This is just a little story based around the personalities and antics of the Addams.' You may notice that I don't strictly adhere to either the movies or the TV show – I borrow from each all the parts I love the most. (I have to add also that I'm a big fan of the fanfiction of BleedTheScene and LittleObsessions so sometimes I find that their interpretations of the characters bleed into my own feelings about them as well!) Please Review!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to the Addams' Family

Part One: A typical morning

Morticia opened her eyes in the languorous manner of a large predatory cat. The sight warmed his heart as much as it triggered that innate flight or fight response when the body sensed danger. But that was his love for her, equal parts the protective devotion of a person to a precious but fragile treasure, the deep-rooted tinglings of the fear one feels when cornered suddenly by a sleek but deadly predator, and that undeniable lust incited by both. As she rolled over and turned those feline eyes on him, her expression of irritation triggered by the sun in her eyes melted into a heartbreaking expression of contentment when they fell upon her one true love, Gomez. Long past were the days for poetic speeches and revelations of deep and undying love. Instead, the lovers gazed upon the one face they'd never tire of and could never exist without.

"Cara mia," Gomez whispered, lightly as a breath.

"Mon cher," Morticia responded, just as quietly.

And they passed the early morning hours, shut in by heavy drapes, staring into each other's eyes in the candlelight, defying the sun to interrupt their bliss.

Down the hall, another Addams passed the morning in a slightly different manner. Pugsley awoke stiffly, noticing first a pain in his neck, followed by the strangest sensation of disorientation, as if he was no longer in his bedroom. As he opened his eyes with a groan, and prepared to roll from his bed of nails (for that was truly the best way to get the full, piercing effect of the bed) inherited from his uncle, he noticed that someone had rearranged his room. All the furniture was pushed around, but, wait, that couldn't be right. There's no way that Wednesday or Pubert could have glued all of his things to the ceiling. Attempting to swing his legs off what he imagined was his bed, Pugsley noted he couldn't move his legs at all, or his arms for that matter. Attempting to crane his neck to find the cause of his paralysis, Pugsley found that Wednesday, or Pubert, or the two of them together for that matter, had replaced his bed with a St. Peter's Cross and had chained him to it in his sleep. Sighing, Pugsley thought, "It's good to be home."

The rest of the Addams family passed the early morning in their typical fashion. Lurch was already hard at work hanging cobwebs from portraits and chandeliers and trying to decide whether he'd poison the plants in the conservatory next or head down and skim the swamp instead. Growling, Lurch reveled in the pleasantries of his job. Mama, who could rarely sleep, had been up most of the night, reading cookbooks and conjuring spirits, or was it cooking up spirits? Her insomnia had the cheerful side effect of hastening senility, a disorder she was enjoying immensely. The rest of the family was happy with the transition as well. Mama's crumbling ability to focus on one task at a time had a fortuitous culinary side effect. Mama's cooking had taken a turn toward more adventurous, creative, unappetizing, and frequently downright poisonous fare, which was boisterously applauded by the family at large.

Uncle Fester, who, after his disastrous romance with Debby had finally found his soul mate in Dementia and had moved out of the Addams mansion into an equally decrepit, swamp-bordered chalet across town, awoke to find himself chained to his own, now king-sized bed of nails, with his beloved Dementia staring down at him from across the room, bullwhip in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

"Good morning, my dear," said Fester, smiling despite his vulnerable position.

"A good morning it is," said Dementia with a slightly wicked, but in Fester's estimation, downright gorgeous smile. "I thought you might like a little morning pick-me-up."

"We did have a late night, out moon bathing. The moon was quite strong. You know, I think I got moon burn," said Fester craning to look at the exposed skin on his arms and legs.

"It was a beautiful night, indeed. So I thought I'd give you a choice of a pick-me-up," she gestured with the coffee, "coffee, or…" and then lifted the bull whip, that wicked smile gleaming in her eyes, "a pick-me-up of a different sort."

Fester stared at both items, shifting his head first to the left, to gaze at the coffee, and then to the right. Left, right, left, right, back and forth Fester's head shifted as Dementia's face shifted from an anticipatory smile, to confusion, and finally to annoyance as her sweet, combustible husband continued to amaze her with his serious lack of education in the school of romance. She decided to take matters into her own hands and use this as another opportunity to teach Fester the art of the bullwhip, and of the bedroom. Setting the coffee aside, Dementia said, "Here, let me show you my version of a pick-me-up."

Back at the Addams' mansion, Wednesday and Thing were in the playroom sorting through the family's accumulated weaponry, torture devices, and various "relaxation" apparatuses such as the rack, the iron maiden, and St. Andrew's Cross. Suddenly, Pubert burst into the room, just as Wednesday chucked a thumbscrew over her shoulder, missing his eye by inches. "Wednesday!" Pubert shouted.

Wednesday prided herself on never being scared, let alone startled, but she jumped slightly when Pubert bounded into the room. Turning her head slowly to hide any shock left on her face, Wednesday sneered at her younger brother. His usually perfectly combed and oiled hair was completely tousled and his moustache was askew. The little boy, now 6 years old, looked positively elated. He proceeded, in the typical manner of 6 year olds (that is, speaking very rapidly and without pausing to breathe) and the highly atypical manner for the usually astute Pubert, to tell Wednesday how Pugsley had awoken to find himself in the predicament that he and Wednesday had inflicted upon him, and how he had shaken the chains so loudly and fiercely that Mother and Father had raced into his room, thinking that cousin Creep had left the tunnel and had come in for a visit.

Pubert continued, "Mother and Father were so disappointed that it was not cousin Creep. Father even scolded Pugsley for rousing them so early." Pubert laughed. "Pugsley apologized of course, but explained that he was only trying to summon Lurch, because he couldn't unhook the last lock by himself." Pubert continued, "Father chuckled and said, 'Pugsley, old boy, you're going to have to keep on with your escape tactics, Little Pubert is really coming along with his restraint-tying."

Pubert beamed at the memory and Wednesday had to snicker at how perfectly Pubert mimicked their father's voice. Wanting to hear how or if Pugsley finally managed to escape his chains, and feeling somewhat proud of Pubert, both for his help that morning and for his uncanny ability to hide and overhear conversations all over the house, Wednesday prompted Pubert continue, "Then what?"

Pubert puffed himself to his full height and concluded the story, "Well, Pugsley murmured something like, 'Yes Father,' and then grumbled under his breath that he had managed to get three of the four restraints off by himself thank you very much and upside-down to boot, when Father finally rung for Lurch to get Pugsley down."

Like many 6 year olds' stories, Wednesday had to admit that this story had a slightly disappointing ending. There was no bloodshed, no one died, and no one was even seriously hurt. But still, it was a good morning's work inconveniencing Pugsley and building up Pubert's confidence with chains. Wednesday felt her quota of "good deeds" for the day was more than filled, so she excused herself, grabbed her iPod and her sketch pad and headed out in the graveyard. There, with the sun hidden behind scores of dead and dying trees and the gothic mausoleums of her ancestors, she could listen to music, draw out her next sadistic plan for her brothers or parents, and avoid whatever family bonding her parents had planned for them that day.

Meanwhile, Pugsley was still feeling the sting of his morning wake up call, as both his wrists and ankles throbbed from the bite of the chains and his ego felt slightly wounded from being bested by his little brother. However, he had to admit, the kid had style. Still, Pugsley knew the little brute couldn't have acted alone, and, well, now that he thought about it, it HAD been awhile since he'd acted against his sister. He'd have to be very crafty because he knew that Wednesday was not only always on the defensive and thus prepared for anything, but also that she had a sadistic imagination to rival the Marquis de Sade himself.

Planning and scheming had never really been strong points in Pugsley's arsenal. Sure, he was great with chemicals, could butcher just about anything, tie a mean knot and escape (almost) any restraints put on him, but strategy and craftiness he usually just left up to his sister. A fearless man, Pugsley preferred the direct approach, willing to rely on his brawn and assorted skills to take over where strategy failed. But such an approach would not work with Wednesday. She was very familiar with Pugsley's skills, and weaknesses for that matter.

Pugsley smiled internally. Despite his annoyance with his sister, in general he was very proud of how she'd grown up. He remembered how he'd indulged her over the years, playing her sadistic games, enduring her assorted tortures. He was always proud of each new apparatus she'd come up with, always enjoyed the way her pleasure in inflicting pain lit up her usually stoic face, and, while he'd never admit it, he too found pleasure in pain, the way fear turned into anticipation and how violence made him feel alive and powerful. He sighed with the memories and then frowned as he contemplated the complex task ahead of him.

Across town, Fester and Dementia lay panting and exhausted on their bed. With sleepy eyes, Dementia surveyed the damage. A few cuts and scrapes over her body where the bed of nails had gotten a bit frisky, but otherwise, she felt perfectly whole. Slightly disappointed, she made a mental note to sharpen the bed later that day. Fester and the room as a whole were in much worse shape. Fester's right eye was swollen shut from a bullwhip strike that had gotten away from her. Pity and arousal warred inside of her at the sight of it. Cuts and blossoming bruises decorated his chest, but the contented look on his exhausted and sated face nearly brought her to tears. The headboard suffered from minor damage - some nicks and scratches that brought out the color of the room nicely. A few shattered lamps, pools of cooled black and red candle wax, and an attractive streak of Fester's blood coated the floor. Sighing, she curled back into bed and kissed her husband on the cheek.

"Good morning," she said again.

"Now let's not start that again," said Fester with a smile. "I've had a good enough morning this morning to last me …" He trailed off. "Well, until tomorrow morning at least," he finished laughing.

Dementia couldn't help but laugh along with him. Her first step out of bed landed directly on a rogue piece of glass, "Ouch!" she cried. And as the blood from her foot mingled with the debris on the floor, Dementia groaned. "I guess we'll have to clean up this lovely mess after all. I don't want to go around with bleeding feet all the time."

Fester, looking disappointed, said, "I guess you're right, although it's a damn shame. Your feet are so becoming that way." And the lovers smiled with the ardor of new love as Dementia pulled on a noose suspended from the ceiling (a gift from Morticia for their wedding) to summon their new housekeeper, Totter (a gift from Gomez. Apparently he tracked her down using the same service from which they hired Lurch).

Fester headed for the door. "I'll leave you to arrange things with Totter. I'll meet you downstairs for some breakfast and then perhaps I can show you the new explosive package I've rigged up. I know you'll get a bang out of it!" Dementia nodded and chuckled indulgently as Fester scampered down the stairs.

When Totter, small and pixie-like, skipped into the room, her face immediately shifted from serene and detached to awed and amazed.

"Ms. Dementia," she chirped in her high melodious voice, "I LOVE what you've done with this room!" Then, remembering herself, she added in a slightly more professional tone, "What can I do for you this morning, ma'am?"

Dementia smiled, appreciating both the girl's taste and her energy, but answered gravely, "Unfortunately, I cannot keep the room as it is. Although the cuts on my feet are becoming, I fear they may be hard on my shoes. I would prefer, however, if you could clean the glass up without taking away from the spirit of the mess. It's so ghastly. I wouldn't want to ruin that."

"Absolutely, ma'am. I'm right on it!" Totter exclaimed. Pleased with her housekeeper and with the absolute bliss of her life, Dementia hurried down the stairs, eager to see what culinary experiment her husband had concocted for lunch.

Across town, Morticia gazed across the table at the melancholic face and downcast eyes of her husband. "Gomez," she scolded, "You have barely touched your brisket of warthog or your sweet-and-sour stinkbug stew! What will Mama think?"

"Ah yes, dear, of course, you're right," he answered half-heartedly. He lifted a spoonful of stew, but plopped it down before bringing it to his lips.

"It's just that, well, I was so sure I heard Old Creepy that, upon discovering that it wasn't him after all, well, I'm just feeling a bit disappointed," Gomez explained. He looked up into the skeptical eyes of his overly insightful wife. Sighing heavily, Gomez admitted the heart of the matter. "The truth is, with Fester moving out and the children spending most of the year away at school, I miss having family around. We hardly ever have guests by, and it's been ages since we've thrown a party. Creepy spends all his time in that tunnel, Aunt Drip and Uncle Droop have been missing for over 3 years, Lumpy's practically a man now, and the Amore twins haven't been released from the Mental Institution in months now. I'm feeling, what is it they call it? 'empty nest'?" Chagrin flushed his cheeks as Gomez realized that he sounded more like an aging soccer mom than a hot-blooded Castilian man. Thankfully, when he looked up at Morticia, her face wore only understanding and sympathy.

"I understand darling. I often get those same delicious pangs of nostalgia for the old days. Our little monsters are almost grown now. It's been years since Pugsley has needed me to check his gunpowder mix before blowing up the attic." Morticia grinned with the memory before her face crumpled into concern.

"And Wednesday almost never poisons our food or puts bear traps in our bed anymore. She's outgrown such childish games," Gomez added with a look of despair bordering on panic. "And Pubert just yesterday asked me to refrain from shackling him to the bed as per usual. He even asked when he could get his big boy nail bed like the one Pugsley has." The panic was very clear on Gomez's face and with a rapid moment he was suddenly kneeling at his wife's side and grasping her hand with an intensity that both frightened her and aroused her. "Cara mia," he cried, "What shall we do?"

Caressing his cheek with her long, red, pointed nails, Morticia crooned, "Calm yourself, darling Gomez. Truly time does not move as fast as it seems. We still have many years with Pubert in the house, and Pugsley and Wednesday too, despite their months away at school. We will have the joy of their company and antics while they are here, and the piercing agony when they are away."

Her voice curled around the word 'agony, ' caressing it as she had his cheek. He couldn't help the tightening in his belly that occurred when she said that word in just that way. Suddenly the thought of an emptier house wasn't so bad. Looking up at her, understanding her meaning perfectly, he replied, "Either way, what bliss."