches Larissa with her unwavering stare and answers in the same tone she might use to discuss an autopsy. “We should rehearse that as well.” The words hang there, sharp and deliberate. Larissa’s breath falters, her spine stiffening against the stool.
She searches Wednesday’s face for some crack, some hint of humor, but finds only cool sobriety, though softened now by the faint blush of gin in her pale cheeks. “You’re unbelievable,” Larissa whispers, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrays her.
Wednesday tilts her head, black braids sliding over her shoulder like twin nooses. “So I’ve been told.” The bartender coughs politely as he drops off another round, clearly aware he’s intruding on something charged. Neither of them moves for their glasses immediately. Instead, Larissa sets her elbow on the bar, leaning closer, her eyes glinting like ice under moonlight.
“If we’re rehearsing,” she says softly, “we might as well ensure it looks convincing. Your family knows you well. They’ll see through anything less than… commitment.” Wednesday doesn’t back away, she closes the small distance with the stillness of a predator, her voice low enough that only Larissa can hear. “Then commit.”
The challenge hums between them, thick as the whiskey in their veins. Larissa feels the heat coil low in her stomach, unexpected and unwelcome, but not entirely unpleasant. She takes a measured breath, gathering herself before letting a sly smile slip free. “Not here,” she says finally, tapping one manicured nail against Wednesday’s glass. “Finish your drink, we’ll test the waters later.”
Wednesday leans back again, her face as unreadable as ever, though the faintest ghost of satisfaction flickers across her lips. She takes up her glass and drains it, the ice clattering sharply against the bottom. Larissa follows suit, her throat burning as the last of the whiskey slides down.
When she sets the glass aside, she finds Wednesday still watching her (patient, steady, and entirely unflinching), the weight of that gaze makes her laugh under her breath, helpless against it.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Larissa murmurs, more to herself than to the woman beside her. Wednesday’s reply is as dry as ever, her lips curving faintly. “That’s usually how it goes.”
By the time the bartender makes his last, half-hearted sweep with a rag across the counter, the glasses in front of them have multiplied. Wednesday counts them silently (not because she worries about her own capacity, but because Larissa’s cheeks have flushed faintly pink under the dim lights, and the sight registers as data to be catalogued).
When Larissa finally slides off her stool, her balance holds steady but her laugh gives her away. She smooths her jacket as though that alone restores her composure, then gestures toward the door with one elegant sweep of her hand. “Shall we? If I’m to be your public partner in crime, we ought to practice our exits together as well.”
Wednesday rises without hesitation, lifting her suitcase handle in one hand, the coat in the other. She follows Larissa toward the door, her gaze sharp and steady even as her steps are softened by the gin. When they push into the night air, the heavy warmth of the bar gives way to the cool bite of the street.
For a moment, they simply stand there (the flickering sign buzzing overhead, the quiet hum of the town pressing in around them) then Larissa begins walking, her heels clicking against the pavement and Wednesday falls into step beside her.
They don’t speak at first but their shoulders brush once, lightly, and then again when Larissa doesn’t bother adjusting her stride (Wednesday doesn’t move away either). It’s Larissa who the silence, her voice lower now, less polished, as though loosened by the whiskey. “I should know better than to agree to something like this. Your mother terrifies me, you know, always has.”
“Most people find her intoxicating,” Wednesday replies, her eyes fixed ahead. “She’ll be delighted to see us together. She’s been campaigning for years to see me ‘properly adored.’” Larissa lets out a soft groan, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “God, I must be drunk if I’ve actually agreed to this madness.”
“You did,” Wednesday confirms, her tone grave, though the faint curve of her mouth betrays her amusement. “There is no turning back now. You’ll appear at the wedding as my date, and together we will endure whatever theatrics unfold.”
“And you’ll owe me,” Larissa mutters, though her smile edges through again, betraying her. “I expect proper repayment for playing the doting lover.” Wednesday turns her head, her gaze sweeping slowly over Larissa, deliberate as a scalpel tracing flesh. “Define proper repayment.”
That earns another laugh, throaty and unsteady. “I’ll think of something,” Larissa says, shaking her head as though to dislodge the thought. She pulls her coat tighter around her, though it’s not the chill in the air that unsettles her.
They walk further down the street, the lamplight catching in Larissa’s hair like strands of silver, her height casting a long, graceful shadow beside Wednesday’s smaller, sharper one. The image strikes Wednesday as strangely fitting (like two figures in a gothic painting, paired by accident but bound by something heavier).
As they near the corner where the streets split, Larissa slows, her hand brushing against Wednesday’s once more. This time it lingers, her fingers curling slightly before she withdraws, almost as if testing herself. Wednesday notices, of course she does (she notices everything). Her voice comes quiet, deliberate. “Convincing.”
The word lands heavier than intended, and Larissa presses her lips together, exhaling softly through her nose. “We’ll need to be more than convincing tomorrow,” she replies at last, her tone slipping back into something crisp, composed. “Your family will be watching our every move, Morticia especially.”
“Then we’ll give them a show,” Wednesday answers, as if the matter is already settled. “It will be believable… that is the only outcome I accept.” Larissa studies her for a long moment, the sharp lines of Wednesday’s face softened slightly by the amber streetlight. Then she laughs quietly, shaking her head again. “God help me, I think I might actually enjoy this.” Wednesday doesn’t smile, but the spark in her eyes is unmistakable. “That makes two of us.”
By the time Wednesday finally parts ways with Larissa that night, the pact between them feels sealed (not by handshake or kiss, but by the steady echo of footsteps walking side by side under streetlamps, the faint brush of fingers that lingered just long enough to make retreat seem deliberate).