A/N: I didn't intend to finish this chapter tonight, but I just kept writing and the rest is history.
"Joel."
"Yes?"
The rain pattered softly against the windowsill, drenching the tiny roses in their pots on the back porch. Usually, Wednesday loved rain in particular and overcast days in general. Today was different. She continued staring out the kitchen window, leaning on the counter with her chin against her hand.
"We've been married for three years."
"Three years and two hours, my dark angel."
"Why-" she began before she could stop herself. Joel glanced up from his crossword puzzle.
"Why what?" he asked.
Wednesday shook her head and sighed quietly. "Nothing."
And the kitchen was silent again, except for the ticking of the Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall. That in itself was nothing unusual for a Saturday morning, even when both husband and wife were at home. Which they almost always were.
She knew the room by heart, without even turning around to look at it. Eggshell-colored walls, maple-wood counters wrapping around the walls with matching cabinets beneath. A large ceramic plate brought back by Selma Glicker from a trip to France, painted in the bright blues and yellows typical for Provence. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling rack above the stove. And the clock on the wall, tracking the passage of the day with its omnipresent tick…tick…tick…
"Wednesday?"
Another woman might have jumped, but the man with his hand now on her shoulder felt only a slight tensing of her muscles at his voice. "What?"
Joel chuckled, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "Relax, fleur d'morte. It's just me." He leaned over, pressing his lips to her cheek.
"Joel…" she began, and pulled away slightly. Her husband frowned.
"What's wrong, dearest?"
"It's just…why do you call me that?"
The young man enfolded her in his arms, his argyle sweater-vest rough against her cheek. "Because I love you, Wednesday. Don't most couples use pet names?"
"Yes, but-" She pulled away and wandered over to the sink. As she talked, she began scrubbing at the breakfast dishes. "-dark angel, fleur d'morte, goddess of death; it's always like something my father would say."
Joel followed her, once again touching her shoulder; she fought the unwelcome urge to shove him back towards the table. "Beloved, you're an exceptional woman. Ordinary endearments wouldn't suffice to express how much I adore you."
A plate cracked in her hands.
"I mean," he went on, "you're not just some blonde bimbo. You're like some ancient sorceress, like Circe or Medea."
She muttered something in an undertone, and Joel leaned in closer. "What was that?"
"I said," Wednesday repeated as she attacked a mug with a wire brush, "that I like kids."
"What?" His brow furrowed in confusion. Turning off the water and leaning against the cool metal on her elbows, his wife shot him an exasperated look.
"Medea killed her own children. I like kids. Ergo, I'm not really like her, am I?"
Joel blinked; his expression remained uncertain, and the urge to push him redoubled- accompanied by a steadily increasing desire to scream. "But she was a Greek sorceress, right? Sorry, I'm not good with all that mythology stuff."
Beginning to stack plates in a cabinet with rather more force than was necessary, she replied, "Why try if you don't know what you're talking about?"
"Wednesday-"
"Joel, please just shut up!" His eyes widened with hurt behind the glasses, and she tried to tell herself she felt a twinge of guilt rather than slight relief of the pressure in her mind. With a sigh, she reached forward to touch his cheek.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just been a long day."
Maybe because of the contact- initiated by her for once –or maybe for another reason, Joel didn't point out that it was only 9:30 in the morning. Instead, he drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.
"Think nothing of it, my princess of shadows. I understand that sometimes it can be hard to be patient with me- only an average human and in no way worthy of you."
Doing her best to ignore the words, Wednesday rubbed her free hand against the front of her dress to dry it. Then, she closed the distance between them and slipped her arm around Joel's shoulders. Taking his cue from her, he let go of her hand and pulled her into a tight embrace.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her cheek. Then he kissed her- ignoring or not noticing that she barely seemed to kiss him back.
"Joel…"
You love him. He's your husband and you love him.
"I love you."
"I love you too," he whispered, "cara mia."
Suddenly, her mind flooded with childhood memories of her parents wrapped around each other, kissing passionately, tangoing across the conservatory for no real reason, and speaking in heated whispers. Memories accompanied by a burst of nausea and the certainty that if he touched her one more time, she would break his hand.
"Let go of me!" And, as she'd been wanting to all morning, Wednesday pushed him as hard as she could. He staggered back like a marionette with cut strings; for some reason, watching him stumble over one of the wicker chairs sent her into a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Wednesday-"
"Oh my god," she stammered, gasping for breath. "Oh my god." And there seemed to be nothing else to say.
Joel stood, straightening his tie, and cautiously approached her. "My black rose, are you alright?"
"Don't." He froze in his tracks.
"Don't what?"
"Don't come near me. Don't touch me. And don't call me stupid pet names."
His eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Stupid? You told me not to call you 'baby,' and I figured I knew what you'd like."
That started more laughter, but a bit more subdued this time. Wednesday pushed past him and headed for the hallway that led to the foyer. "So the choices are 'baby' or 'fleur d'morte.' Good to know."
As she continued down the hall, Joel followed her, shaking his head. "What's wrong with you? This isn't like you at all."
"No," she said, "it's not like you want me to be." In front of the hall tree, she paused and turned to face him.
"Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?" If he said 'yes,' this could be fixed. She could hold him and kiss him and tell him that she was so very sorry and it would never happen again. They could say it had been a mistake and let the moment pass.
"Not really," he said.
And a year from now, we could be sitting in the exact same positions in the exact same kitchen, with me saying, "We've been married for four years."
"Exactly." Without further comment, she took her jacket from one of the tree's "branches," shrugging it on and quickly fastening the silver buttons that arced diagonally across the front.
"Where are you going?" he asked as she started for the door.
"Out," was the only reply. "Don't wait up."
He started to say something that was lost to the sound of the rain and the door shutting behind her.
Central Park in the rain was nothing new to Wednesday. She'd spent years staring at it out the window of her childhood bedroom, watching the mist blur the outline of New York City into a distant blob of darker gray against the sky. Sitting on a bench in a fairly public area, however, was a more novel experience.
She still didn't know why she'd come here. It wasn't proximity. The park had been several blocks of walking and a subway ride away from the house. And it wasn't familiarity; most days, this was the last place she wanted to be.
Well, maybe next-to-last, she thought grudgingly. Pedestrians hurried past under umbrellas; most had their heads down, but a few turned to stare at her. Sitting unprotected and soaked in the rain might not have been the best way to stay inconspicuous.
"Augh! Get off me, you stupid bird!"
Then again, it beat running down the path with a pigeon hot on one's trail. The young man now under attack by rat-with-wings seemed to have been asking for it, judging by the bag of bread crumbs clutched in his hand. But she decided to take pity on him.
Pulling a small dagger from her jacket pocket, she took aim and threw. It hit the pigeon, who went down with an oddly indignant noise.
Its victim stood breathing heavily, staring at the winged menace as it bled out into the mud. "Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome." She looked up from her quarry, and their eyes met.
Wednesday's first instinct was to laugh. The man she'd just saved looked about her age, maybe a bit older; he was average height and skinny, with disheveled brown hair and hazel eyes. She thought she could see a Spiderman t-shirt under his blue raincoat. And, of course, there was the bag of bread crumbs.
"You're not supposed to feed them."
"What?" Her voice seemed to bring him back to reality. Interesting.
"The pigeons," she explained, poking the dead bird with the toe of her boot. "If you feed them, they just get more insistent."
He raised an eyebrow. "And fearless, apparently."
Wednesday nodded, and was surprised when the young man stepped closer. People who weren't family, her few friends, or her husband didn't often approach her voluntarily. She still hadn't figured out why, exactly; maybe they were just more perceptive than she gave them credit for.
But whatever the reason, the sight of a very pale girl dressed all in black who kept weapons in her pockets didn't seem to faze this man.
"I didn't catch your name."
She should have turned and walked away; she'd done her random act of salvation-from-pigeon and now it was time to go home and smooth things over with Joel. But something made her stay.
"Wednesday Addams."
He smiled. "Nice to meet you. I'm Lucas Beineke."
A/N: If anyone seriously thought I was going to maintain the status quo of the fic, I'm rather worried about their critical thinking skills. Come on; how could I NOT write WxL?