This house had always known when things were out of place. It creaked under the weight of disagreement as his wife disappeared from the room. He lifted a crystal decanter, which glittered in the fire light, pouring a sizeable measure of the honey-coloured liquid inside into one of the accompanying glasses. The liquid burned his throat with an acidity he did not expect. He coughed loudly and slammed the glass onto the mahogany table. He hated when things took him by surprise, and arguing with Morticia always took him by surprise. In 20 years of marriage he could count on the one hand how many times he had really argued with his wife. She was too delicious, too addictive to want to upset. He thought of rough ropes bound around ivory wrists, of blood on white satin and how he was addicted to all of this.

The malt was travelling down his throat well, but his mind was uncomfortable. He sat behind his desk and began to read through the papers he had brought home with him. But affidavit and delict and ligation made no sense when things in his relationship were unbalanced. He looked up as the door of the study fell open. She had changed from her dress into an usually subdued night gown. He sighed inwardly. The fact that she had made the effort to come back suggested that she could not let go of how she was feeling.

She eyed him from the doorway. She leaned casually against the frame, shoulders back. He admired her, even in his ire.

"It would be customary to come in," he muttered, without malice, as he rubbed a tired hand over his eyes.

"Ever the comedian, darling."

He did not fail to hear the bite in her voice, even though she came further into the room. She could be thorny when she wanted to be. He thought of thorns, of the brush and pull as she ran them along his back. He shivered.

She perched her magnificent body on the edge of his desk, her eyes never leaving his. They were tired and unusually dull. No amount of make-up could hide tell-tale redness.

"I am angry," she whispered quietly, and all of her thorniness was gone. The problem with Morticia was that he could never feel anything but love for her. She could have taken another man to her bed and he would still hold only her victim responsible. She was so entirely and utterly indecent that he couldn't feel anything but lust and love for her. This was the problem when they argued. It was always the problem when they argued.

there was a moment of silence but then she breathed in deeply, "I hate when you stay late at work, and we had planned dinner..."

She let her words trail. And he curled the edges of a contract between his fingers. He hated when he disappointed her.

"I had to finish this," he motioned to the pile of work in front of him, "It's rare that I ever let you down."

"Yes, but when you do..." she let her sentence hang, and there was a whisper of a threat in her words. An empty threat.

He resisted the temptation to laugh at the emptiness of it. Laughter, though unwanted, glittered in her dark eyes. He had only stood Morticia up three times in his life, for very genuine reasons. Though the genuine reason never seemed worth it after an evening of icy hostility and, once, an entire week of conjugal famine.

"I understand," he sighed, he rested back, "But you are being unreasonable too Morticia."

She let out a little sob, and against his will, his heart cracked. Weakness was a terror in his wife. Though on these ocassions, her vulnerability made her all the more attractive.

They heard it then, the swift, unmeasured footsteps in the hall and it dragged them from their battle. Both heads turned towards the door, both knew it was Wednesday, and both chose to ignore it. But she had heard, or listened, and Morticia knew that either would have had an impact on their daughter.

"The boy," Gomez growled.

They shared a laugh, however small. They had come to know that Wednesday had been meeting a boy at the edge of their land. This revelation had come about as a result of a very inventive night involving an old oak tree and some rope, at the borders of the swamp. She rubbed her wrists subconsciously, and imagined the pattern of the harsh hessian against her skin.

"I am sorry, Gomez."

"I am too," he smiled.

She admired, was almost jealous of, his ability to forgive immediately. She had to try very hard not to store her ire. He dismissed it with all his being.

"You should have a word with our daughter. I feel it's time we met this boy and you might want to put her mind at ease."

He folded over the papers and slid them to the side.

"Why might I want to do that?" She questioned.

She stood up and wandered over to the massive window, placing a hand against the glass. He watched her, shadowed against ungrateful, ignorant moonlight. He was jealous of it's touch against her skin. He squirmed in the seat. Even in that ungodly nightgown, he could trace the outline of her curves.

"Usually you're not shouting at me in anger, that's all, or sobbing in frustration," he laughed quietly, "Or should I reword that? Frustration, I grant you, but not of the unpleasant kind. She's more accustomed to the latter."

"I have always adored your self-image and theory about performance, mon cher," she turned to him, her lips curling in an agonising smirk, "Of course, you could be all talk...perhaps I need a reminder of your pragmatism."

"I thought it was burned into you..."

He sat, still, behind the desk.

"Scarred, and the occasional burn," she turned back to the window to stare out into the moonlight, and laughed lightly.

"Morticia," he moved towards her slowly, admiring how she was able to ignore his movement, "Morticia mia."

He splayed his hands across her hips, pulling the nightgown taught against her skin.

"Have I forgiven you?" She asked lightly, her hands grasping his.

"I hope so, otherwise this could turn out very badly for me," he muttered lightly, squeezing her hips.

"Of course it could."

He could feel her smile as her hand reached out and pressed against the glass, the pale fingers stretched out on the cold surface.

"But it wont," she spoke quietly, turning in his arms, " I'm sure it wont."

"Mmmm," he reached forward, brushing her hair aside, "I hope it wont but I can never trust you."

He dipped to kiss her neck, and she moaned, and much to his surprise she yielded to him. She tipped her head to the side, and pressed her hard body against his. He pulled her closer, his hands sliding onto her shoulder blades. He slipped the shoulders of the nightgown down.

"I don't like this," he pulled on the strap, tugging it away from her skin and kissing her there instead.

"I know, that would be why I chose to wear it," she murmured lightly, curling her fingers in his hair.

"Mia cara," he muttered into her hair, "Mon amour..."

He pushed her against the cold glass, lifting pale legs to wrap around him. He pulled her hands up against the glass and held her wrists. His lips fell on her neck again.

"I guess I am forgiven," she raised an unrelenting eye brow, as he lifted the night gown over her head. He had to hold the inordinately warm weather responsible for her lack of underwear.

"Warm?"

"Mmm," she reached her hand down between their bodies, working at the waistband of his lounging trousers. He groaned lightly, pressing her harder against the cold glass. She arched against him, and the immediacy of the contact was nearly his undoing. He pictured her nacre skin, pressed to discomfort against the glass, her delicious back, and he groaned. He kissed his way down her neck, across her shoulder and back to her collar bone and enjoyed the sensation as her breathing hitched. Her usually nimble fingers finally released the button of his pants and she slid them down his legs.

"Do we really," she muttered, "Want to be in such a compromising position?"

"Yes," he answered, his hands distracting her greatly, "Of course we do...it's always more fun this way."


Morticia sat across from her daughter, and pulled her dressing gown lightly over her knees. She moved carefully, her after-dark activities had made her feel rather delicate. Satisfying her husband post-argument was always a challenge.

"Next time you sneak out," her mother warned her, "Make sure we're doing something else. Your father can hear a pin-drop when I've irritated him."

Wednesday just looked at her mother, and chose to ignore the neglectful way in which her parents' romanced each other. Neglectful of their children's mental health. As well as this disgust though, Wednesday knew she had been caught. She was getting older now and she'd rather tell her mother the truth because her mother knew these things anyway.

"Aren't you going to ask why I've been sneaking out?"

Wednesday took the cowards way out. Her mother would never have asked, it had never been Morticia Addams' style to ask anything about her daughter's personal life. She just knew.

"No, I wont ask anything you do not want to tell me," Morticia lifted her tea-cup to her lips, a small smile dancing behind the china, "But once doesn't have to be a genius to deduce that it involves a boy."

Morticia decided to relieve her daughter of the fact that if it hadn't been for her father's penchant for outside that she would never have know she was meeting a boy covertly.

"Yes," Wednesday smiled her under-developed smile, "His name is Lucas."

"And will we be meeting him?"

"I suppose," Wednesday answered, entirely uncommitted to the suggestion, "He laughed when I told him, you know, about your arguing."

"It is laughable, but not unheard of," Morticia smiled lightly, "We're not perfect, but pretty near it."

Wednesday looked at her mother significantly, "For the first, and only time in my life, I felt scared of my parents' relationship. I worried you would divorce; that was bizarre to me and Lucas laughed. His parents' argue all the time."

"My darling, you would he hard pressed to find a couple who don't argue, at least once a year. Your father and I both have our stubborn sides but I promise, it makes things more interesting."


"I'm going out," Wednesday told them from the door way, where they were curled up on the couch. The record player was on in the back ground, her young brother was sitting on the rug practising tying nooses. Her father was reading to her mother, a weird, yet oddly comforting ritual for her to witness.

"I don't know-"

"Of course Wednesday," her mother interrupted Gomez, squeezing his hand. She watched her father concede.

She walked slowly towards the edge of the land, her cross bow pressed tightly to her chest. Lucas was waiting patiently, and looked rather sheepish. Perhaps he was worried she'd be harbouring the contrary mood she had been in the evening before but unusually, for Wednesday Addams, she felt content. She allowed him to take her in his arms, and lingered unusually longer than she normally would have.

"How are you?" He ventured.

"I am...content."

"That's weird," he laughed lightly, "For you."

"Maybe," she sat down under the tree, and toyed with the hem of her dress, "You'd like to come and meet my family. With your parents."

She saw him smile, and was both disgusted and annoyed that it seemed like she had given in but she held her tongue.

"Of course," he pecked her cheek gingerly.

"Of course," she repeated, and laid her head on his shoulder.

The meeting of the families it was then.