Chapter Text
The first critical thought of the next day came as she was reviewing Barclay's selected résumés one by one. Even though Barclay was an excellent HR manager, Wednesday didn’t trust anyone but herself when it came to hiring. The faint hum of the office lights above her, the soft scratch of pen against paper, and the occasional murmur of voices down the hall only made her more aware of how monotonous the task was.
There wasn’t a single outstanding candidate; they all followed the same pattern: precision, discipline, efficiency, composure, and meticulousness. While these were all respectable qualities, her mother had specified two things — authenticity and individuality — and that, apparently, was too much to ask from this generation.
Slowly, as she reached the end of the stack, one résumé stood out. The formatting was atrocious, the tone embarrassingly sincere — which, ironically, made it the most honest of the lot.
“I'd say I'm patient, observant, and surprisingly good at keeping living things alive — particularly insects, though plants seem to like me too. I work well in quiet environments and I enjoy learning how small details connect to create something larger. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty; most of my friends have six legs, after all.”
Foolishly genuine, almost naïve. His attempt to sound approachable had only revealed the opposite — a strange kind of eccentricity that appealed to her. Did he even know who he was applying to work for? she wondered, pulling the page from the pile. His lack of restraint, this time, had worked in his favor. Without ignoring the Outcast logo stamped at the top, she took it as a sign — a small reassurance against the unbearable blandness of ordinary humans.
The next résumé was even stranger. A soft gradient of pink and blue across the page. Wednesday blinked once. Twice. Who on earth would use a pastel résumé to apply for a job at a flower shop run by the Addams family?
“I’m energetic, organized, and great at handling people — even the ones who wake up on the wrong side of the coffin. I’m not exactly good with plants (they tend to die on me rather quickly), but there’s no better person to deal with a grumpy customer than me. I bring enthusiasm, adaptability, and a positive attitude to every workplace — even if the plants don’t always make it.”
She didn’t need to read any more after that one. Two positions, two résumés, two interviews. If they were successful in both, that would be one less thing to worry about. And she’d be pleasantly entertained — for at least half an hour, if she was lucky.
After finishing a few more papers, she returned to Bianca’s office and handed over the selected candidates. Bianca’s eyes lit up immediately.
“I’m glad you made a decision. I thought no one would be suitable and I’d have to spend all week recruiting the perfect person.” She sighed in exaggerated relief, flipping through the papers. “Although I must admit — what an intriguing selection.”
“I considered the tempting option of torturing you into finding me the most professional and suitable person possible,” Wednesday replied, voice flat, “but the last three times I did that, the only person tormented by the lack of subtlety from this new wave of cretins incapable of establishing even the slightest sense of responsibility toward their work was me.”
Her tone grew more menacing with each word, though Bianca was, as always, entirely immune.
“Calm down, Miss Addams,” the mermaid said sweetly. “Don’t forget who your mother’s favorite employee is — or who your best friend is. And enemy.”
Wednesday’s lips curved almost imperceptibly. The truth was, she tolerated Bianca’s presence more than she admitted. Knowing each other since they were six years old had a way of turning indifference into something dangerously close to affection.
“How bold, Barclay. But don’t forget how little your feelings matter to me. If I ever have to override my mother’s authority to fire you, I won’t hesitate.”
“Of course you won’t.” Bianca laughed, the sound bright and melodic, almost offensive in its cheerfulness. “Are you coming to lunch today? Yoko and your friend Xavier are coming.”
The emphasis didn’t go unnoticed. Wednesday smiled for the first time that day — a small, sharp thing that revealed nothing.
“I’ll pretend I haven’t completely forgotten about the scheduled lunch, and that I’ll have to leave right now if I want to be ready for such an event.”
With that, she grabbed her belongings and hurried out. The day had already been long enough, and the prospect of social interaction promised only more suffering. Still, she had errands to run.
Shampoo. New knives. Pepper spray. Cat food. And finally, least important, a gift for Yoko — though that last part weighed heavily on her list. You don’t attend a vampire’s 250th birthday empty-handed unless you wish for eternal misery.
She wandered through several stores before finding the perfect gift: coffin-shaped black glasses and a small ring with a hidden chamber for liquid — to be filled later with her own blood. A grotesque gesture of friendship. Yoko would love it. Wednesday, of course, hated that fact.
Satisfied, she made one last stop for groceries, buying garlic purely out of spite, and drove home to prepare.
After her shower, she spent an absurd amount of time trying on clothes she already knew she would reject. In the end, she settled on a simple black T-shirt and a skirt — slightly shorter than she would have preferred — with rubber boots and a choker around her neck. A silver chain belt glinted faintly in the light, and she completed the look with a fitted black jacket, its fabric matte and slightly worn at the edges — functional, severe, unmistakably hers.
She looked at herself in the mirror and decided she was adequately prepared to face civilization.
She didn’t want to look ostentatious, but neither did she want to appear casual. Her hair fell loose, a rare choice, but she didn’t mind. With one hand she grabbed her bag, with the other, her keys — and finally the gift. She’d probably have to skip class today; not that she minded, though she did hate missing a day of intellectual torment.
The restaurant Bianca had chosen was small but notoriously crowded during lunch hours. Through the glass windows, she could already see Yoko’s pale hand waving lazily and Xavier gesturing dramatically about something no one cared about.
Wednesday parked, regretting that she had to interrupt Chavela Vargas mid-verse, and walked in. The air smelled faintly of roasted garlic and freshly cut herbs — tolerable, at least.
Her friends greeted her with unearned enthusiasm. She sat, silent as ever, letting their chatter wash over her.
Then, the waitress appeared.
Golden hair with streaks of color that caught the light like a trick of glass. Skin pale and smooth, with a smile that seemed weaponized. Wednesday’s gaze followed her movements with unnerving precision.
“Bianca, it’s lovely to see you here,” said the waitress, that bright smile reserved entirely for the mermaid. “How can I help you and your lovely friends?”
Her last words landed on Wednesday, who met them with a small, unreadable smirk.
I know that face, she thought suddenly. Recognition slid into place like a blade — the second résumé, the pink-and-blue one.
How amusingly small — and cruel — the world insisted on being.