Most People Say Thank You, But I Would Die for You

Chapter 8

Cruise raised a brow, before typing something down on his tablet.  Xavier wanted to demand that he was told what he was doing, but he figured it wouldn't be worth the trouble.  It never was.

When Cruise left, Xavier felt like he had been deflated like a balloon.  Morticia took a sip of coffee.  "Should we go with velvet or satin?"

"For what?" Xavier raised a brow, looking at her.

"For the casket," she replied.

"I wasn't going to bother with that part," Wednesday muttered.

He wasn't sure who exactly they were talking about, but it did make him bite back a snort of laughter.  Their dark humor was very appreciated.  Or maybe they were dead serious, but either way it was still very much appreciated.

What was worse was that he had spent his time returning home and sulking about his father not being there.  Now his father was coming, he wanted him to stay in another country.  To be fair, his father was only returning because someone canceled business.  Not because his father was worried about him and wanted to see him.

Morticia stood up.  "I'm going to finish redecorating.  Would you like to join me?"

"I would rather cut my hand off," Wednesday retorted.

"Well, I guess Thing could have a buddy then," Xavier said.

She looked at him for a second.  "That's not how that works."

"Well, how was I supposed to know?"

"Is that a yes?" Morticia raised a brow at the two.

Xavier shrugged.  Wednesday stood up and followed, so he supposed she chose the more torturous route for her.  But she only sat in the corner and watched like an ominous shadow.

Not that he was being much help either.  He pulled things out of a box, which he didn't know where everything came from. But everything felt oddly familiar.  He would stare at it, give up, and hand it to Morticia and she would do her magic.

He reached in the box, grabbing a figurine that was a little over a foot* long.  His body froze as he stared at it.  It looked like a pilgrim, and he suspected that it was.  Of all the things it could have been, it had to be that.  However the sudden reminder made the face of Crackstone flash across his vision.  The memory of his face as Xavier used his arrow to take the final blow.

"Thorpe…" The whisper in his ear made Xavier panic, throwing the figurine across the floor.  

"Xavier-"

He heard Wednesday's voice, but his eyes still couldn't leave the pilgrim.  His breath quickened and his body began to shake.  He had the soul of a monster inside him, a man who tried to kill off the bloodline of the Addams family.  If he had succeeded either time, Wednesday wouldn't exist.  Of course, Crackstone's goal had been to eliminate all the unnatural.  And that spirit was currently residing in him rent free and Xavier could do nothing about it.

A hand on his shoulder snapped back into reality.  He turned his head to find Morticia had gotten down next to him.  "I did not know that was in there," she apologized.

"No-no… It's fine," he assured her.

Wednesday clenched her fists and glanced at Thing who was on her shoulder.  He tapped in his code.

You good?

She silently huffed.  Of course she was fine.  Xavier was the one who was on the verge of a panic attack, and had the whole crackstone situation.  She wasn't good with helping others go through their emotions.  But she didn't want him out of her sight.  She had come to protect him from death, yet how many times had he narrowly missed it under her protection?

The events of the night before played through her head.  Thornhill.  Laurel Gates was in the house.  She almost succeeded while Wednesday was laying in bed.  And Tyler.  Tyler had been there.

A shiver ran through her spine that she tried to suppress.  No.  She was fine if she didn't think about it.  Besides, the lack of sleep was starting to catch up on her.  She would feel better if she just slept, but how could she possibly do that?  The moment she did could be the time that Xavier was killed.  And she would fail.  How much pain was she going to keep causing him?

The weight of Thing on her shoulder was oddly comforting, but it wasn't enough.  It was hard to distract herself when her brain refused to move on.  Everything would be so easy if she didn't feel.  So why did everything feel so complex and overwhelming?  Why was she feeling when she had tried so hard not to get attached?  Had she not learned with her pet scorpion?  Or when she kissed a murderer?

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*A foot is equivalent to 30.48 cm.