Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or The Addams Family. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Crossover with the Addams Family, because fuck logic, that's why. Set in a post 7x01. Could be a considered a sequel to my other work in this au/crossover universe: "Family Values (and the wonders of biology)."

Disclaimer: Grief/loss/healing, depression, adult language, canon appropriate violence, blood and gore, Eugene goes ham. Please keep in mind that this story will be dark and a bit sadistic in that 'Addams Family' way.

Ruin me (like every good tragedy) with the sharp of your teeth

Chapter Four

He made himself scarce after the initial explanations and a brief reunion. Introducing Michelle and the other men and women who'd followed them from the Saviors compound – at least the ones worth saving – before they were grudgingly accepted and paired off with the others for rehousing.

He didn't want to be there when Daryl told them.

Told them what he'd done.

What he was.

Normally he wouldn't shy away from the consequences of his actions or the inevitable pride that came along with them. But this was different. This was family. His family. The one he'd chosen for himself when the world finally decided to get interesting. And now he was probably going to lose them.

Oh, they were grateful, he knew that much.

Of course they were.

The look on everyone's face when he and Daryl had emerged from the misty gloom had been enough to make it all worth it. Even the messy, lonely part he knew was going to come after the euphoria. They'd been perfect. A blood-spattered nightmare of pale skin, bleeding wounds and exhaustion. And they'd been alive. Gloriously, painfully, alive.

Rosita had even run at him, cussing him out in a flurry of Spanish. Tossing herself right into his chest – just like he'd fantasied about a hundred times. Arms wrapped so tight around his neck that it momentarily cut off his airway and threatened to make things interesting south of the border - so to speak.

Their entourage had been a bit harder to explain.

But thankfully, Daryl had taken care of that.

Turns out Negan hadn't been very popular at all.

Not even among his own.

There had been no real loyalty there.

Only fear.

Which didn't exactly make for strong ties when everything was said and done.

One by one, everyone orbited around checking base. Touching. Laughing. Talking. Crying. Embracing. Making relieved sounds and small, bittersweet smiles. Calling him ridiculous things like 'brave' and worse- 'a hero'. They meant well, but it just made the reality of what came next a thousand times worse because he couldn't help but memorize every single moment. Immortalizing them in his memory so that he could call them up in leaner times. To think of them with the sort of fondness they'd managed to inspire in him over time.

He slipped away as soon as he'd seen an opening.

And as a form of retreat, it wasn't even the closest thing to being dignified.


He was in the middle of quietly packing everything he owned when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Blood-stained and filthy. He held back a conflicted cringe. Christ, he'd forgotten. On one hand, the Addams part of him cooed that he'd never looked better. That he'd never so strongly resembled the ancient potential of his glorious lineage. But the other part – the part that'd been slowly tainted by normalcy over the past two years - realized that it was just another tell the others wouldn't have been able to miss.

A normal person would have probably been curled up somewhere, stomach-sick and wracked with guilt - or at the very least shock. They would be flat and rocking in a shower, scrubbing like Macbeth on already raw skin. Out, out damned spot!

But not an Addams.

An Addams wouldn't shower for a week.

An Addams would have a portrait painted to memorialize it in all it's glory.

An Addams would enjoy every moment of it's slowly putrefying richness.

But him?

His middle ground had been forgetting it was even there.

Negan's blood had smudge-dried across his skin in thick arterial arcs. The kind that needed a shower and a good scrubbing to get ride of. He knew that much from experience. His eyes flicked over to the shower before ranging back to his expression. Realizing somewhere along the line that he was tired as the weight of the last week pull at him in a way it hadn't in a long time.

But instead of shucking off his clothes and dialing up the water as hot as he could stand, he just leaned against the counter, tracing his tongue over his lips. Closing his eyes as he immersed himself in the taste. Wondering off-hand if one could detect the particular brand of sadism the man had subscribed to. The blood was the worst on the lower half of his face. Slathered thick and unmistakable from where he'd worried the chewed up tangle of veins and nerves before ripping out the throat with his teeth. Swallowing the piping richness as Negan's eyes watched him with dawning comprehension - blood-shot wide and fading.

Daryl knew.

Daryl had seen.

He hadn't said a word when he'd kicked the soft of Negan's leaking corpse away and crossed the room in a trail of pat-pat-pattering crimson. Breaking the paddock of the iron cage with one deft hammer of his fist before helping him to his feet. He didn't have too.

Nothing that happened would change the truth he'd seen with his own eyes.

He was probably telling them all right now.

Telling them how he'd don't it.

How he'd enjoyed it.

How he was different.

Dangerous.

Wrong.

That he was a second-time pathological liar.

That he wasn't to be trusted.

Not around them.

Not around Carl.

Not around Judith.

Not around anyone.


He was still standing there, staring blankly at his reflection, desperately wishing he could undo the last week and a bit in full, when Maggie appeared in the doorway behind him.

He stiffened, but didn't turn. Instead, he clung to the counter for dear life. Blunt nails etching shallow grooves into the granite before he checked himself and relented. Denying himself the sweet pain he was craving as she took a step inside the room, then another. He swallowed, hard. Part of him genuinely frightened by the thin, hollow-eyed wisp of her as she put her weight down with every step cautiously. Like she was still unsure her legs would hold her. Gaining strength by the day but still no where close to being healed.

He hadn't expected them to send her.

Rosita maybe.

He'd expected strong bodies and capable hands.

Rick. Tobin. Aaron. Spencer.

Michonne with her katana and Sasha with her sniper rifle.

But not her.

They watched each other for a long time without words.

Seizing each other up.

Reminiscing.

Zoning out.

He could sense the strength underneath her skin.

The kind that didn't lend itself so much to muscle and sinew, but to the more difficult stuff.

It was the stuff that kept you moving in the end.

That made you want to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

She would make a good a leader.

A good mother.

But the jury was still out on whether she'd be allowed to become either.

When she finally nodded towards the shut toilet lid, he folded down on top of the porcelain like she had the remote to his legs. Suddenly somewhere beyond exhausted as she took down a wash cloth and wetted it in the sink. Coming up to stand beside him as the sodden cloth domed water across the shining bathroom tiles.

"Let me," she murmured.

So he did.


"I saw your pack on the bed," she started. Rubbing at the caked red in growingly hard circles as the dried gore proved as difficult to wipe off as he'd feared. He wondered if that was a metaphor for something. At this point he was too drained to care. "Going somewhere?"

"I reckoned it would be more polite than waiting for you guys to ask, considerin'," he answered honestly. Hating the slight, wavering tremor in his voice that betrayed just how much he wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

He didn't want to go.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted-

"Why? Why do you think you need to go?" she uttered quietly. It was a soft challenge. But a challenge nonetheless.

In his mind's eye his hand remembered the soft gush of tearing skin.

The silent scream of cells and platelets tearing.

The reverberation of tissue and bone clunking against his fist before-

"Daryl told you."

"He did," Maggie answered, one hand resting on her hip in that way she had. "He told us you saved him. That you killed Negan. That you got him and those other people out."

He shook his head, able to read between the lines. Knowing that while Daryl wouldn't have gone into detail – whether because of misplaced loyalty or merely the more evasive detriments of his less than favorable upbringing – he wouldn't have been able to skip over it either. Not after what he'd done. Not just the depraved acted he'd committed willingly and with relish. But the fact that he'd enjoyed it. That it'd been the equivalent of blowing off steam and reaping his fair share of vengeance all in the same messy whirlwind of disaster. And it'd shown on his face as bright as a child on Christmas morning.

"He told you how, he told you the truth, that's enough."

"No it isn't," she insisted, setting the wash cloth down the counter as he flexed his jaw from side to side, idly checking for the dry-catch of any missed smears. "It doesn't matter how. It's over. Done. You did that. And now we can heal, all of us."

His tongue wet across his lower lip. Aware that by omission he was calling attention to what he wanted them to forget. That he wasn't like them. Normal. That he was different. That he didn't think like them. Didn't subscribe to the same rules or ideals or moral codes. That deep down he was wired differently- genetically, mentally, all of it. That they were not the same and yet-

She'd been so strong in the clearing. Just as strong as she was now in front of him. Owning her pain and swallowing every shade as she'd gotten to her feet and said the only thing that'd made sense to him in hours. That they had to fight him. That Negan had to die. That-

"His death should have been yours, it belonged to you, to Sasha," he tried to explain. Clenching his fists until the healing scabs broke open again and the warmth of his own red trickled thinly between his fingers. "I'm sorry, I should have let you. But I didn't want to risk it. I didn't want to- I couldn't lose anyone else."

She sank down on her haunches in front of him. Taking him by surprise as she gathered his right fist in her hands and soothed the fading warmth of the cloth over the worst of splitting scabs.

"His death belonged to all of us. You know I can't thank you enough for it. No matter what happens or what you decide to do, I hope you know that," she said simply, lashes dark and fluttering as they graced the punched-deep hollows under her eyes. The softness of it made his throat itch but he held his ground.

This was important.

"But if you want to- if you want to tell us. We'll listen. I'm not going to lie to you, the others are out there. They want answers. They want to understand. But I can tell you right now there is nothing you can say that would make that backpack necessary. You're part of this family, Eugene. That hasn't changed. And family sticks together."

He expelled the breath of air he was holding in a single explosive rush. Ruffling the fringe of her short hair in a way that made her smile before he chanced a nod. Not quite believing it, but wanting to as he extended a hand and helped her rise. Holding her hand in his in what was perhaps the most delicate clasp he'd ever struggled through as her smile reflected back, tremendous and butterfly-fragile.

His family.

He couldn't deny it didn't have a certain ring to it.

"Ready?"

A hopeful smile settled across his face like a steel trap hidden in a vibrant gully-valley. Able to sense the multitude of emotions issuing from the other room. Knowing each of their scents and sounds like he did his own. The tones of Abraham and Glenn lingering but now ringing hollow – flat. Already slowly fading.

"I think we're both surely about to find out," he answered quietly.

He owed it to Glenn and Abraham to at least try, after all.


A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.