Work Text:
Wednesday Addams had never considered herself sentimental, affectionate, or invested in the emotional fragility of another human being, particularly when that human being was Tyler Galpin. Yet there was something peculiarly compelling about observing the ways he reacted to stimuli, especially when those stimuli came from her. Most people recoiled from her voice. Tyler flinched when she used it kindly. The first time it happened, it was an accident. She had been sitting at the corner of his bedroom desk, surveying the landscape of his reorganized bookshelf. She had expected it to be sloppy. It was not. The categories were arranged by theme, color gradation, and the faint underlying thread of his personal attachment to each volume. She noted the precision, and the words escaped before she could trap them. “Acceptable effort.” It was, by Wednesday standards, high praise. Tyler froze like someone had dropped a lit match on his spine. His eyebrows twitched. His breathing hitched. His hand, which had been reaching for a mug, missed the handle entirely. The mug clattered, his heart rate spiked, and Wednesday stared at him with the fascination of someone watching a lab rat perform an unexpected trick. She filed the reaction away without comment, then later wrote in her journal: The subject responds physically to positive reinforcement. Further study required.
The second time, she performed the test intentionally. She stood behind him at the Weathervane while he tried to repair the mossy, ancient espresso machine that seemed to resent him personally. Steam hissed. Something sputtered. Tyler muttered a quiet plea to a cinnamon grinder. Wednesday observed him for exactly thirty seven seconds before deciding the moment was ripe. “Your persistence is almost admirable.” Tyler flinched so hard the screwdriver slipped from his fingers. It hit his shoe, bounced onto the tile, and skittered beneath the counter like a startled rodent. He looked over his shoulder with color rising in his cheeks and said, “What did you just say.” It was amusing because she had spoken perfect English. Wednesday noted that his reaction appeared involuntary and told him, “I’m verifying a hypothesis. Continue your work.” Tyler blinked at her, laughed nervously, and returned to dismantling the espresso machine while Wednesday cataloged every twitch of his shoulders. Journal entry: Dosage level two confirmed. Reaction intensity moderate.
The third time occurred when she did not speak at all. She simply tilted her head, considered him for a moment, and allowed the smallest shift of her expression that might have been interpreted by a particularly delusional person as approval. Tyler, unfortunately, fell into that category. He visibly stiffened while wiping down a table, nearly knocking over a sugar dispenser. The muscles in his back tightened like he had been struck by invisible lightning, and he turned toward her abruptly, looking overwhelmed. “Okay, what am I doing wrong.” She blinked and informed him, “You are misinterpreting the intentions of a scientific observer.” His jaw dropped before he said, “You’re doing a study on me?” She confirmed this with perfect calm: “Yes. Do not feel honored. You are simply readily available.” In truth, the experiment had already evolved beyond scientific curiosity. She would never admit that she found the reactions oddly endearing. She would sooner swallow a teaspoon of glitter.
By the fourth test, Tyler had become suspicious, which made the process more enjoyable. He was sitting at the foot of his bed after a long day, hair damp from a shower, wearing a soft black T shirt that she had warned him clung to his arms in a way that suggested he was trying to distract her. He insisted he was not. She insisted she was immune. Both statements were lies. She sat beside him, close enough to sense the residual warmth of his skin, and pretended to read one of her crime anthologies. In reality, she was preparing her next dose. “Your handwriting has improved.” Tyler jolted like she had poked him with a cattle prod. His voice cracked slightly when he said, “What is wrong with you.” Wednesday replied calmly, “Nothing. What is wrong with you.” He ran a hand through his hair and said, “You’ve gotta stop complimenting me. It’s throwing off my equilibrium.” She considered this seriously and said, “Noted.” She did not stop. Journal entry: Subject demonstrates heightened sensitivity. Potential signs of emotional overload. Fascinating.
The fifth test was the one that broke him. They were walking across the stone courtyard at Nevermore, a place Wednesday always found pleasantly bleak. Tyler had come to bring her some supplies she had requested for a new project involving bone articulation. He carried the small box with a seriousness that suggested he thought dropping it might disappoint her. She appreciated that more than she should. When he handed it to her, she examined the contents, nodded once, and said, “Excellent work.” Tyler froze. His eyes widened. His breath faltered. Then, much to her astonishment, he stumbled back a step like the force of her praise had physically struck him. “You can’t keep doing that without warning.” She watched him with raised eyebrows and said, “Your hypersensitivity is becoming excessive. You must learn to withstand basic positive feedback.” He gestured helplessly and said, “You don’t give basic positive feedback. You give Wednesday Addams positive feedback. That’s like getting hit with a brick shaped like affection.” She considered this. It was flattering. Uncomfortable. Also correct. “Perhaps your constitution is simply insufficient.” He laughed helplessly, and she was beginning to appreciate that sound more than she should.
When she finally closed her notebook that night, she wrote her longest conclusion yet: Subject reacts to praise in a manner that suggests severe emotional vulnerability. Must be handled carefully. Results intriguing. Further study mandatory. She refused to acknowledge the warmth in her chest while writing it.
The final test was not a test at all. It happened when Tyler walked her home after sunset. The sky was dark, the air cold, the silence peaceful. They reached the gates, and she paused. He turned to her, uncertain. She looked at him for a long moment, calculating the risks. Then she spoke quietly and said, “You are doing well.” The words were simple. The impact was catastrophic. Tyler inhaled sharply, visibly startled, and his face softened with something painfully sincere. “You’re gonna kill me.” She almost smiled. Almost. “Good. At least you are finally aware of the danger.” And Tyler, who by now understood her far too well, only let out a breath and said, “Do it again.”