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"Gomez Addams doesn't even practice criminal law," is what the guard tells Tyler, laughing slightly, when he gets the news that his attorney would not be visiting him down in lockup prior to his summons. "Of course he's not coming down. Probably doesn't even know where it is!"
"Right," Tyler mutters, just quietly enough not to be overheard, "Because it's so hard to find a basement."
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
Tyler can hardly blame the man, really. The holding cells are situated drearily in the Costello Courthouse's cement box of a basement, a maze of solid concrete walls separating the accused from one another both physically and visually, and as far as he can tell there is only one sad looking "rec room" (that is, open space in the middle of it all, with one folding table and a scattering of metal chairs) for the guards and visitors to loiter in. When he had been escorted past to his waiting room, there had been a bored-looking DA slouched awkwardly in one of the chairs making dry small talk with an even more bored-looking guard.
Tyler wouldn't willingly step down here either, if given a choice. Though he sort thought that an Addams would enjoy the grim ambiance.
Wednesday certainly would, but she doesn't come down to visit him, either. He tries not to read too much into that. She's probably just busy scheming and plotting, laying the groundwork for a jailbreak if this hearing doesn't go to plan (no matter how confidently she had assured him that it will, in fact, go to plan).
Still. It's a long wait—longer than he had expected—down alone in the basement. Given his track record, Tyler would not be surprised if something has already gone wrong. Maybe Gomez changed his mind about helping the serial killer who threw his daughter out a window. Maybe the judge dropped dead in the middle of an earlier hearing and now everything is delayed while the police presumably show up to investigate. Maybe the courthouse caught on fire and the basement is too well barricaded to hear the sirens.
Maybe Wednesday changed her mind and has concocted all new evidence against him and the state's attorney is up there trying to get new indictments lodged before—
"Galpin," a bailiff calls, shaking Tyler from his doom spiral as he unlocks the cell with a clattering clank of metal on metal, "You're up."
He supposes there's been no fire, then. Whether the Addamses have seen fit to leave him on his own still remains to be seen.
(He knows Wednesday won't leave him. Not without announcing her departure and dastardly betrayal, at least, making sure to rub in his defeat—but even beyond that, he knows she hasn't left. He can feel her lurking nearby, a faint buzz of awareness that starts at the base of his spine and crawls up to the nape of his neck as the elevator rises slowly from the dungeon.)
His escort takes him to single-room bathroom first, where a stranger in a suit is waiting to hand over a black garment bag that Tyler accepts in confusion. "I thought there was no jury today?"
"Your attorney insisted," the bailiff says with a shrug, disinterested, before jerking his head towards the bathroom. "Get on with it."
The garment bag itself is thicker and nicer than pretty much any clothing Tyler has ever owned, so he's not surprised to discover that the plain black suit enclosed inside just feels expensive. He doesn't think he can even ballpark an estimate of how much it must have cost.
The pale blue dress shirt is soft to the touch, reminding him almost guiltily of the shirt he had worn to the Rave'N. It is a shade darker and closer to a slate blue, desaturated, but the sight of it still gives him pause when he glances in the mirror.
So does the fact that everything seems to be tailored to fit him perfectly. His thoughts wander to Wednesday's hands smoothing over his shoulders, grasping him tightly as she hauled him closer; her palms flattening possessively across his stomach, fingers pawing at his waist; her nails digging into the backs of his thighs, dead doe eyes glittering in challenge—
Tyler blinks rapidly, desperately dispelling the sensory memories that slam into him and trying to fight off the wave of heat that lurches through his bloodstream before he manages to embarrass himself in front of the judge and Wednesday's father. He has a feeling that perfectly tailored slacks are not very forgiving when it comes to matters of concealment.
The padded cuffs go back on when he steps out of the bathroom, leashing his wrists together loosely in front of him, and Tyler tunes out the soft click and beep as the power re-engages.
Gomez hadn't been able to argue him into normal restraints. Probably for good reason—it's not like such flimsy metal could have held Tyler, so he's only a little annoyed to be subjected to the outcast-proofed version. At least the courthouse's guards and bailiffs aren't nearly as trigger happy as the fuckers in Willow Hill had been. He hasn't so much as been shocked once since shuffling into the transport van that morning.
It's almost disappointing. Wednesday will probably chastise him for failing to make at least a bit of a scene. He can already hear her droll tone: Have they tamed you already? Pathetic.
Never, he thinks, silently vowing to redeem himself, and then he feels deranged. Clearly, prolonged separation from Wednesday is a hazard to his health; he's losing his damn mind. Again.
Tyler feels her before he sees her, her proximity thrumming under his skin as the bailiff leads him into the courtroom, but a sneaking relief still unfurls in his veins when his gaze locks on hers. He doesn't realize his lungs are burning until he breathes in and they suddenly stop stinging.
Wednesday looks entirely composed, perched primly in the front row directly behind the table that they lead him towards. She stands promptly, shoulders back, and stares him down intently as each step brings him closer to her. With her black tweed jacket and—his gaze flickers down—matching knee-length skirt, she looks like a gothic Elle Woods.
Well. Better than a gothic Elle Woods. Incomparable, really, even as her eyes narrow and her lips press together disapprovingly when she clocks the relief that he must not have concealed well enough.
Of course Tyler hadn't doubted her. He just doubted—a little bit—that he was worth this much effort. But he knows that makes little difference to his terror of a girl, so he just offers her a rueful smile and hopes she mercifully forgets this slight against her questionable honor.
"There's our fiendish friend!" Gomez Addams greets joyously, dragging Tyler's gaze away from Wednesday reluctantly, and he sways with the force of the man's boisterous delight when Gomez claps him on the shoulder and shakes him slightly. "Very nice, mijo. This fits perfectly. My little viper has an eye for measurements, no? Marvelous!"
Tyler's gaze darts back to Wednesday as he resolutely does not think about her evident familiarity with his measurements. She arches one brow at him, eyes dark with mirth at his predicament, and he has to wrench his attention away when he catches the way the corner of her mouth twitches upwards.
"Uh, yeah," he tells Gomez, clearing his throat and pretending not to feel Wednesday's stare burning into him. "Thanks, by the way. Not just for the suit, but, uh, for being my lawyer."
"Ha!" Gomez laughs, throwing his head back in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of Fester, and Tyler flicks a wary glance towards the judge's empty bench. Fortunately, the state's table is empty too. Unfortunately, the man Tyler thought was his lawyer carries on gleefully, "I'm not your lawyer, my boy! I only take criminal cases when I’m defending myself, against judicial advice."
Gomez winks at him, beaming, as dread settles heavily in Tyler's gut. His head is completely empty, aside from the exceedingly unhelpful and unappreciated image of a blue screen that flickers to the forefront of his thoughts.
He's so fucked. Deeply, incredibly, beyond fucked.
He doesn't even know if you're supposed to actually call a judge "your honor" or if that's just a TV thing. How is he supposed to conduct an entire pretrial hearing and not get himself thrown back in jail for contempt or something? Is this some sort of Addams family hazing ritual that Wednesday forgot to warn him about?
Gomez must see the beginning stages of panic playing out on his face, because he stops beaming at once and grips his shoulder even harder. "Not to worry! You've got the worst of the worst on your case. This whole thing is just a formality."
That is extremely lacking in the reassurance department for five solid seconds of despair, before Tyler's brain comes back online and inverts the negative. Worst of the worst is probably supposed to be a good thing, where Gomez Addams is concerned.
Tyler slides a calmer glance at Wednesday, meeting her steady stare, and decides to cling to his delusional optimism when she dips her head in a tiny nod, silently answering a question he had not asked. He didn't need to.
It will be fine, he tells himself, taking another long look at Wednesday's blank expression—so stern and so pretty—before he drags his focus back to her father. "Right. Okay. So… Who is my lawyer?"
Honestly, Tyler doesn't even know why he is startled by the sound of the courtroom doors groaning open dramatically almost the second the words are out of his mouth. It was almost a given that the universe would see fit to answer him in the most on-the-nose fashion ever.
Because that's simply what his life has become by now: ridiculous cliche after incomprehensible coincidence after baffling turn of events after—
The point being that his life has gotten… kooky. And it has only gotten kookier since Wednesday Addams stomped back into it.
Tyler turns along with the Addamses (and the smattering of an audience lurking in the courtroom) to get a look at the attorney that sweeps through the doors.
Literally.
Because his lawyer is a mop of hair.
What the fuck.
Tyler stares blankly as—yes, he's definitely seeing that correctly, this is not a freak resurgence of hallucinations if the gasps from the onlookers are any indication—a heap of long brown hair swaggers towards them. His brain is struggling to process what he is seeing, but this—guy's? hair is so long that it skirts the ground as he? moves with great purpose down the aisle, exuding an inexplicable air of suave confidence.
How the fuck is a living mop so… cool? Why can Tyler practically hear the upbeat soundtrack that would play over this exact entrance in the movie of his terrible, awful life?
He's lost his fucking mind. That's the only explanation. He's still in Willow Hill and he's been in Willow Hill this whole time, and he has to hand it to himself, he did not know that he was this creative. Truly some next level psychotic delusions have been cooked up here. Getting to kill Laurel? His mom being alive? His uncle being alive and a fuckass zombie? Wednesday Addams deciding to save his life and then kidnap him, bond with him, and drive him so insane that he had no choice but to kiss her just to shut her up? Wednesday Addams kissing him back and vowing to clean up his mess of a life?
A ball of hair in a fedora masquerading as his defense attorney?
Truly. His mind is impressively inventive. It's a shame that it's clearly damaged beyond repair, doomed to an endless array of increasingly perplexing delusions and psychotic fugue states.
"Cousin Itt!" Gomez greets, completely unfazed, and he finally releases Tyler's shoulder to wave the hairball closer. "And cara mia, oh, you look ravishing as ever!"
Tyler blinks, his gaze slowly lifting from his… lawyer as it dawns on him that he was so distracted by Cousin Itt that he hadn't even noticed Morticia Addams gliding into the courtroom a few paces behind him.
Or Enid, for that matter, who waves at him awkwardly when he meets her slightly wide-eyed gaze. So at least he's not the only one who is perturbed by… all of that.
"Father. Enough," Wednesday says darkly, voice hard and more than welcome; Tyler's attention snaps to her immediately, taking in the disgust that crosses her face as she surveys her father loudly smacking kisses up her mother's arm.
Understandable disgust, then.
The mound of hair starts… chattering. It's a high pitched litany of complete gibberish, which makes it hard to say if this is an attempt at communication or just some sort of peculiar animal noise. Tyler really hopes this isn't how Cousin Itt speaks. He's pretty sure being able to talk intelligibly is at least semi-critical to being a lawyer.
God. He really is fucked. Why can't his nightmares go back to the significantly more enjoyable rendition of fucking? Why must the Tyler Galpin Show on the Willow Hill: Live channel go through this bizarre side plot, when he could be fantasizing about Wednesday indefinitely?
"Cousin Itt is Father's law partner."
Wednesday's voice slices cleanly through his thoughts once more, low and familiar. Tyler blinks, processing the way Gomez and Morticia are still fawning over one another and engaging with the hairball, before turning his head to discover that Wednesday had stepped right up to the low barricade and is now lurking just at his shoulder, her gaze dark and intent on his face.
"He handles the criminal practice," she continues, ignoring Enid as the wolf slides into the row to settle beside her. "He really is quite exceptional. Many an Addams has beaten a murder charge or three with Cousin Itt defending them. This is child's play for him."
Distantly, it occurs to him that Wednesday is honest to God trying to reassure him right now. Wednesday. As in Wednesday Addams, his twisted fucked up little maybe-girlfriend who revels in his discomfort on a good day and rejoices in causing his discomfort on an even better day.
Oh, fuck. He's definitely going to prison.
He glances sideways at Enid, taking in her half-open mouth as she gapes at Wednesday in disbelief, and revises his conclusion: he's going straight to death row. He's an absolute fucking goner.
Slowly, Tyler brings his gaze back to Wednesday's. She really is so devastatingly pretty, and he realizes at once that his head could never have replicated such doll-like perfection. She is unquestionably real, and unquestionably treating him like a rabies-infested dog granted one last romp through the park before she puts him down. She took his virginity, got him a defense attorney, and now she's offering extremely uncharacteristic platitudes before some Burlington judge sentences him to death immediately.
Oh, well. He had a good run. Wednesday gave him four more months then he had asked for—four months that he arguably should not have had, if she had just brought that axe down on his neck—and at least gave him a hint of a fighting chance. She'll probably even still come visit him and bully the prison into allowing conjugal visits to suit her twisted fantasies and smile at him disturbingly from the viewing gallery when they finally off him. What more could a semi-reformed serial killer ask for, really?
Nothing. And he wouldn't ask for anything aside from Wednesday anyway.
"I am in love with you," he tells Wednesday bluntly, voice quiet but not nearly quiet enough with Enid standing right there staring at him like he's lost his mind (a bit late with that observation). "Like, really badly. Horribly so. Sometimes I think I'm going to be sick because I love you so much. I'll petition the state to ship you my heart after Cousin Hairball over there gets me executed for crimes against humanity."
Wednesday stares at him, dark eyes widening just slightly, and he's struck violently by the reminder of how she had once looked at him under the dim lights of the Weathervane: eyes glittering, magnetic, so damn expressive in the smallest of ways. It's the same way she had looked up at him with her legs locked tightly around his waist and her hands fisted in his hair as she ordered him menacingly not to stop or else she'd kill him.
"Ew," Enid whispers, shattering the silent, charged bubble that had risen around the two of them in the wake of his confession, and Tyler blinks. "But awww. I think."
It dawns on him immediately that this being the real world and not a deranged hallucination means that he has to deal with very real world consequences for his impulsive actions. His face slowly heats as something akin to mortification fights for purchase in his throat, but he can't find it in him to really regret it. Wednesday should know that he loves her, if this is the end of the road for him.
"How romantic, dear," Morticia Addams croons, fingers petting briefly at Tyler's curls when he turns around abruptly to look at their audience (he's not avoiding Wednesday's stare). He hadn't realized how close everyone was standing to him. Morticia smiles at him, as beatific and motherly as ever, but her eyes are sly and knowing as she pats his cheek once. "But none of that. You'll be coming home with us today."
Cousin Itt lets out more gibberish, swaying on his… feet? in front of Tyler once Morticia sweeps past him to claim a spot beside Enid in the front row. Perhaps calling his lawyer Hairball was rude. Tyler sort of hadn't anticipated Cousin Itt (Attorney Itt?) hearing that.
Then again, he also can't tell what the mop is saying to him, so he has no idea if he's offended his defense attorney or not. His head is sort of preoccupied with the crackle of radio static that has descended as he copes with the realization that he just told Wednesday he loves her in front of her parents and Enid.
If he survives this hearing and the subsequent trial, she's going to kill him. She's going to absolutely fucking kill him.
Gomez clasps his shoulder again, giving him a fond but entirely too sympathetic look, but he does not get the chance to nail Tyler's coffin shut with whatever encouraging nonsense is about to come out of his mouth.
"All rise," someone announces loudly, and Tyler has no choice but to accept his fate as everyone turns to watch the judge amble out of his chambers to the bench, putting an end to all conversation in the courtroom.
Wednesday's gaze drills into his back, a heavy weight lodged between his shoulder blades, as she sits directly behind him for the entire hearing and does not blink once. (He knows that she doesn't, not only because she's freaky and doesn't blink in general, but because he never once feels the pressure of her attention slip.)
It's mildly reassuring. It also sort of makes him fear for his life, which in turn warms him through with a sickening degree of affection and makes him once again question his sanity.
But honestly, it's whatever. Wednesday prefers him insane, anyway.
Here's hoping he lives long enough for her to take delight in killing him herself.
—
"This is your room," Wednesday informs him five hours and several dismissed charges (and one triumphant dinner) later, before immediately turning away to open the door across the hall. "This is my room."
She stands there and stares at him creepily through the fringe of her bangs after that, until Tyler finally gets the hint and steps cautiously over the threshold into her bedroom.
The door swings shut behind her eerily, lock clicking in place, and Tyler gets the sense that he just signed his own death certificate. He turns, preparing for her wrath, and finds her already standing directly in his space.
She steps even closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back slightly to hold his gaze, and he feels his pulse stumble and trip under the intensity of that stare, the haunting proximity of her body. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to snatch at her, but he holds carefully still.
"I told you," Wednesday says slowly, without inflection, "Cousin Itt has never failed to secure an Addams' freedom. Your doubt was unnecessary."
Not what he was expecting her to say. Tyler opens his mouth, compelled to point out that he is not an Addams, or even to refute that he had doubted her plan, before abruptly snapping it shut once more when Wednesday's eyes narrow. She steps even closer, pressing her chest into his, evidently determined to make his brain malfunction.
"You will not engage in such sentimental atrocities in front of witnesses again," she adds, her hands coming up to fist in his hair violently and crane his face down closer to hers. Her breath ghosts over his mouth, eyes bright and glittering with malice, but her voice is unspeakably soft as she threatens, "If you do, I will kill you, wait for the curse to resurrect you, and then kill you again. I will do this at least ten times, to ensure that you have learned your lesson."
"Sure," Tyler agrees, frankly shocked that she isn't starting with his imminent demise for this first offense, before he pauses and processes her words a bit more thoroughly. She's not exactly mad at him, per se, which seems fairly significant, but more importantly: "Wait, curse?"
The corner of her mouth curves upwards. He feels it more than he sees it, her lips pressing to his once, firmly, while he is too busy being stunned stupid to kiss her back, and she withdraws just as quickly. She doesn't go far, though, nose still brushing his and dark eyes engulfing his field of vision as she informs him ominously, "An Addams cannot kill an Addams. That is the curse."
She kisses him again before he can ask her what the fuck she's talking about, thoroughly wiping the question from his head with her sharp teeth and clever tongue, and this time he doesn't hesitate to grab her hips and haul her closer.
It's only later, when she rolls over in her sleep and abandons her creepy corpse pose to sprawl across his chest, that Tyler finally realizes that it was Wednesday's way of saying she loves him too.