A/N: What? All the other TAF musical-verse authors are doing it!
As usual, I don't own any character, setting, or weapon involved. In my head-canon, Lucas is two years older than Wednesday, meaning that they met when he was 18 and she was 16. Don't worry; nothing illegal happened. ;)
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I should have turned and run the moment I saw him. But how was I to know this gangly, awkward-looking boy would be my downfall?
He didn't look so impressive, standing there between the trees with pine needles in his tousled brown hair. His white Oxford shirt bore a large dirt stain, one sleeve had been ripped loose, and he was staring with a fish-like expression at my quarry.
My quarry. Therein lay the problem. The only way to retrieve the pigeon that lay neatly pierced by my arrow would be to venture into the open. It would mean that horror of horrors- contact with an outsider.
It's worth noting, at this point, that I'd had it up to here with "normal." Four years of homeschooling couldn't erase what I'd come to realize during fifth and sixth grade: that my family was anything but normal. I hated knowing it, hated being able to see why the rest of the world looked at us and cringed, but that's not the kind of thing you can forget. And every reminder stung.
So when this boy came into sight, with his khaki pants and slight tan and confused green eyes, I considered just shooting him. Unfortunately, the pine branch chose that moment to give way under me.
The boy's head jolted up at the resulting thump!; before I could find a new place to hide, his eyes found mine.
Instantly, his entire body seemed to relax. "Oh, thank god. I'm kind of lost, can you…"
He trailed off as I stood and pointed my already-loaded crossbow in his direction.
"Um…or not. That's fine," he stammered, backing away.
Keeping my gaze and bow trained on him, I slowly stepped onto the path and grabbed the pigeon.
"You shot that?" he asked, eyes growing still wider. "Is hunting even legal here?"
Silently, I backed toward the cover of the trees. When I reached the edge of the comforting shadow, I lowered my weapon.
"Go away," I said, gesturing. "The city's over there."
Before I'd gone two steps toward home, however, the sound of his voice stopped me.
"Goddess of the green woods, to whom heaven and earth and sea are visible, queen of the deep, dark realm of Pluto, keep me now from your wrath and vengeance."
If he'd thrown a rabid wolf at my head, it would have been less surprising. I half-turned.
"Chaucer."
"The Knight's Tale. Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin completely at odds with his previous recitation, "but I couldn't think of another way to make you stay."
Slowly, I stepped back into the clearing. "Why do you want me to stay?"
He shrugged. "You hunt pigeons from a tree in Central Park. You don't look like anyone I've ever seen. And you understood my reference, which makes you doubly interesting. Who are you?"
The mention of my appearance had touched that hated sore spot. Raising my bow again, I advanced on him, backing him up against an autumn-bare oak.
"Your worst nightmare. Remember what Diana did to men? That's you if you don't leave, now."
I shouldered my bow, turned, and strode off across the rustling carpet of dead leaves. It really didn't matter to me whether he stayed or went. He could stand there until December and starve to death for all I cared. As long as he didn't-
A hand touched my shoulder, and I stiffened.
-follow me.
"Are you a masochist, or just an idiot?" I ground out.
He released my shoulder. "Look. I'm a freshman in college. I'm from Ohio, and I know exactly nobody in New York."
Against my better judgment, against every brain cell but a few traitorous ones, I turned to face him again.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"I don't know," he sighed. "Just conversation, I guess. I haven't even talked to anyone my age here since the semester started- much less a girl. Much less a girl who knows Chaucer."
As if he could see my interest waning, he took a step towards me and said, in a slightly desperate tone, "Are you here every day?"
I raised one eyebrow. That sounded suspiciously like something my empty-headed, giggling classmates in sixth grade had talked about.
"Are you asking me if I come here often?"
"Yes. Wait- no! Not like…"
A blush flared in his cheeks as he frantically tried to backpedal. A strange feeling began in the pit of my stomach; I tried to write it off as one of Pugsley's unsuccessful poisoning attempts. After all, nothing made me laugh, or even want to.
"Look." The Boy was speaking again, and I hurriedly pulled my attention back to his words. "I didn't mean to get off on the wrong foot. I'll go; I promise. But could you at least tell me your name?"
He looked so forlorn, standing there in torn and dirty clothing, lost and a bit despondent that I pitied him. Pity was acceptable, and that was all I felt for this stranger. It certainly wasn't that I liked him or anything silly like that.
Although, those few evil brain cells whispered, he did quote Chaucer. And he still wanted to talk to you even after you threatened him with a crossbow.
But surely that indicated stupidity, not courage. And anyone could learn Chaucer. It didn't mean anything. Still, there was that pity.
I raised my eyes to his. "Wednesday. Wednesday Addams."
"I'm Lucas Beineke." He didn't try to shake hands, something the tiny, treacherous part of my mind noted with interest.
My husband has told me in the years since that he was wondering, at that moment, whether to ask for my phone number. I've told him that if he had, we wouldn't be here: sitting beside the massive parlor fireplace, watching our four-year-old daughter play with her pat rat.
I answered his earlier question with a curt, "I live here," and watched his eyebrows shoot up once more. We parted ways, but something told me he'd be back.
My life changed forever that October day when I was sixteen, even if I didn't know it at the time. I should have turned and run the moment I saw him- but I'm insanely glad I didn't.
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A/N: The quote is from "The Knight's Tale," part of the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. It was written in the late 14th century. The version I've used is translated from the original Middle English; it's a prayer to Diana that's actually being made by a young woman, but with a few lines left out, it fit.