Chapter Text
All the fear and the fire of the end of the world
Happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl
Hozier , Wasteland, Baby!
His son was infatuated with Wednesday Addams.
That was obvious to Donovan as he watched Tyler and the raven-haired girl sit on separate sides of the cafe booth. He could see it as clear as day, even sitting yards away in his cruiser. Addams seemed to be reading out loud from a book as his son hung on to her every word. From his spot across the street, he could see the entranced look on Tyler’s face as his eyes traced the girl’s features, and the valley between Donovan’s brows deepened with worry.
Even if the emotional distance between father and son spanned mountain ranges, Donovan knew his son’d had crushes on other girls before, but none of them had been at the receiving end of this specific look. It was familiar to him, like looking in a mirror. It was a look that promised something more, something deeper than just a schoolhouse crush. It was one he had worn almost two decades ago, one that had been directed to a similarly mysterious girl.
Unconsciously, Donovan rubbed the faint scar that had been on the palm of his hand for years.
He had scoffed at the idea when she first had mentioned teaching him how to fence. In his mind, fencing was something only rich people did, a status symbol more than an actual sport you did to exert yourself in, and he told her so.
In those exact words.
He watched as she quirked one brunette brow, and her hazel eyes lit up at the challenge.
“Tomorrow, then. At our usual spot,” she had said in her light French-accented voice before she turned around to walk back through the woods to Nevermore.
Once she was a few feet away and Donovan no longer felt the pull of her orbit, he began to walk backward in the direction he knew would lead him home, ignoring the tightness in his chest that told him to follow her. His eyes were still fixed on her retreating figure when she called over her shoulder. “And prepare to get your butt handed to you, Galpin!”
Donovan threw his head back and laughed, loud enough for her to hear even with the growing distance between them. “You wish, Sylvanne,” he called back.
It was safe to say that Donovan did get his ass handed to him the next day.
She had taught him the basics in a small forest clearing behind his house he had shown her weeks ago: how to hold the foil, the proper stance, and the movement needed to advance toward your opponent. And he might have retained more of it if he hadn't been so distracted by her. By the pink of her lips and her gold-green eyes. How her hair shone copper in the setting sun, by the graceful muscles in her legs and arms that lengthened as she demonstrated an attack lunge. By the freckles on her delicate cheekbones, which had multiplied from their afternoon walks in the forest that stood between Nevermore and Donovan’s home, away from the judgmental eyes of the people in town that seemed to follow him, the town drunkard’s son.
It was during these walks that Donovan truly got his fill of looking at Francoise. Her every vibrant expression. The way she always seemed to be in motion, much like she was now: moving her hands to explain something or throwing her head back at a story Donovan was telling or when she would try to not react but still there would be an involuntary quirk of an eyebrow or a jump in her cheek as she restrained a smile.
She concluded her quick lesson by placing the tip of the foil against the pale skin of her palm to assure him it wasn’t sharp and handing him a mask. And before he knew it, they were both masked and standing across from each other in the stance she had taught him: feet shoulder-width apart and in a sort of ‘L’ shape, although his felt like a clumsy replication.
He had never seen someone move so swiftly. One second, she was before him, one hand holding the foil pointed slightly upwards and the other held behind her back, and the next, she was lunging forward, the tip of the foil heading right for the space in between his eyes.
Even though he knew he was masked and wouldn’t be hurt, he panicked, quickly shuffling backward, not looking at where he was placing his feet. So he wasn’t shocked when he began to fall back. His foot caught on the root of a tree, and he felt a sharp pain as his hands broke his fall.
“Donovan!” She threw her foil and mask aside as she ran towards him. Donovan took off his mask before he lifted his hands and saw where the sharp pain had come from. His palm was bloody from where he had been cut by either a sharp stone or a protruding stick; he didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was kneeling next to him, closer than she had ever been, close enough that he could smell her bergamot scent. If that wasn’t enough, she then cradled his injured hand, bringing it closer to her face and inspecting the cut. And all Donovan could feel was the blazing warmth of her soft hand as it held his, which he was sure was glacial compared to hers. Donovan had always run cold.
She had always shied away from Donovan’s physical advances. Ignoring his hand whenever he offered to help her over a tall log or walking far enough away from him that there was no chance of their arms brushing. And if she had been any other girl, Donovan would have taken the brush off for what it was: a rejection. But he remembered how her eyes lit up whenever he walked toward her. How her breath had hitched when he took off his sweatshirt during one of their walks, and the shirt he was wearing under it had ridden up, revealing a slice of skin on his abdomen.
It had been especially cold that afternoon, and it had felt wrong for him to be wearing both a sweatshirt and a sherpa-lined jacket while she was only wearing a thin long-sleeved shirt. He even remembered the color of her shirt, a buttery yellow, like sunlight. It was a color she wore often. He gave her the sweatshirt even after she had denied feeling any cold at all.
“I’m never cold,” she had told him, but took the hoodie anyway when he insisted. Donovan pretended not to notice how she had sniffed it as she put it on.
She did like him; he knew it, so at that moment, he decided to wait for her to initiate any sort of touch. He was willing to wait.
But now her voice began to rise in panic as she held his bleeding palm in both her hands, “I’m so sorry, Donovan. This was a stupid idea. I should never have suggested it. It was stupid, I was stu--”
“Hey,” Donovan interrupted, soft and firm before she could insult herself. “I’m okay. Really. I’ll have to clean it and bandage it, but I don’t think it needs stitches.”
And he wasn’t lying. While the cut looked dirty and bloody from his fall, it didn’t look like a deep cut. But he could still feel her panic, the way her hands were slowly tightening their grip on his hand, and how her breath kept coming in and out quicker and quicker.
“I’m fine, I promise,” he reassured.
Donovan ducked his head to try and catch her eyes, but she kept them away from him. “Can you look at me real quick?” he murmured.
Still, her eyes remained on his hand. Figuring she had thrown their unspoken no-touching rule out the window, he placed his uninjured hand on her cheek and tilted her face so he could look right into her glassy hazel eyes and the worried grove that was between them as he said, “I’m fine, Franny. I promise. I’m not as fragile as I look.”
Despite the unshed tears in her eyes, Francoise laughed. Maybe it was at his use of the nickname he had never once said out loud, or maybe it was at the absurd idea that he, standing at almost 6 feet and twice her weight, could ever be fragile. Or maybe it was at something else, something Donovan could not know yet.
It didn't matter because Francoise was holding his hand, filling his nose with her tea-like scent and his ears with her laughter. Her lips were a few inches from his own. Who could blame him when he leaned in another inch, drunk on her laughter and scent?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Francoise was who closed the distance between their lips. Once she did all she could feel was relief.
She sighed as the wasp nest that lived in her mind finally calmed. And as his cool lips moved against hers, she chastised herself for resisting him and the pull toward him for so long.
Forgotten was Francoise’s certainty that this could only end in tragedy and sorrow. Her self-preservation. Her instinct to protect Donovan. Her fear of failing. Her guilt at the metaphorical skeletons she kept hidden in her closet.
Forgotten was Maman’s haunted look when she visited Papa’s grave for the last time, or her empty eyes when she sent Francoise away to Nevermore.
None of that mattered now.
All that was left was her greed, her desire, her stubbornness, and her certainty that they were strong enough to succeed. She had run from so much in her young life, and she was tired of running from him, of denying herself the pleasure of knowing him. At that moment, with their lips moving against each other and Donovan’s cool hand grounding her to the earth, she swore she would never run again: from Donovan, from this place she had made her home. No one could make her.
A life paved itself in front of her. One where she could kiss Donovan and hold his hand, put down roots, and dream. One where she wasn’t afraid. One where she was brave.
It’s a simple dream , she told herself with hope and determination in her heart. I’ve earned this simple dream.
It wasn’t until their lungs were depleted of air that they broke apart, but even then, they didn’t move far from each other as they rested their foreheads against one another to catch their breath.
Donovan’s eyes shone as blue as the stars that had begun to appear above them. The beautiful blue of his eyes had been the first thing she had noticed about him, a bluebell blue at its center and a silvery blue at the edges, like the moon. Now, with his eyes as dilated as they were, there was only a thin lining of silver around his pupils, full of trust and another emotion the hope in her heart told her was love.
The silver lining of a storm cloud , she thought as she gazed at them.
With his hand still on her cheek, and their breaths becoming one at each exhale, Francoise said, “I have to tell you something.”
I have to tell you everything .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the unmaking of Donovan, that kiss.
As he stared into Francoise’s hazel eyes, the warmth of her lips still on his own, he felt his world brought down, brick by brick, and remade with her at its center. He couldn’t even remember the pain from his cut; all he felt was the all-consuming truth. He was so sure of it, as sure as he was of his name. It was plain and simple and felt greater than anything he had faced in his short life.
Donovan Galpin loved Francoise Sylvanne. Once their lips parted and he was staring into her eyes, he emerged a new man, stronger—one whose existence was completely woven into the woman next to him.
“You can tell me anything,” he breathed.
Donovan was pulled out of his memory at the sound of a whining voice walking past his cruiser. He turned to see the lanky form of Xavier Thorpe talking to, no, he was talking at a young man in a beanie.
“Enid cannot be serious! Wednesday Addams having a crush on a townie she just met? There’s no way! Enid doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s known Wednesday for what? Two minutes? Wednesday and I have known each other since we were kids!”
Xavier’s voice had reached Donovan even as they made their way down the street, and a part of him, the part that still felt the sharp pain of grief, hoped the snobby kid was right. He looked back at the Weathervane where Addams was standing and preparing to leave, while Tyler looked on, slightly sad but trying to hide it.
Donovan sighed. His son was falling, and if she felt the same… Donovan winced. He remembered how strong he had felt after that first kiss, as if something deep in his soul had clicked into place. And what was left of that strength now? It was gone, seeped from his body and buried in the hard, cold ground she now lay in.
No, Wednesday doesn’t feel the same , he told himself as the gothic girl left the cafe without a glance at his son’s half-raised hand. He turned the key to start the engine and drove away, assured by the certainty that Wednesday Addams could never love Tyler Galpin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday was annoyed.
No, the annoyance wasn’t aimed at the redheaded woman currently shackled to the cave wall. Even if her screams of pain didn’t exactly delight her as they once did, the woman’s voice was now raw and hoarse from the hours she had already spent screaming. Wednesday’s annoyance had a sole focus point, and he was miles away.
She felt like she was drowning in the feeling as she imagined him sitting in his car in the Weathervane’s dark staff parking lot, waiting for someone who would never come because she was too busy losing her toenails.
If only he had waited for Wednesday to tell him. She was about to do it the other day. It was on the tip of her tongue. One look at his open face with his golden skin and scattering of moles, and she was tempted to tell him all of it. About his mother, about Hydes, about the danger he was in. She was ready to wreck his world in his place of work, in the middle of his shift. Disastrous. She had left the cafe soon afterward, not trusting herself to stay quiet.
She knew Marilyn was planning something; one didn’t just have such an array of poisonous plants growing in their greenhouse unless they had nefarious plans. Or they were Morticia Frump Addams.
So Wednesday watched and followed Marilyn. Eventually, she led Wednesday to a cave deep in Nevermore’s woods. The cave was barren and sinister all at once. Drilled into the cave wall was a pair of shackles, still new and gleaming and waiting for whoever Marilyn had in her sights. And it didn’t take long for Wednesday to figure out who that was.
She pushed down her rage when she saw the teacher approach Tyler. She ignored how her heart sped up when he got into her car, how she saw red when Marilyn laid a hand on Tyler’s shoulder, on her would-be getaway driver, her barista, her town informant, her co-investigator.
Hers , not Marilyn Thornhill’s.
It only took breaking into Marilyn’s office to find out why Tyler became her target: Francoise Sylvanne Galpin.
Born on March 12, 1974, to Mathieu and Ysabel Sylvanne in Brittany, France. Married to Donovan Anthony Galpin. Birthed one child, Tyler Mathieu Galpin. Committed to Willowhill Psychiatric Hospital.
Outcast classification: Hyde.
The Hyde was an obscure species, left to their own devices after a series of violent outbursts led to the deaths of many. What was often omitted was that those who died ‘observing’ the Hydes were trying to subjugate them. Even Nevermore’s own Nathaniel Faulkner, according to the journal she had found. By some cruel stroke of fate or evolutionary mistake, these magnificent creatures were left vulnerable to the rule of others. A disgusting bond that forced them under the will of others. That little omission made all the difference to Wednesday. Who could blame them for choosing murder rather than subjugation?
Wednesday remembered her family credo: sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc.
We gladly feast on those who try to subdue us.
And Wednesday knew what her choice would be.
But the folder she had found in Thornhill’s office also described another bond. A mating bond that protected the Hyde. One that was based on partnership and love, not control and domination. A soft bond seemingly forged in iron, stronger than the shackles Marilyn wanted to place on Tyler. Unbreakable, no matter how hard they tried. Wednesday ignored the warmth that began to spread in her usually cold heart.
Soon, but first, she had to slay his would-be dragon.
Behind her, her former botany teacher had gone quiet, exhausted, and bloody from her little torture session. She didn’t realize Wednesday wasn’t done.
“You’re running out of fingers, Marilyn. I would start talking before you force me to move on to more… valuable body parts.” Wednesday took her dagger and skimmed it around Marilyn’s eye, making it clear which part of her she was planning on taking next. Already gone were the toes on her feet, and before Wednesday had taken the fingers on her hand, she had ripped off all of her nails with a rusty pair of pliers, not to mention the cuts and bruises that littered the older woman’s body.
“Please,” Marilyn whispered with the last of her energy. “Stop, I’m begging.”
Wednesday hummed, “Did you think he would beg too? Or did you think he would submit quickly?” She could see the scene so easily in her mind: him, bloody and chained. Terrified, but defiant. He would have been weakened by all of the many potions Marilyn had brewed and physically limited by the restraints he was placed. More importantly, he was limited by his lack of knowledge of what he was. What he could do.
Marilyn didn’t answer Wednesday’s questions, she was beyond that now. All she could do was mindlessly murmur her pleas for mercy. To Wednesday or to her god, Wednesday didn’t know. What she did know was that she didn’t want to give Marilyn the mercy she was praying for. But she was useless to Wednesday now, weak as she was, and in Wednesday’s hands, in the folder lay all the answers she needed.
So she made good on her promise and pushed her dagger through Marilyn’s eye. The scream that came out of Marilyn’s mouth was enough to satisfy her rage, for now. Once the body lay limp and lifeless, she pulled out the dagger and wiped it clean on Marilyn’s clothes. She turned and left the body on the muddy dirt floor, right where it belonged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tyler’s dad was late again.
It wasn’t unusual for Tyler to eat his dinner alone, but after today with its series of disappointments, he didn’t appreciate returning from work to a dark house. It had been one drink mess up after another, his mind on the important thing, Ms. Thornhill had promised to tell him that night. She had even hinted that it had to do with his mother. His desperation to know anything about his mother was the only reason he had agreed to meet her after his shift, only to have her not show up. He had even waited longer than he should have, the rain outside picking up as he sat in his car.
Not only that, but he hadn’t seen a trace of Wednesday all day. He had kept a lookout the whole day as other Nevermore students walked past the cafe windows, enjoying their Saturday morning in town before a storm hit, but none of them were the pigtailed girl he felt a strong pull toward.
Tyler sighed as he looked through the cupboard for the box of mac and cheese he was sure he had bought last week. He found it behind an empty tea tin that still smelled pleasantly of Earl Grey. While the noodles were cooking, Tyler debated rummaging through the freezer for a frozen veggie to accompany his otherwise carb-fueled meal when he heard a knock at the door. Not the front door, which, while surprising at a late hour, was more expected than the knock that had sounded at his back door. His backyard wasn’t fenced and flowed straight into the woods. Most of Tyler’s yard work consisted of him keeping the forest at bay. Anyone could make their way to his back door if they wanted to.
He crept toward the door with a baseball bat in his hand when the door rattled again with another impatient knock.
“Tyler,” an exasperated voice called out from the other side of the door. That was all he needed to recognize his unexpected visitor and rush forward to remove the barrier between them.
“Wednesday.” He ignored the way his voice sounded breathy and how a smile instantly formed on his lips. The smile immediately dimmed when he noticed how soaked to the bone she was. Her bangs, usually gently hovering over the skin of her forehead, were damp and sticking to it instead. Her clothes were also drenched, her boots muddy, and her lips had a slight blue tinge. “Jesus, Wednesday! Did you walk through the woods to get here? It just stopped pouring,” he told her as he pulled her into the warmth of his house.
He left her in his living room, removing her outer layers. He went upstairs and grabbed some of his clothes for her to change into. They would fit her huge, and dark navy and grey were as close as he could get to her preferred color palette, but at least she would be warm. He hurried back downstairs and handed her his clothes before pointing her in the direction of his seldom-used guest bathroom.
“It’s yellow,” she said, remarking on the bright paint on the bathroom walls.
Tyler felt a blush rush into his cheeks. “Yeah.”
It was hard to believe his father had chosen this color, but this bathroom had been a cheery yellow for as long as Tyler had been alive.
With a heavy sigh, Wednesday closed her eyes to avoid a migraine and shut the door. When she came out, she was swimming in his clothes, but the look of her in his clothes brought a smile right back to his face. It took everything in him not to laugh at the sight of her small feet in his large navy socks.
Wednesday stopped before making it to where Tyler was waiting in the living room, her nose scrunched up, “Is something burning?”
The noodles.
“Shit!” Tyler jumped up and ran to turn off the stove, where the noodles were now overcooked and burning in the pan, and the water they were cooking in had completely evaporated.
“You were going to eat this ?”
Tyler jumped at the sound of Wednesday’s voice, who was now next to him, having made her way over to him as silently as a ghost.
“It was going to taste a lot better than it looks now, I promise.” It was while he placed the burnt pan in the sink to deal with later that it sank in that Wednesday was in his house.
“Um,” his eyes scanned the meager offerings in his kitchen, “I don’t have an espresso machine.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows pulled together, “Okay...”
“I can’t make you a quad here,” he elaborated, “All I can offer you is drip, and I know how you feel about that.”
Realization hit Wednesday. “I’m not here for coffee, Tyler. While I would never reject a quad, it’s not a requirement for me to want to see you.”
“Oh.” Tyler beat down the hope that had sprung up at hearing that Wednesday wanted to see him. “Then why…”
“I have something for you.” Wednesday moved toward the back door where she had left her backpack and pulled out the file and leather-bound book she had placed there for safekeeping before putting them on the counter in front of him. “This is what Thornhill was using to lure you in. This folder has all the information on your mother that Thornhill had, and the journal is something I found to help us fill in more holes.”
Tyler glanced at the innocuous manila folder and book. “How did you know about that? And I wouldn’t say she was luring--”
“She was,” Wednesday insisted. “Like a fisherman using a worm or a rat catcher using a piece of cheese. She was baiting you with something she knew you would want. Not because she wanted to help you, but because she wanted to use you.”
Tyler shook his head, “Use me? Wednesday, I’m just some random barista. What use would I have to Ms. Thornhill?”
Wednesday’s eyes blazed as she moved closer to Tyler, so close that their toes were almost touching, and she had to tilt her head up to look at him. “Because you’re not a random barista, Tyler. You’re so much more. And these,” Wednesday placed her pointer finger on the folder and book, “Are going to tell you that. It’s going to tell you many things. Most of it will hurt, but you need to know. For your safety, you need to know. And I can stay here while you look through it, or I can leave.”
Tyler felt his breath catch in his lungs as he looked down on Wednesday. She was so close, he could smell the rain that still clung to her skin and something else, something flowery. Jasmine , he thought. It made him dizzy, but he couldn’t find the desire in him to step back.
To distract himself, Tyler looked back down at the folder and journal, which didn’t look so innocent now. “You’ve read it.” That was obvious. If she knew that whatever was inside would harm him, she knew what it was. Tyler tried to find offense in this obvious invasion, but he couldn’t.
He picked up the folder and noted how thin it was, probably less than 15 pages. But it was 15 pages of information he had never known. He moved with it toward his kitchen table and pulled out one chair for Wednesday before sitting in the other next to it. A silent invitation or a quiet plea to stay.
Wednesday took the invitation; sitting, as Tyler hesitantly opened the folder to the first page, which was separate from the rest of the paperclipped packet. It was a picture of his mother in an all-white uniform, surrounded by others in the same. She looked young, younger than he was now, and her hair was cut short. Even though the picture was in black and white, he knew that it would be a similar shade of brown to his and that her eyes, large and round in the picture, would be the exact shade of hazel as the ones he saw in the mirror every morning.
“It’s a fencing kit,” Wednesday said, explaining the uniform. She pointed to a familiar-looking girl at the front, tall with long black hair that sat impeccably straight next to her face. “And that’s my mother.”
“Why,” he began, but then he read the sign Wednesday’s mom was holding. Nevermore Fencing Squad, Champions 1990. “My mom was a student at Nevermore?”
He didn’t wait for Wednesday to answer before continuing, and he didn't need it once he moved on to the following page. It was an application for admission to the Outcast academy. His eyes scanned over all the general information in front of him, all things he had never known other than the birth date that was etched into her tombstone. The application answers were handwritten, and he found his finger tracing the neat loops and curves of every written-in answer. Was this her handwriting?
He stopped at the line where the applicant’s outcast designation was supposed to go. Werewolf .
“My mom was a werewolf,” he asked, but from the corner of his eye, he could see Wednesday shaking her head.
“She lied on her application to get accepted to Nevermore,” she stated. “What she was, what you are, isn’t a designation allowed to attend.”
Tyler started to feel feverish as Wednesday reached over and flipped the page. Gone were the handwritten answers, and in their place was the clinical typeface of Willowhill’s patient records. It wasn’t a shock; he had known his mother had been admitted to the psychiatric hospital shortly after his birth for postpartum depression.
His eyes glazed over the typed information and stayed on the picture that was attached to the record. It was also in black and white like the previous one, but this one showed an older version of his mother. Her hair was still cut short, and she was dressed in a striped uniform, but her eyes were what held Tyler’s attention. They were fixed on the camera and looked strong and clear, not the eyes of someone about to enter a psychiatric hospital.
While his eyes stayed on the picture, Wednesday’s finger landed on a word: red and bold. Hyde .
“You and your mother are hydes.”
Tyler’s head felt like it was swimming. His skin felt like it was burning as Wednesday continued to talk. She had opened up Faulkner’s journal to the page describing what Hydes were, but all he could focus on was the monstrous creature sketched on the journal’s page and the bits and pieces of the words she said. Transformation. Unlock. Master. Enslave. Bond. Torture.
The last one made his mind go fuzzy. Every thought felt like static except for one word.
Torture.
Torture.
Torture .
“They tortured my mother?” Tyler might have yelled the question, but he wasn’t sure. At that moment, he saw his father’s headlights as he pulled into their driveway. His burning skin became an inferno. He didn’t wait for Wednesday to answer because he knew, he knew what they had done to his mother. He knew it in his bones. He also knew he couldn’t march to Willowhill and demand retribution from them, but his anger demanded to be let out, violently if need be, and there was only one other person in his vicinity whom he could blame.
He was out of his seat and wrenching open the front door, the hinges groaning in protest, before his mind fully caught up to him. He found his father about to step out of his cruiser. The storm, which had been calm when Wednesday arrived, was back in full force, the rain now torrential and pouring. Falling like slanted glass shards.
His dad looked confused when he saw Tyler rush toward him. Tyler felt as though he could go through a wall with the burning anger that was rushing through him. His mind felt like a whistling kettle, all other thoughts being drowned out by his single-focused anger.
“Son? What-,” he began, but stopped once he could see the look of rage on Tyler’s face.
Tyler wasn’t sure where the strength he used to pull his dad out of the car came from, and he wasn’t sure when he had grown as tall as his dad, because when he pushed him against the cruiser’s frame, he could look him right in the eye.
Tyler gripped his father by the lapel of his jacket as he screamed in his face, “They tortured my mother! They held her captive and tortured her! They wanted to control her! Wanted to enslave her! While they were doing all of that, where the fuck were you?”
Around them, the rain continued to fall, drenching them, but the freezing droplets did nothing to soothe Tyler’s anger. From the porch, he could hear Wednesday call out his name, but he ignored it as he looked into his father’s blue eyes. In the past, Tyler had seen them filled with frustration or anger or condescension. Sometimes they looked exhausted, like his father barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. But now all Tyler could see was fear and shock.
His dad had his hands over Tyler’s, but did nothing to pull him away from where they were gripping him. “What are you tal-,” he started.
“Don’t play dumb,” Tyler growled out as he pulled his father forward, the grown man nothing more than a doll in Tyler’s hands, before forcefully pushing him against the car again, just to show him he could. “And stop treating me like an idiot! I know. I know what Mom was. I know she was a--”
“Tyler!” Wednesday called out again, and Tyler felt her small, cool hand grip his forearm this time. She began to pull at him, and Tyler knew he could resist her, that her strength was nothing compared to his. But the moment he felt her begin to pull him away, he let her. He let go of his father and let Wednesday pull him back toward the house, but the whole time, his eyes stayed on his father, still frozen against the frame of his cruiser, in shock at his son's actions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From where he stood, frozen in the rain, Donovan could see Wednesday leading his son away, toward the porch where the awning would protect them from the rain. He saw as Wednesday spoke to his son, but Tyler’s glare was still fixed on Donovan. Knowing his son wasn’t paying attention to a word she said, Wednesday placed a hand on his cheek and forced Tyler to meet her eyes. If either of them was shocked at the intimate contact, they didn't show it.
Framed by the doorway, the light from inside the house made them little more than shadows: Tyler, tall and honed into the girl in front of him, and Wednesday looking up at him and speaking as calmly as she could. The sight of them made Donovan ache with familiarity.
He watched as Tyler walked back into the house, but not before sending another glare Donovan’s way, leaving Wednesday on the porch alone, wearing clothes that were obviously his son’s.
“You can come in now, Sheriff,” Wednesday said, and Donovan brushed off the flicker of annoyance at being summoned into his own house.
In front of Wednesday, he looked down at the girl and finally spoke, “What the hell did you tell him, Addams?” The words came out harshly and accusatory. The fear he had felt at thinking of Tyler’s exposure finally having a recipient.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
Inside the house, Tyler was gripping a dining chair so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. When Donovan met his son’s gaze again, he knew Tyler was struggling not to rush at him again.
Tyler stood up taller, “She told me the truth. Something you’ve neglected doing for years.”
Donovan wanted to laugh, but thought better of it. “The truth? Yes, your mother was a Hyde, but that doesn’t mean she was tor-”
“She was,” Wednesday interrupted, “At Willowhill.” She had made her way away from Donovan, planted herself at his son’s side, and put a hand back on his forearm.
Donovan felt himself go cold. “No,” he said, looking for the lie in Wednesday’s eyes. When he couldn’t find one, Donovan’s eyes went to where Wednesday’s arm had wrapped itself around Tyler’s. “Get away from my son.”
When neither moved, Donovan’s hand went to the taser at his belt. In an instant, Tyler tried to step in front of Wednesday, but the girl stopped him.
“You’re free to try, Sheriff. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the invigorating aftereffects of a shock.”
Donovan’s arms went limp. He turned his gaze to his son, “Son, please. You know why your mother went to Willow Hill. She was struggling with her emotions after your birth. The hormones, I think. Her doctor suggested an inpatient program, and your mom’s mind was made up. She went there for help, but they couldn’t,” he didn't finish his sentence; every word felt like acid rising in his throat.
When Tyler’s stance next to Wednesday didn't waver, Donvan’s voice turned pleading and frantic, “Ty, think . What does Addams have to gain from you knowing this supposed truth, from telling you the disgusting lie that your mother was tortured? From alienating you from me. From having you trust her, and only her.”
When Tyler finally met his eyes, Donovan’s last hope deflated. “It’s the truth, Dad.” In the hand that wasn’t holding the dining chair was a stack of papers so tightly that it looked like the pages were about to rip. He lifted them for his father to see, “There’s proof.”
“And you’re right. I do have a lot to gain from telling Tyler the truth. And if I did have nefarious intentions, I could do a lot of harm. That’s why I’m telling you both.” Wednesday’s pale hands went to where Tyler was holding some of the pages and took them from him before moving towards Donovan, her hand with the pages outstretched toward him. “What did Francoise have to gain from telling you the truth?” she asked quietly.
Donovan felt his breath leave him at the question. What did Fran have to gain from telling him the truth about it all, right after the fencing mishap and their first kiss, the day he got the scar that still marked his palm?
He looked around at the home they had bought and decorated together. At the wedding ring that still lived on his finger, even a decade and a half after her death. At the boy, no, the man that stood before him had grown to look so much like his mother that it hurt.
Everything , he realized. She had everything to gain.
So he pulled out a chair at the dining table and started to read the pages in his hand.