A/N: Happy Twelfth Night! Virtual cake and partying for everyone! (Can you tell I licked the inside of the frosting can while making my real cake? ^^") Now to resolve the cliffhanger...or should I put that in the next chapter instead? My, my, I could even wait to reveal it until the actual wedding scene, or the epilogue!

[sound of a crossbow being loaded just out of sight]

...or I could resolve it right now, which is, of course, what I'm going to do! Eheheheheh.

The blinds are open, sunlight streaming into the room- and into my eyes. At home, I'd be stomping over to the window, shutting them forcefully, and burrowing back under the bedclothes.

But, I reflect, leaning back against my fiance's chest, I'm not at home.

Steady pulse rate and breath, my makeshift pillow rising and falling slowly. Over the years, I've learned that he's a heavy sleeper. Or rather, year- to my irritation, he insisted on waiting until I was 18. The memory of the conversation makes me smile slightly.

"Lucas, half of my hobbies aren't legal. The other half only are because nobody else has thought of them yet. So if you think-"

He won, unfortunately, but I've done my best to make up for lost time.

Shifting out of the sunbeam, I idly trace the white, slightly raised lines on Lucas' skin. My right foot touches cold steel tangled in the blankets, reminding me how they got there.

"Every time I think you've reached your limits," I whisper, gently pressing a kiss to the scar closest to his heart. It's true- if the man has a pain threshold, I don't seem to have found it yet. I'm not easily impressed, but somehow the gangly young man beside me has managed the impossible.

My lips move slowly up his throat (pausing at a purple-bruised bite mark) to the shell of his ear.

"How do you do it?"

He shifts slightly, eyes half-opening. "Do what, Di?"

"Keep surprising me," I reply.

Lucas, clearly in no mood for conversation, leans up and absently kisses my cheek. Then he makes a vague, noncommital sound, wraps himself tightly in the navy quilt, and closes his eyes. Within minutes, the rhythm of his breathing tells me that he's asleep again.

I roll my eyes. Men.

With one last look at my unconscious lover, I sit up. It's no use trying to follow his example; 11 years of increasingly underhanded sibling rivalry have made me incapable of sleeping much past dawn.

Max, the idiot who shares the apartment, is out for the weekend, but I'd still rather not wander around naked. I glance around the room; my tights are draped over a battered desk chair, and a wad of black cloth on the floor might be underwear. But nothing big enough to cover me is within arm's reach.

Note to self: Put robe on nighstand before getting into throes of desperate, passionate, violent lovemaking.

I sigh, wrap the sheet around myself, and get up, careful not to wake the tangle of blankets and tousled hair beside me. Mercifully, my suitcase ended up only a few steps from the bed, and I somehow had the foresight to pack my bathrobe on top. Shrugging it on and knotting the belt, I start to head for the door- only to have my foot collide with a white, cardboard box.

The previous day's disaster comes flooding back. The nauseatingly pink house, the throng of pastel-clad Beinekes, the pile of gifts still sitting in the trunk of Lucas' Civic.

And the one good part: this box and its contents. I pick up the note sitting on top and open it.

Dear Wednesday,

I was going to write a poem, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea. Instead, I'll get to the point. Like any mother, I've thought about Lucas' wedding for years. Who would be invited, the venue, the food, the music- and, of course, the bride. I expected him to marry one of the nice girls he met in high school or college; you know, polite, fairly intelligent, moderately witty, and generically attractive. For some reason, I thought her name would probably be Jennifer.

I never expected you, and I'm so happy to have been proven wrong. Yes, I had my doubts at first, but the two of you are perfect for each other. And even though we don't agree on everything, I will be proud to have you as a daughter-in-law. Take care of my son, but don't ever underestimate him; he'll fit right in with your family, trust me.

About the gift: I've been making this since Lucas was a baby, planning all along to give it to his future wife. Your mother was nice enough to provide some photos, but it was my idea, so don't be angry at her. I wish there were more of you two together, but I guess that's life. I hope you like it.

Love,

Alice.

I open the box and take out a large, leather-bound scrapbook. "Lucas and Wednesday," reads the card slipped into a laminated title slot, "October 31, 2012." Carefully, I flip through the pages I examined in detail at the party yesterday.

A baby boy, red face crumpled in a wail at the camera. Ink writing accompanying the photo says, "Lucas Matthew Beineke. March 12, 1990. Born at 4:00 AM, Martin George Hospital, Willard, Ohio."

Another newborn, a girl, regarding the viewer with solemn brown eyes. "Wednesday Friday Addams. February 3, 1992. Born at 1:00 AM, Bellevue Hospital Center, New York City."

After these two pages, the setup diverges slightly. But the book still chronicles two lives in parallel photographs.

A toddler grinning proudly next to a snowman taller than he is, his father looking on in the background.

A five-year-old smiling just as broadly (but with a slightly maniacal gleam in her eye) as she shows off a beheaded porcelain doll.

Two boys standing by a lake in the summer, the taller, blond child making rabbit ears behind the other's head.

An adolescent girl with long braids, standing in front of a mausoleum in a black velvet dress, a crossbow in one hand and the corpse of a chihuahua in the other.

A teenage boy in a toga and heavy stage makeup, flanked by a red-haired woman who looks overjoyed and a tall man who does not.

The next-to-last page bears only one photo, and I feel a twinge of pity for Alice. This can't have been easy to find; I didn't even know about it.

A young man and woman, facing each other. She has one hand on his cheek, and he appears to be stroking her short, black hair. They're clearly unaware of the camera, gazing into each other's eyes as if nothing else existed. The caption, handwritten in careful calligraphy, says "Amor Vincit Omnia."

"What are you reading?"

I turn back to Lucas, who's now sitting up in bed. With a smirk, I hold up the scrapbook. He groans and falls back against the pillows.

"Amor vincit omnia," I call over my shoulder as I walk down the hall towards the kitchen. A gift that was actually well-thought-out and drives my beloved crazy. I'll have to remember to thank Alice.

A/N: I hope that wasn't too anticlimactic. And yes, I did say that the box was small in the last chapter; it was a typo and I'm going to fix it.

"Amor Vincit Omnia" is a popular Latin motto that means "Love conquers all." Also, can we agree as a fandom that WxL fluff is ludicrously fun to write? :3