Chapter Text
Out of all the ways that Wednesday imagined her death, being stabbed by an ancient religious zealot, who had been raised from the dead by a manipulative, crazy teacher, was not one of them.
(She'd once guessed poisoned by a cult leader, so she gave herself a half point, as she felt that this was almost close enough, though.)
At least she would have the luck to die in a crypt. If she were stabbed somewhere less appealing, like a mall or a high school dance, she might just die of shame. For all her practicing and preparing, the sting of being defeated so easily was far worse than the pain of her innards sliced through.
And to be clear, that hurt.
Immensely.
Wednesday coughed feebly, leaning with as much pressure as she could, though she felt a particular numbness in her fingers. It would not be long before she drifted into an inky, forever blackness, bleeding out in the dirt. The spiders and maggots would come for her, her skin would pale, and her lips would turn blue.
If it weren’t her own life she was talking about, the image would have been beautiful to imagine.
Footsteps clattered through the crypt, echoing unevenly against the cavernous ceilings. Wednesday’s eyes fluttered open, and she swallowed, her mouth dry and dusty. She tasted copper on the back of her tongue as she weakly lifted her head. Her vision fogged and doubled, and she felt woozy. If there was anything left in her stomach other than bile, she imagined she might vomit on the ground.
She'd come close to death before, but this was different.
The answer scared even her; Wednesday, you're actually going to die.
All at once, there was no dry sarcasm to be had, no jokes to be made, and Wednesday realized that she was feeling some most unfamiliar...fear.
Her lip trembled, and she felt perspiration bead on her forehead. From what she could see of her fingers, they were paler than ever before, an almost unnaturally neon sheen, like she was almost wasted away into just energy.
She knew someone else was in the crypt with her, watching her slip away. Who would sit and wait for her demise? She didn't have enough energy to riddle this out, though it must be someone who wanted to see her dead. The figure stopped at her side, but she had not the control of her head to see who it was.
The figure dropped to their knees, warm fingers moving her hand to look at her stabbed stomach. Her fingers were coated in thick blood, but had long stopped being able to slow what gushed between her fingers. She looked up, the thin, milky light of the crypt illuminating the back of his curls like a halo, though he was most certainly a fallen angel than any savior she knew.
Tyler's eyes were dim, his face expressionless as he examined where the knife had twisted in her stomach.
“Here to gloat?” Wednesday spat, trying to wriggle away, “See your master’s handiwork?”
Tyler didn’t answer. She watched his eyes focus in on her tattered clothes, his jaw lock with frustration. He ignored her entirely, trying to peel her shirt away from her skin.
“Hey!” She snapped with as much vigor as she could, “I could still cut you down.”
Tyler finally acknowledged her voice, no amusement in his eyes as he met her gaze, “You’re dying.”
“We have a real genius on our hands.” Wednesday couldn’t let Tyler have the last word, not now, not ever.
Tyler stood, arms crossed, biting the inside of his cheek. Then, before Wednesday could stop him, he lifted her as though she were merely a bag of coffee beans. Wednesday fought with any strength she had left, but honestly, it wasn't much. Her efforts were mostly in vain, but she gave everything she had, clawing and punching and trying to wriggle out of his grip like a feral cat.
“Hey, stop that—” Tyler huffed, apparently annoyed that she had the gall to be fighting him.
“If you’re going to drown me, or bury me alive, or kick me down a ravine, let’s not,” Wednesday rasped, “I’m not far from death. Just let me be.”
Let me die here.
At least they won't have to move me far to bury me.
She didn’t think she’d ever be in a situation of begging someone for anything, especially not Tyler, and especially not for her death.
“I thought that would excite you?” Tyler asked with a raised eyebrow, evenly, as though her barbed words were hardly registering as offensive to him.
“Well,” Wednesday sucked in, feeling the cold November air tear down her throat, but had no good answer. They were farther into the woods now.
“As unbelievable as it is, Wednesday, I’m actually trying to save you.”
It was unbelievable. In fact, she didn’t believe him for a second. She started kicking with more gusto, sure that he was lying to her up until the bitter end. Tyler managed to keep hold of her well until she bit down on his hand, biting through the skin, tasting fresh blood well between her lips. If she could have gotten a finger in her mouth, she would have snapped it clean off, as easily as biting down on a carrot.
Tyler swore and dropped her. Wednesday rolled in the dead leaves, kicking herself as far away from Tyler as she could, which wasn’t very far. She saw the blood trail she left, her stomach dragging on the forest floor, and she was reminded quite painfully just how close to snapping her mortal coil she was.
She knew she wouldn't make it far, so she pressed herself against a tree, fingers helplessly grasping the woods for anything that could be a weapon; a large rock, a sharp stick...even a prickly pinecone could do some damage.
If Tyler was going to kill her for sure, Wednesday would draw as much blood from him as she fucking could.
“Why?” Wednesday snarled, “Why should I believe you? Your master wouldn’t want me alive.” She reminded with a hard snarl.
"I am following her directions." Tyler shook out the hand she’d sunk her teeth into, sucking in through his teeth. Droplets of blood freckled the dead leaves beneath the pair. “She said to 'get rid of you',”
“You know what that means. I know what that means,” Wednesday said, not liking being played a fool. She pressed farther up the tree, her boots sliding in the mud beneath her. It soaked into her pants. She was wet, cold, and shivering, but this would not be her end.
Not unless she could take him with her.
“Yeah, right, but that’s the thing about the commands...they’re open for interpretation. If I make you disappear, by any means, I’m not doing anything against what she wants.” Tyler said.
“When Gates finds out, your little plan won’t really matter.”
Tyler gave a haunted grin, “Who says she’s going to find out?” He asked, as though he knew some great secret she didn’t.
“Why?” Wednesday demanded, hoisting her body against a tree, leaning to keep as much of her insides in her body as she could.
“Why, what?”
“Why would you help me…if your intention isn’t to kill me?”
Tyler examined Wednesday for a few long moments, and she was almost sure that there was some nostalgic sympathy swimming behind his eyes. But the longer she stared, the less sure it was there as he focused on her labored breaths on the forest floor.
“Because…” Tyler finally said, “Her goal is to eradicate outcasts. I don’t have plans for that to happen to me.”
“How selfless,” Wednesday sneered.
“Look,” Tyler threw out his hands, “I’m working with what I have here, ok?” He demanded, “Now, will you let me carry you?”
“To Nevermore, yes.”
Tyler gave a long shake of his head, “Naw, no. No go.”
“Crackstone is going to destroy it—”
“Someone will come up with something. And Laurel doesn’t like to lose. Did she tell you her stupid comment about outsmarting outcasts?”
Wednesday gave a low, pained nod.
“Then, as idiotic as that was, you have to know…Laurel always has a plan C, D, or even E if things go really sour. I’d imagine if they manage to get Crackstone under control, even just temporarily, Laurel knows you’re the one who could kill him. So she’ll make sure that won’t happen.”
“She already stabbed me,” Wednesday pointed out, trying not to breathe in too deeply.
“Sure, but you’re a cockroach,” Tyler said, and it almost sounded like a compliment. “She’s not sure you’ll stay dead. So I was plan 'B'. But she wouldn't take chances.”
“Well, then I’ll go back and send his dusty, crepid ass back to where he came,” Wednesday coughed, “Just give me a few minutes to get my strength back.”
“Sure, if you weren’t arrested on the spot.”
“Me?” Wednesday echoed, and then, “Me?”
Tyler gave her a withering look, "Plan 'C'."
"I'm sure you'll be so good as to enlighten me," Wednesday muttered, sliding down the tree in half-defeat. She was exhausted. The idea of rallying to kill a ghost seemed more than she could take, but she wasn't about to let Tyler know such things.
“Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday…” Tyler shook his head, “You made it too easy for Laurel, you know? Withdrawn, taciturn, aloof…the makings of a sociopath. Your obsession with death and dismemberment. Your doggedness to get a journal about Crackstone. This crypt being a special place for you…and of course, Rowan’s drawing.”
Wednesday gave a short laugh. “No one will believe I tried to resurrect him, even with all that,” She said, “Try harder.”
Weak. I see why that wasn't plan 'A', Gates.
“They might…” Tyler said, “If a siren tells them.”
Wednesday examined his face. “Gates is bluffing,” She said slowly, “She couldn’t…she…who…”
“I don’t know,” Tyler locked his jaw, “But I do know that Laurel wants to make damn sure you’re not around to ruin things, one way or another. And as you’ve said, you don’t seem far from her plans all coming true.”
“Yes…” Wednesday tried to fight through the excruciating pain of near-death. In any other situation, she’d welcome it, but part of her was genuinely worried that this may be the day she met her maker, “About that. We’re not going to get very far without handling this.”
Tyler’s eyes snapped down to her stomach. He took out his phone flashlight and, in the dim lighting, examined her wound with a hardened expression.
“You’re going to want to ditch that,” Wednesday said, and Tyler looked up, frowning, “You’d think a son of a sheriff would have more sense.”
“One problem at a time.” Tyler’s fingers ghosted the jagged cut, and Wednesday jerked away, flinching, “That’s deep.”
“Yes,” Wednesday said, “Knicked some things it probably shouldn’t have. I think I’m about an hour from bleeding out. Less, if I'm being honest.”
“That won’t do,” Tyler grumbled. He stood, taking off his flannel, and ripped it. He held Wednesday in place as he began tying it tightly around her, “Jesus, stop moving, I’m trying to keep you from certain death!”
“Tighter,” Wednesday gave a choked gasp, “Or else the pressure won’t matter.”
Tyler gave a stern nod and knotted it so much that it nearly squeezed the wind from her chest, but at least it would keep her innards where they were meant to be.
“What’s your next grand plan?” Wednesday asked, shakily trying to stand, “This won’t last.”
“I know,” Tyler groaned, running a blood-stained hand down his face, painting streaks of dark brown on his cheeks. He paused, grinding his teeth, before nodding to himself, “Alright, alright. I know a guy.”
“You know a guy?” Wednesday asked dubiously.
“I would save your energy.” Tyler said, eyes fixing on her, “I’m trying to save your life. Meet me halfway, Addams.”
“I always will have energy to get under your skin,” Wednesday said with a self-satisfied smirk, glad to see that she still had some effect on him. She had thought that he’d gotten the upper hand, but it seemed he’d just won the battle, not the war.
She didn’t like being beholden to him with a debt to owe, but she’d finagle that to her liking one way or another soon enough.
Her legs were shaky, barely holding her. She took two steps, slow and agonizing, but Tyler grasped her by her legs, throwing her over his shoulder.
“I will stab you through the back, right through your heart,” Wednesday threatened, lip curling.
“Too slow. Time is not on our side,” Tyler said, mostly dismissing her threats, starting to walk quickly through the woods. There was a second boat, presumably for Tyler to return after he had killed Wednesday, or buried her body somewhere in the woods. He dropped her into it ungracefully, like a sack of potatoes, without pomp and circumstance, and began rowing. Wednesday wobbled herself onto a seat, pressing a hand against her stomach. She could feel her pulse, thready and tired, dragged with a slowness that concerned her.
But she had to focus on something else right now.
“Aren’t you worried?” She asked after a moment, “That Laurel will just command you back to her?”
The moon lit up only half of Tyler’s face, stony and unlike the boy she had thought she’d known. He shrugged.
“This is all for naught if she can just make you do her bidding when she realizes you’re not back yet.”
“I have to be able to hear her to have the command stick. If I stay away from her…” He trailed off.
“And you’ve tried this?” Wednesday asked, surprised. But there was so little known about Hydeds or Masters, but this seemed like a natural loophole that would be more commonly exploited if it were true, right?
“First time for everything,” Tyler replied.
“So you could be told to turn into a bloodthirsty beast at any moment and rip me limb from limb without any objection?”
“I’m in just as much danger of you as you are of me,” Tyler said, shooting a half-smile. It almost felt out of place, given what had transpired between them in the last 24 hours, that Tyler would give her any compliments at all.
Wednesday raised an eyebrow.
True, I suppose.
But he was safe, at least until her wound was attended to. She knew she wouldn’t get more than ten feet on this lake in her condition.
On the shore, Tyler took off, not toward Nevermore, but toward the town. Rising above the treeline, she saw heavy black smoke like the body of a monstrous bat swirling toward the moon. She paused, a strange emotion curling through her.
Worry.
How…odd.
Tyler noticed her as he kicked the boat back out into the water, hoping to delay their absence by making Laurel think that, perhaps, he was still on the island if no boat was docked next to hers.
“Didn’t think you cared about Nevermore?” He challenged, “Or what? Have your faculties been overcome by sentiment?”
Wednesday turned away, “No. Of course not.”
Don't think of Enid. Don't think of Eugene. Don't think of Xavier. They're all stronger than you're giving them credit for; worrying about them offends their strengths. They'll be fine.
... I just hope Thing was smart enough to run.
They hobbled toward the road.
“Have a getaway car somewhere?” She asked, surveying the empty highway.
“God, I wish. This was much more…spur of the moment.”
“It was?” Wednesday was surprised. What about this moment had spurred him to disobey his master? “Why?” She demanded.
Tyler hesitated, glancing back at her, his lips parted as he wavered, unwilling to tell her what seemed to be a sort of truth. Before he could answer, and she now knew she’d need to dig it out of him, a car spun around the corner.
“There’s our ride,” Tyler mumbled, and before Wednesday could ask what he meant by that, Tyler pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans, surprising Wednesday even further. He seemed to do that frequently, a realization she did not wish to dwell long on.
Tyler skidded into the road, pointing the gun and demanding that the driver exit the vehicle. A shaking, sniveling man stumbled out, begging for his life.
“Get in the car, Wen.”
Wednesday locked her jaw. She wasn’t happy with his methods of procurement, and even less so with what he’d called her. But she was desperate.
Tyler got in the driver’s side.
“You call me ‘Wen’ again, I will tear your spine out through your nose.”
Tyler snorted, “Noted.”
“Surprised you have a gun when you can turn into a six-foot monster.”
“Well,” Tyler’s fingers tapped the steering wheel, “Laurel did teach me one good thing; Plans B, C, and D are just as necessary as Plan A. Hope dear old Dad won't mind I borrowed this. Plus, a Hyde can't drive a car.” He said it like it was an absurd claim, as though she'd been serious. She imagined the Hyde in a four-door sedan, and maybe it was because she was woozy from blood loss, but the thought did make her smile, humored.
He drove fast, so much so that Wednesday was sure that if any cops were around and not dealing with the destruction of Nevermore, they’d be pulled over and the gig would be up. Instead, they met no resistance. Wednesday lolled on the seat, watching blood ooze through the threads of Tyler’s flannel. She focused on that, on the mortalness of all of this, and the way that her blood made her fingers sticky as she rubbed her fingers together.
The car came to a halt.
Wednesday blinked, looking at the back of a brick wall, but a brick wall she knew.
She immediately tried to shuffle away from him, listing over on her side, fear struck through her heart.
It was the police station.
“Hey! Woah, what the hell?” Tyler asked as she kicked out at him, fumbling to unlock the passenger side door, “I’m not taking you into the offices. We’re going to the morgue!”
“What?” Wednesday blinked, looking back at him.
“Best I could do under pressure, alright?” Tyler said, “Someone who can cut up bodies can put one back together, I figure.”
“You’re putting a lot of faith in someone who probably flunked out of their surgical residency,” Wednesday said with a scowl, “Give me a mirror and I could probably do better.”
“You want to try?” Tyler asked, leaning in, calling her bluff, “You want to put your money where your mouth is?”
Wednesday pressed her lips together. She knew that in her state of blood loss, she’d never get her fingers to stop shaking enough to dig around her insides. That’s if she didn’t pass out from the pain; an annoying, very human response to unmedicated surgery.
“Fine.” She finally spat, “Let’s go.”
Tyler picked her up from the passenger side. She had many qualms with allowing him to carry her like this, now in both of his arms, pressed against his chest, but her legs had decided to stop working. All her blood was now going to the necessary places in her body, like her heart.
She felt his heart flutter fast; he was frantic, too, not as cool and collected as he may have wanted her to believe. His fingers dug into her skin, not to hurt, but to keep her tight and safe, as odd as the thought was. It reminded Wednesday of the way her father would scoop her up when she fell asleep mixing poisons in the dungeon as a child, something almost too intimate, made only more so by the way she was bleeding all over him. She cracked her chin up, just a notch, to see his expression tight.
Tyler's eyes flickered down to hers. There was one moment, which felt very long in the span of it all, where his eyes met hers.
Wednesday swallowed thickly, her mouth dry and her lips cracked.
"You'll survive this," Tyler murmured, eyebrows drawing with worry.
It sounded like he was convincing himself.
She felt something in her jerk away at his dulcet tone. "I know that," she spat, "But I might not if you don't hurry up."
Any moment between them was shattered. Tyler snapped his eyes away, rolling his eyes.
The police station was mostly empty; it was easy enough for Tyler to slip down to the bowels of the station, breathing codes under his breath. Thank god Jericho was still stuck a century ago, using pin-pads instead of ID badges.
The new coroner was eating a sandwich, idly scrolling his phone.
“Slow night?” Tyler asked dryly.
The coroner jumped up. Wednesday eyed him; he was much younger than the old one, who was probably better suited for this, but once again, Laurel was making everything extraordinarily difficult for her, in so much that the first coroner she met was dead at her hand. She caught a glimpse of his nametag: Dr. Heron.
“You’re…you’re Galpin’s kid. What…what are you doing here?” Dr. Heron asked, as of right now, confused to see Tyler here, with a half-dead teenager in his arms. It wouldn’t be known yet that Tyler was the murderer of Jericho, Wednesday supposed. No, Donovoan would want to keep that quiet as long as he could…
“Fix her,” Tyler said, nodding down to Wednesday. Wednesday shifted her body to show him the place where Tyler’s knotted shirt was soaked with blood.
“You…you should really go to a hospital…” Dr. Heron stuttered, blinking fast, “I’m not…I’m…”
“Not an option,” Tyler said, giving an eerie and apologetic smile.
“But...I’m not qualified!”
Wednesday turned back, giving Tyler a ‘told you’ sort of look, but Tyler rolled his eyes. Tyler gently set her down, not on the table, but on her feet. Wednesday slouched against the door, trying to keep herself upright, which was a task in itself.
“Well, you’ll have to remember whatever you slept through in med school,” Tyler said, meandering toward the desk. There was a walkie-talkie, turned off, lying on its side. Tyler picked it up, weighing it in his hands, thinking.
“What happened?” Dr. Heron asked.
“The spirit of Joseph Crackstone was resurrected. His ghostly form stabbed me in my stomach,” Wednesday said evenly. Dr. Heron gave a harsh, nervous laugh, clearly not believing her.
“Look, I…” He opened his mouth and then closed it again, “I can’t help. I’m sorry.”
Tyler sighed, turning. He pulled out the gun.
“Sorry, ‘no’ isn’t an option.” He looked at Wendeay. His eyes were burning. It was like she was seeing him for the first time. She had thought that the moment at the police station was his true self, the mask of the doe-eyed small town boy thrown away, but even that was someone else. This moment, where he threatened Dr. Heron with such sureness all for her, even if he claimed that he was saving her life for selfish reasons...something beat fast in her heart.
She told herself it was just her heart working hard to keep her alive.
Tyler gave a near smirk. “Want to get on the table, cockroach?”
Dr. Heron was shaking now, “You can’t just…you…” He started to choke out, but realized Tyler had the radio in his fingers, “I’ll scream!”
Tyler reacted swiftly, with the grace of a tiger stalking prey.
“No, you won’t,” Tyler said, pressing the gun against his temple, moving with a surprising quietness.
“I can’t work under this sort of pressure. All my patients are dead, not alive,” Heron still argued.
“I didn’t ask for excuses.”
Wednesday pulled herself onto the table. As she turned and saw Tyler, the gun against the man’s skin, going these lengths to save her, a strange, unreconizable shiver ran through her. Something she’d felt, briefly, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
As Tyler’s eyes flickered toward her, just for a moment, and as he watched with a near-hunger as she lay out on the cold metal table, untying the flannel shreds to reveal the wound.
“This is extensive—” Heron started to hiss, clearly trying to disengage from any fault, but Tyler placed a firm hand on his shoulder, an ugly smile. It was something unwelcoming, despite the way his lips were upturned on his face.
“She dies, you die. Don’t think I won’t. So I'd do better than your best.”
Dr. Heron glanced around, examining his options. All the cops were gone. The radio in Tyler’s fingers was held tightly. The gun to his head was unwavering.
Wednesday saw the resolve and anger slip into Heron's eyes.
“Fine.”
Tyler's smile cracked into an eerie Cheshire grin.
“Good. Start working.”