Gomez reacted first, as he always did—with enthusiasm.
"Well!" he said, clasping his hands. "A young man who introduces himself properly. That's already a rare quality."
Morticia's gaze lingered on Ethan, calm and deliberate. She didn't smile, but something in her eyes sharpened as she took in the way Wednesday reacted to him—or rather, the way she pretended not to.
"Why are you here?" Wednesday asked. Her tone was flat, but the irritation underneath was unmistakable. She was already in a foul mood. This only worsened it.
She had no desire for Ethan to meet her family. She knew his intentions toward her, and if he spoke to them, it would invite assumptions she refused to tolerate—teenage romance, emotional expectations, things she had no interest in.
She preferred control.
And this situation had too many variables already.
"I was bored," Ethan said easily. "No one came to see me. So I thought I'd stop by. We're friends, aren't we?" He tilted his head slightly.
"You're not really going to let me wander around alone on Parents' Day."
"Yes," Wednesday replied without hesitation. "If it means fewer headaches."
Gomez laughed, delighted. "Ah! Such affection, expressed with such cruelty. It warms my heart."
Morticia's gaze shifted to Wednesday. "Who is this Wednesday? Aren't you going to introduce your friend?"
Wednesday had never spoken of having a friend who happened to be a boy. She didn't need to. The fact that she tolerated Ethan—stood beside him without the instinctive urge for violence—said more than any confession ever could.
Morticia was her mother, after all. She knew how to read the signs.
"He is—" Wednesday began, then paused, visibly displeased.
"—Ethan," she finished flatly.
"Yes. I'm Ethan," he said, extending his hand without hesitation. "Wednesday's friend."
Gomez took it immediately, gripping with enthusiasm. "Ah! A brave claim," he said warmly. "Anyone who survives my little Scorpio's company tends to be… memorable."
Morticia observed the handshake, then Ethan. "Friend," she repeated softly, testing the word. Her eyes flicked to Wednesday. "An interesting choice."
"It wasn't a choice," Wednesday said. "It happened."
Ethan smiled faintly. "That's usually how the important ones do."
Wednesday shot him a warning look.
"So how did you meet Wednesday?" Pugsley asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," Ethan said thoughtfully, "at our first meeting, I think she warned me she'd gouge out my eyes."
Pugsley's face lit up. "Cool."
Morticia turned her attention back to Wednesday. "So," she said gently, " how is school?"
Wednesday didn't hesitate. "I thought Thing was filling you in on my every move. I uncovered your feeble subterfuge almost immediately."
Morticia inclined her head, unoffended. "Of course you did."
Gomez leaned in, suddenly concerned. "So—how's the little fella doing?" He peered around as if Thing might appear on cue. "Does he still have all his fingers?"
"Relax," Wednesday said. "I haven't snapped any of his digits. Yet."
Gomez exhaled in relief. "Ah. Self-restraint. You're growing."
Morticia folded her hands. "Tell us everything."
Wednesday's eyes darkened slightly. "Since you abandoned me here, I've been hunted, haunted, and made the target of an attempted murder." She paused. "I've also acquired an annoying stalker who knows far too much about me—and about whom I know nothing."
Her gaze shifted, briefly but pointedly, to Ethan.
"I'm that stalker," Ethan said calmly.
There was a beat.
Then Gomez smiled broadly. "Ah, Nevermore," he said with feeling. "I love you so."
Principal Weems appeared beside them, posture stiff, expression carefully neutral.
"Morticia," she said. "It seems you've arrived."
Morticia turned smoothly. "Larissa," she said, unbothered. "Still carrying the weight of the institution on your shoulders?"
Weems' lips tightened. "And your daughter isn't making my life any easier," she replied. After a beat, she added, "Why don't we talk in my office—and recount our academy days?"
Morticia inclined her head, amused. "How nostalgic."
Wednesday interjected, tone flat. "If this is an ambush disguised as reminiscing, I'd prefer to be excluded."
"Well, Wednesday," Weems said evenly, turning towards her, "you're coming too. We need to talk about your therapy."
Wednesday met her gaze without flinching. "I was under the impression it was no longer needed."
"On the contrary," Weems said evenly. "It's very much necessary."
Wednesday sighed—almost imperceptibly. "I should have known."
Ethan took a step back. "Then enjoy the meeting," he said lightly. "I'll go say hi to Enid's parents."
"No," Wednesday said immediately.
She caught his hand before he could turn away.
"You're coming with me," she added, tone clipped and decisive. "You will serve as a buffer—against my overly affectionate parents and this persistent illusion that I'm a patient in need of therapy."
"Don't you find me annoying?" Ethan asked, smiling. He'd heard the accusation often enough to expect it by now.
Wednesday didn't miss a beat. "If I had to rank everyone present from least to most annoying," she said evenly, "you would place last."
Ethan blinked. "That's… good?"
"It's strategic," Wednesday replied. "Between my mother's emotional insight and Principal Weems' fixation on therapy, your presence is the lesser irritation."
She tightened her grip on his hand just slightly, as if to emphasize the point.
Morticia, watching quietly, allowed herself a faint smile.
She recognized the emotion immediately—it mirrored what she herself had felt when she first met Gomez.
Wednesday, however, was not like her. She concealed her feelings behind precision and detachment, refusing to name them even to herself. Morticia couldn't be sure how her daughter understood what she felt toward this boy—only that, on some level, she did.
****
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