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

Chapter 5

Maybe it was the fact that he thought he was in the clear, or maybe he had just reached his limit of chaos, but Xavier didn’t know how to process everything. Between Joseph Crackstone, Wednesday’s visions, the new knowledge that Tyler was now roaming free (no one knowing where), he was worried what was going to happen next. Who wouldn’t be?

Having Wednesday and her mother in his house made him feel somewhat safer. It made the feeling of emptiness leave, but it also felt strange. He couldn’t remember the last time the Thorpe house had guests, and he was having difficulties remembering how his mother hosted. His father was rarely around guests unless they were there for business reasons. Luckily, Wednesday and her mother weren’t shy about making themselves comfortable, which made it easier for him.

Unfortunately, he was too anxious to sit still for more than five minutes. Plus he had been painting since after Wednesday's call, only stopping when he noticed their limo come up the driveway. So after his guests had eaten, they still sat at the table while he tapped his fingers on the table. The question still loomed in the air. Now that they were there, what were they supposed to do?

“So what do you like to do, Thorpe?” Morticia asked at last, breaking the silence.

“I spend most of my free time painting. Turning them to life,” he replied. He glanced at Wednesday, remembering the paintings he left in his studio back at Nevermore. Particularly the one he painted of her playing the cello. He wondered how Morticia would react knowing that he had a crush on her daughter, or still did. He still hadn’t sorted his feelings out yet, but he did know that he was grateful how quickly Wednesday reacted and how she rushed to come to protect him. And how she took the arrow meant for him without hesitation.

"Would you like to show me?" She asked.

If she was trying to distract him from the elephant in the room, he definitely appreciated the gesture. Since it wasn't like they had anything better to do, he nodded in agreement. Taking his coffee with him, he led them to his art room. He opened the door revealing the random art supplies scattered from one end to the other and all the easels with half finished art.

"You've been busy," Wednesday retorted as she walked up to the nearest canvas. It was an almost completed charcoal portrait of Crackstone.

Xavier didn't reply, his eyes drifting towards the canvas he threw a blanket over. Suddenly, he choked on his coffee as Thing randomly popped out of Wednesday's purse as she walked by it. An odd sense of deja vu washed over him as Thing grabbed the tarp and pulled it off.

When the sheet hit the floor, Wednesday whirled around. The canvas merely held a sketch of her. She wasn't playing the cello, but holding a bow and arrow. Xavier wanted to go curl up in his bed or die in a random hole. Embarrassment made the blood rush to his cheeks.

To his relief, she merely picked the sheet back up and covered it before Morticia saw it. The woman was currently invested in the painting of the ravens he started the day prior. Thing waved to Xavier before going back in Wednesday's bag. He couldn't figure out if he appreciated the hand for saving him or if he wished that Thing would just choke him to death because that would be far more merciful.

Once he composed himself, Xavier cleared his throat. "We uh… we have a library if that sounds interesting to you… I don't have any steam powered guillotines, but there is a TV that's free to use. Not sure what streaming services we have, but we have something." He sipped on his coffee.

Before he could receive an answer, someone cleared their throat behind him. Xavier turned his head to look back at them, raising a brow. "What?"

It was a man with a clean shaven face and a gray mustache. His black hair was highlighted with silver strands and flipped back with hairspray. He was wearing a black shirt with a brown corduroy jacket with matching pants. And brown dress shoes to complete the look. It was a huge contrast to the rest of the house and he wasn't in uniform.

The man fixed his glasses on his nose. "Javier, right?" He held his hand out.

"Who are you?" Xavier glanced at Wednesday who already appeared to be grabbing sharp objects from his art supplies and trying to figure out which would be the most effective. But he wasn't concerned about the stranger.

"Jason Cruise. Employed by your father, Vincent Thorpe."

"I assumed that you're standing in my house," Xavier retorted.

"Vincent Thorpe's house."

Xavier took a drink of his coffee and leaned against the doorway to his art room. He merely turned his head back towards his paintings. "Yes. He's never really around to use it."

"Anyways," the man continued as he pulled out an Ipad, "He wanted a report on your therapy sessions. It says here you haven't attended any for over a week."

"I've been busy."

"He said you should slow down and focus on your mental health."

"Well, since my father is so concerned, I'd love to tell him myself," Xavier muttered. "But since he doesn't, you can tell him that I've been focusing on my physical health after almost being killed. Lucky me, I just got a concussion." He shoved his empty coffee cup into the man's hand. "While you're at it, mind reminding him that my name is Xavier?"

Xavier turned to walk away. The Addams would be fine to fend for themselves, but he was not about to go through this again. It was starting to get ridiculous.

"Wait, I still have a few questions he wants answered," Cruise called.

Sighing, Xavier turned back to him. "I've got nothing against you, but tell my father if he wants answers that he can ask me directly. Or call. Text. Email. Heck even by letter. Whatever works. It's not that hard. I'm not picky!"

Ignoring anything else that was said, Xavier kept walking. He went to his room where he slammed his door shut. Why was his father so uncaring? Could he at least put a little more effort into pretending to care? At least not make it so obvious that he was a crappy father?

Sighing, he plopped down on his bed, dropping his pillow on his face. How pathetic he probably looked. He certainly felt it. After all these years, it still got to him. He should be worried about more important things, but he was still stuck on his stupid relationship with his father. Or lack thereof.

A knock sounded on the door, making him groan. "What?"

"My mother finds the house boring," Wednesday said. Her voice sounded muffled through the door, but just as deadpanned as ever. "She has set to redecorating. Said something about the place needing a touch of taste."

"Let her. My father won't notice the difference," Xavier retorted bitterly.

"You're just going to lie in self pity?" She sounded disapproving of his life choices.

He sat up and walked to the door, opening it. It was hard to hide his annoyance, but he crossed his arms as he looked down to meet her gaze.

"If you're going to be miserable, let me enjoy it," she demanded.

He couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. He knew full well that she would never admit that she was worried about him or that she wished to comfort him. But reading her was starting to get easier. It was all in her eyes. They betrayed her, speaking the words that she would never vocalize.

"Instead of moping, we should be planning the funeral." Wednesday held up a knife and a taser.

"Woah-" Xavier took them out of her hands. "Did you get one of our kitchen knives?"

"The gun was in your father's office," she added.

"What?" He looked at the taser again. It was shaped more like a gun. Sure enough it had a barrel and was loaded with bullets. He stared at it, his eyes slowly drifting back to look at her.

She crossed her arms. "I suggest we spend our time searching for answers for bigger problems than an absent father."

He handed her back the gun. "Maybe that might come in handy. I'm more of a bow and arrow type of man."

She silently accepted it, putting it in her bag. The knife was left on Xavier's bed side. He followed her to his father's office. It was evident that she broke in, after all, it had always been locked. The room had been forbidden since his childhood, even when his father had been home. Literally anything could be in there and he wouldn't know. Apparently, his father liked to carry arms, or at least have them.