Chapter Text
10 Years Prior
Grave dirt smells different.
It's one of the adjustments he's been making over the past year and a half—the strength, the power, the olfactory sense. Vaguely, he remembers her bragging about her superior olfactory senses. Usually that’d at least create a ripple in that seemingly endless well of rage that lives under his skin, but right now he feels disturbingly still.
Grave dirt doesn't smell like death, though. That might be the worst part. There is decay, of course, but it’s not like the scent of decomposing flesh. It's more like mulch with rotted wood or maybe a mushroom that would make anyone foolish enough to consume it meeting a grave of their own.
The grass has only begun to peek up over the fresh mound covering the late Sheriff Galpin, but he can still smell it. Permeating his nostrils and yanking him backward into a memory he's desperately trying to avoid—one of a pair of dark braids sinking under the surface. Of roots unnaturally growing over her pale, defiant face. Of standing there letting it happen, letting her die. Again.
It doesn't help that the plot beside is father's is completely cover in grass, despite the fact that the body beneath that hardened earth is not Francois Galpin, Beloved Wife & Mother. No, she's likely being poked and prodded by whatever schmuck they convinced to take Dr. Anwar's position. Or, perhaps worse, her body could be on its way to some Outcast lab where they'll do God-knows-what with her in the name of science.
Bile burns in his throat. Tyler wraps his arms further around his middle, as if to hold himself together. Although, he's not really in danger of being ripped apart or of transforming into that all too literal personification of his rage. It's almost worse. That rage had become a comfort to him, a place where he doesn't have to hide. He doesn't have to pretend to be okay.
The scent of grave dirt is overpowered by that of slightly wet dog. He nearly groans, but can't even gather enough energy for that.
"Hello, Tyler."
He's unfamiliar with the voice, but it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters anymore.
"Whoever you are, just walk away." He means for it to sound threatening, but it only comes out exhausted.
"We both know you can’t survive out here alone," the woman says, stepping up into his periphery. "Not for long. But I can save you."
At this he does manage to roll his eyes. "Yeah, I’m done with mothers and masters."
"I’m not interested in being either."
Yeah, right, he huffs internally. Couldn't she just take a fucking hint and leave him alone.
"I’m offering a support system for people just like you. Fellow Hydes, hidden away where the world can’t find them. You’d be part of a pack, creating a bond that transcends the need for a single master."
People like him? But there were no people like him. That's part of what had him so fantastically tragic, right? But he wasn't the only one, was he? His mother had been one. He remembered vaguely the words from a book read over a shoulder in the Weathervane: "genetic mutation." Even his ego wasn't big enough to imagine that his family were the only ones impacted by the consequences of evolution. Which meant there was a chance she wasn't lying, but that didn't answer the more pressing question.
"What’s in it for you?" He asked, not bothering to hide his obvious distrust, he even added an extra quip, making sure she was aware of exactly what she was getting into, "You’re a werewolf. I can smell it from here."
It is her answer, five words that seemed honest enough, that convinced him to get into the car with another god-forsaken red-head: "My father was a Hyde."
There is a brief flicker of surprise when they make it to their destination and it isn't a secret facility waiting to experiment on him. But the feeling winks out almost instantly. That deep awareness of lack hollowing him out once more.
The grounds themselves vaguely remind him of the boot camp he'd been sent to after "the incident" with Xavier Thorpe. Basic. Orderly. Bleak.
Though, he notes with fleeting interest, the people milling about aren't in a mockery of military uniforms. There is no synchronized walking or performative masculine shouting. Nor does it reek of fake cheerfulness of a cult commune. No enigmatic leader in flowing robes comes to greet them. Any smiles he sees are simply polite. Most people give him only a cursory, curious glance before going about their business.
Capri deposits him outside of the communal restrooms with carefully worded instructions—not an order—to freshen up and meet her at the mess hall. He does it without question or snide remark—a true testament to his current state.
Showered, dressed in borrowed clothing, and staring at a plate of food he has less than zero desire to eat, Isadora Capri explains herself.
"It's my understanding that you were not aware of your Outcast heritage before your hyde manifested," she speaks directly, if a touch softly.
It doesn't seem to be out of fear though, more as if she's afraid to spook him. As if he's some wounded animal that might run.
Some still functioning part of his brain makes a snorting noise. "Manifested" is a pretty delicate word for it. Although, Laurel's word—"unlocking"—doesn't feel sufficient either. Perhaps there isn't a word in the English language for being chemically drugged and physically assaulted until a nine-foot, rage-filled monster literally rips out of your skin.
"Then you likely are unaware of my story, as well," she continues when he remains silent. "I told you my father was a hyde. But so was the love of my life."
Tyler doesn't miss her use of the past tense for both. His mother had said she'd lived longer than most and she was barely middle-aged for a human. He grits his teeth against the thought. Some primal part of him rejecting death even now when his conscious brain finds continuing to live pointless.
"I didn't know. Not until his master ordered him to kill me. For a long time, I thought I should have known. I knew hydes—was raised by one—but I didn't know Alphie's true nature."
The way she says his name, with reverence, feels like a blade against his ribs.
No one would speak his name like that. At best he'd be a half-whispered open secret, a cautionary tale for Outcasts and Normies alike, though for very different reasons. Tyler rolls his eyes, the ember of fire that never seems to fully snuff out flares once more in his veins. A more aware version of himself would have noticed this as an emotion, a sign he wasn't completely numb.
"Let me guess," his voice rough from disuse, "he somehow managed to circumvent the order. Love conquers all, yada yada yada."
Capri's nose crinkles with a wincing smile. "No," she says, pushing aside the shoulder of her shirt revealing angry slashes that lead from her shoulder and down—so many they couldn't have been from a single swipe. "But I fought back. His master was killed in the fight. A SWAT team found him in a landfill a few days later. Out of his mind and unable to be reasoned with."
The memory of shaking from fever and madness in a sewer drain flashed in his mind. He'd been able to manage a single hunter but a whole trained team…he grimaces.
"What his master did to him—what Laurel Gates did to you—is reprehensible." The words softly, but sharply, spoken made him bristle despite his agreement with the sentiment.
He doesn't like the idea of her knowing. Of her understanding what had transpired between himself and his former master. He closes his eyes, remembering his claws impaling her torso, remembering that she cannot command him. She cannot touch him. He gets so lost in the reassurance of Laurel's body bleeding out on the floor of Willow Hill that the sound of Capri's voice almost makes him jump.
"And I don't want it to happen to another person," she says with the conviction that strikes him where he once believed he had a great. "Being a hyde should not be death sentence. Which is why this exists." She gestures broadly.
Kaleidoscope eyes of blue, green, and brown bore into him when he glances back at her. If she's waiting for a round of applause she'll be waiting a long time. Tyler only blinks at her. The woman is undeterred.
"Whenever we get information about a potential hyde, we seek them out. We try to show them another way."
Maybe his first assessment of that this place wasn't a cult was incorrect. A particular phrase she'd said reappears in his mind. Seeing the narrowing of his eyes, Capri speaks again, as if reading his mind.
"Yes, I was in Jericho for you, Tyler. I was actually at Willow Hill that evening—the night you escaped. I'd been working on Dr. Fairburn, trying to see if she was trustworthy enough to share what we've learned."
"And what have you learned?" His question is gravelly, half-taunt, half-genuine curiosity.
"You do not need a master to survive," she states simply. "We can show you how."
Something in Tyler's gut shifts. It isn't quite hope. It will be more than a year before he feels anything close to hope, but it is something that isn't anger. And in that moment "not anger" was enough.
***
9 Years Prior
He'd gotten his GED because Capri had pestered him into it—and because there was nothing to do at camp other than chores and working out. And there are only so many toilets to scrub in a day.
As he stares up at the community college building before him, Tyler knows he will get his bachelor's degree because of another pestering presence. This one a ghost.
The first time he saw his father, almost immediately after tentatively accepting Capri's offer, he'd kept it to himself. He could only imagine her hearing him divulge his obvious descent into madness, determining him to be a lost cause, and expelling him from the grounds. Or perhaps even killing him.
But the ghost of Donovan Galpin seemed keen to prove to his son from which parent he'd inherited his stubbornness. In the end, it had taken three months for Tyler to break down.
"Why won't you leave me alone?" Tyler had groaned, glaring at the slightly hazy version of his father in his uniform.
"Look, all I know is that apparently I'm your spirit guide, kid," Donovan told him, standing at the foot of his bed when Tyler's bunkmates were out.
"For fuckssake," Tyler mumbled, holding his hands in his head as if covering his eyes would banish the apparition.
"Language," his father chided flatly.
Tyler's head snapped up, head cocking in a predatory way that reminded Donovan very much of his late wife. "I think we're past that, Dad. Are you really concerned about a f-bomb when I meet the legal criteria for a serial killer?"
Death seemed to suit his father who seemed nonplussed by his outburst, no lingering fears flickered in his eyes. That's what Tyler had come to recognize his father's silence to be, fear.
"You've been given a second chance, Ty. Don't waste it."
He couldn't handle it anymore. If they kicked him out or put him down, so be it.
Instead, Capri took him straight to Dr. P.
Tyler alternated his glare between Capri and the psychologist. The latter hadn't even blanched when Tyler explained in gory, horrific detail exactly what he'd done to his last therapist as a warning. The man had a right to know after all. If anything, Dr. P appeared almost amused. It was unsettling.
When Capri explained she hadn't brought Tyler to Dr. P because he was a psychologist, but because he was a psychic, Tyler had almost left the room without another word. He was a psychic. Like her. Despite having already physically exhausted himself through his daily hyde-calming workout routine, the anger that flooded him at the thought of her dark unblinking eyes threatened to wake the lightly slumbering beast prowling inside.
But then Dr. P asked, "Who's the cop?"
Donovan and Tyler's eyebrows lifted in a mirrored motion.
"My dad, and spirit guide, apparently," Tyler grumbled crossing his arms firmly.
"Nice to join us, Mr. Galpin." Dr. P nodded to the ghost and motioned for Tyler to sit on one of the chairs available.
In a last ditch effort to get out what felt like a rapidly shrinking room, Tyler sarcastically told Dr. P he wasn't going to talk anymore unless his father agreed to have family therapy as well. To his shock—and Donovan's—the ghost of his father agreed. Capri left the trio to it.
It was stilted, awkward, and painful, but they'd done it. Once they'd begun, the men each found the other too stubborn to quit.
They established boundaries for this new 'relationship'. No popping in on Tyler unannounced in his cabin—that one had been instituted after a rather embarrassing moment he'd rather not relive. No listening into his private sessions with Dr. P. And absolutely no mentions of her—thankfully his father hadn't required him to actually use her name to know to whom Tyler referred.
The pestering about college had started in a joint session at the end of the summer. It hadn't even been a month since Capri's lawyer had argued his conditional release. Dr. P called it ‘rehabilitation custody.’ Tyler called it parole with better branding.
Lucky for him, his crimes occurred as a minor—and with words like grooming, coercion, and brainwashing attached—his records were sealed.
Tyler wasn't naive. His name would still be recognized and whispered about. It would create prejudice and problems for him moving forward. Yet, even though less than a year prior he'd considered Tyler Galpin "dead", he felt hesitant to leave his given name behind. Perhaps it was a form of self-flagellation.
Regardless, this newfound freedom made Donovan insistent that Tyler try to live as normal a life as possible and to his father that meant college. Tyler had agreed simply to get his dad to leave him alone.
So here he is staring up at the building and cursing a ghost for forcing him outside of the camp for something other than a court appearance for the first time in over a year.
***
7 Years Prior
Something has shifted. Tyler isn't sure if it was the therapy, the exposure to people outside of Jericho, or a function of getting older, but after two years of college, there is something startling close to purpose forming in his chest.
The hope he felt when he finally stopped feeling the hyde clamoring to the surface at every minor inconvenience has become a desire to make sure no one has to experience the trauma he did again. Due to the heightened threat of subjugation and prejudice for vulnerable hydes who call the camp home, leadership continues to keep its existence a carefully contained secret. That is just fine with Tyler. His goal is to ensure potential hydes would not need the camp to begin with.
His studies have become a lifeline, an obsession for his monster to latch onto. He is on track to finish his undergrad in three years, despite adding a minor in abnormal psychology to his already rigorous biology course load and his part-time job at the school bookstore. Any day now he'll learn he's been accepted to the genetics masters program at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He's specifically chosen the school because of it's proximity to the forefront specialist in lycanthropy in Milwaukee. Unfortunately for his olfactory senses, the wolf-shifters are the closest genetically to hydes with actual published research for their condition.
The cardboard box drops in front of the small fiction section with a heavy thud. He is almost through with the restock when a new book appears. The hardcover is halfway to the shelf when his brain catches up with his eyes.
You Reap What You Woe: a Viper de la Muerta Novel
by W. F. Addams
Tyler stares at the plain cover. Black with white embossed text. It was so like her. Simple. Straightforward. Somehow devastatingly elegant.
He isn't surprised she's reached her goal of publication. What surprises him is that seeing her name only made the hyde crack open a sleepy lid. Perhaps he's finally exhausted it with his overstuffed schedule. A copy makes its way into his bag. Paid for, of course, with his employee discount. While Tyler the monster seems only mildly curious to the text, Tyler the human doesn't even make it back to his small studio apartment. He cracks open the cover during his short break, eagerly devouring the first two chapters before being forced back into the store.
She writes as she lives—sharp, witty, and unashamed.
He is hooked from the first page. Even before it becomes painfully obvious that she's drawn inspiration from her real life experiences. He's in bed, a bowl of microwave ramen balanced on his knee as he reads. His sharp inhale has little to do with the overheated broth and everything to do with Viper's internal monologue as she assesses the unassuming curly-haired Ryder fumbling with the temperamental beast of a soda fountain.
Viper wasn't used to people engaging with her. Most took one look at her serrated aura and flinched away from the inevitable cut. Yet, Ryder leaned in, not just unafraid, but almost excited by the tease of her double-edged words. In fact, his own tongue seemed more than capable of keeping up with her own. Its sharpness incongruent with the soft, boy-next-door in flannel.
Tyler swallows thickly. He hadn't even been aware he was the hyde that day. Nor that Laurel would task him with keeping her distracted. The darkness inside of him had immediately been drawn to hers. Someone who saw danger as exciting. Someone who saw monstrosity and didn't flinch, until she did. But she was so arrogant.
The ego shared by both boy and hyde had been helpless to take up the challenge. She'd only seen Tyler as mildly diverting, but the monster had become an obsession just as surely as she'd become his. Even without Laurel's command to keep his dual nature a secret, he would have kept her in the dark. If only because it was so fun to watch her grope around when she was usually almost too competent. Even now, as much as he regrets being a pawn of a genocidal maniac, regrets his reaction to her harsh rejection, regrets standing by as his uncle put her six feet under, he isn't sure he regrets toying with her. He groans at the way his hyde agrees, fully aware of just how toxic that makes him.
He finishes the novel in the early hours of the morning—jaw clenched tight, the hyde pacing inside. Not because he was angry at her, but because he felt exposed. The paper and pen are in his hand before a genuine plan can formulate. Words tumble out in his quick, scrawled handwriting.
The truth stares back at him from the ink-stained pages.
It is too much. She hasn't written this story in hope of pulling him back out into the open. The text is a thorough autopsy of their relationship. The findings are clear and precise. The pain he's caused cannot be mended by a rambling apology. For all her skill with a pen, words would never prove who Tyler Galpin is. Only his actions will.
Crumpling the paper, Tyler flicks off the lamp with a cleansing sigh and a decision to call Dr. P first thing in the morning. He will prove her wrong. Tyler Galpin will become someone she can no longer dissect so easily.
***
5 Years Prior
The third book arrives at his doorstep on release day. It is the first book without Ryder, something the message boards seem torn about. Tyler finds himself wondering if those who long for a Ryder redemption arc would be pleased if they knew the man who inspired the character.
Despite his support of "Viper's" growth in a new story, Tyler can't deny he is glad to see no one has usurped "Ryder's" place of potential romantic partner.
***
4 Years Prior
Tyler's leg bounces under the table, gently rattling the cup in its saucer. Perhaps the first coffee he ordered after arriving over thirty minutes ahead of their agreed upon time was a mistake. His dad told him as much before Tyler firmly requested he see his spirit out. To keep his restless hands busy, he took to rearranging the sugar packets in their holder—first by type, then color, and then, when she still hadn't arrived, alphabetically.
"What a delightfully dreadful day," comes a cool voice from over his shoulder.
The whole table lurches as Tyler stands nearly toppling it with his speed. The deep red corners of Morticia Addams' lips lift in a secretive smile as she leans forward. Tyler stands shock-still as the woman draws close, placing a quick kiss to the air on either side of his cheeks. He blinks at the familiarity.
When he'd received word that Mrs. Addams—Morticia as she insisted—was interested in setting up a meeting, he wondered if his time had come. Perhaps the news of his newest project had reminded the matriarch of his existence, of the pain he'd personally inflicted upon her family, on one of her offspring in particular. Tyler is fairly certain if given the choice of facing a disgruntled mother bear or Morticia Addams, he'd fare better with the bear.
He shakes the thought from his head, suddenly remembering his manners enough to ask, "Can I get you something to drink?"
That small smile played across her face again. "Do you think they offer Lapsang Souchong? I prefer it with a small dash of arsenic, though," she adds, frowning slightly at the lack of poison amongst his carefully arranged sugar packets.
The odd request gives him a rush of nostalgic warmth. "I'm afraid not, but I probably have some arsenic in the lab. I could run up and grab it."
She places a gentle hand on his forearm. "Unnecessary, but thoughtful."
Tyler finds himself at a loss for words again. The brief note he'd received asking him to meet hadn't indicated what she wished to discuss and every conversation starter Tyler had practiced in front of the mirror in the week leading up this seems to have been reabsorbed into the aether. Undeterred by his silence, Morticia lowers herself into the chair opposite him, placing her hands primly on the tabletop. He returns to his own seat stiffly.
"I was quite impressed with your most recent paper."
"You read my paper?" His voice sounds tinny and distant to his own ears.
"Your work to compare the genetic markers between hydes and other shifters was quite the undertaking. The connection between trauma and gene activation is well documented, but the way you supposed that it could be activated without trauma—much like a werewolf—was fascinating. I'm sure it has not been easy to find subjects for testing."
Tyler huffs out a breath. That was an understatement. Though he understood, there was so much unknown about his 'condition', as some called it. Finding those without an active gene who were interested in having it artificially triggered is next to impossible—especially when many Outcasts consider hydes little above feral animals.
"What are your next steps?" Morticia asks, head tilting in a way that he was used to seeing on a different Addams.
"Uh," he stumbles at the very simple question, still not over the combination of surprise in her interest in his work and the trippy experience of seeing flashes of her in her mother. "Well, the initial trials of activating the gene with Schisandra have been successful, as the paper discussed. But," he swallows, "activating new hydes is obviously considered dangerous at best, unethical at worst."
"I assume you're prepared for what would happen after a successful activation? To be another hyde's master?" The question isn't spoken cruelly, but it is pointed, and filled with distaste.
Tyler's brow furrows. "In case it hasn't been made abundantly clear, I am vehemently against the master-hyde dynamic. And I'm living proof it was an incorrect assumption that such a 'relationship' is even necessary."
An elegant brow arches as she considers him again. "You do not think yourself the exception?"
His already tense shoulders pull more taut. They are treading on dangerous ground. The work Capri, Dr. P, and a number of others are still undertaking remains hushed. Tyler's unquestioning understanding has molted into begrudgingly loyal to their request.
"No," he answers succinctly.
Her face remains unreadable. Not in the same way as her daughter, but in a way that makes him wonder how much Morticia knows about his secrets. Thankfully, she doesn't pry.
"So, what is the end goal?"
The exhale is heavy. There is something about her that makes him feel the need for brutal honesty. It could just be her aura, but it feels more like some sort of latent desire to rectify the dishonesty he once embroiled her daughter in.
"Making sure no one experiences what I did."
Morticia smiles gently. "You've become quite the interesting man, Tyler Galpin. Françoise and Donovan should be proud."
The smile. The kind words. Mentioning his parent so casually. He blinks away the sudden wet forming in the corners of his eyes and stares down at the table, unwilling to lift his head until he can master himself.
She remains with him for another half hour discussing possible next steps for his research before politely leaving. He remains at the cafe even longer, feeling as if he's just woken from a fever dream.
A few weeks later, his doctoral advisor informs him that there is a representative of a PR firm who's popped in to speak with him about a potential partnership. As the conference room door closes behind him, a small blonde whirls from where she's been staring out the window. His eyes widened at the sight of Enid Sinclair.
"Hello, Galpin," she looks just as flustered as he feel, wringing her hands in front of her, claws flashing almost involuntarily.
Though he feels no anger towards her anymore, the monster under his skin still presses forward at the threat she poses. It must show on his face because her palms lift up like a white flag in the next instant. He forces his hackles down.
"Hello, Sinclair," he chokes out in a tight attempt at civility. "What are you doing here?"
"Strictly work related. Since I have personal experience with why our services are needed, my boss asked if I would meet with you first."
"I didn't know the university was hiring a PR firm."
"They didn't," Enid states shortly.
Tyler tilts his head. Something in him tells him not to ask questions.
"So," Tyler drags the word out, "is this where I'm supposed to apologize for trying to kill you?"
The rainbow tips of her hair shake with her head. "Nope. In fact, please don't. I'm pretty resolved to hate you. Girl code and all. The ex is always the enemy."
He blinks and his mouth works before his brain. "How is she?"
"She wouldn't like me discussing her with you," Enid snips back, her arms crossing.
Tyler observes the tension in her shoulder, her face, and it dawns on him. "She doesn't know you're here, does she?"
The wolf is frozen momentarily, caught. "No," she replies before adding belatedly, "but it's not like she would care anyway."
"Then why didn't you tell her? I know you're still close."
Enid snarls like a cornered dog. "And how would you know that?"
It is his turn to go still. He has a choice to make. "Viper was lost without Evelyn. I was," he swallows, "glad that they were able to find their way back to one another."
Enid's eyes remain narrowed, though the muscles around her mouth seem to relax ever so slightly. "I'd hoped that by ambushing you I'd get a better feel for if you were still the same manipulative asshole or not."
That brings a wry smile to his face. "And?"
Enid shrugs in frustration.
He winces slightly. "What I'm doing here is very real, Enid," he says earnestly. "I've managed to identify a safe way for a dormant hyde to choose to activate their monster. And," he tries to keep the rest as vague as possible, "I'm aware of an existing protocol to help hydes work through their dual nature."
"Capri's camp?" Enid asks bluntly.
"How do you know about that?" In his shock, he doesn't even try to deny it.
"Alpha," she lifts her hand in a pantomime of a class roll call. "Capri mentored me through the initial transition. Even offered me a spot at camp, but," her gaze runs over him, "I felt it was better if I stayed clear."
It is clear it isn't herself Enid wanted to keep away from Tyler. Harsh, but fair.
"Right," he looks away for a moment. "Then you know it's effective."
"I do," her voice carries the weight of experience.
"I'm sorry," the words pop out suddenly, unexpectedly.
Enid frowns slightly at the acknowledgement of their shared trauma. Clawing yourself back from inside a highly primal being leaves scars that create an empathy for those who've experienced the same—even if they are your one time mortal enemy.
"I read Thornhill's notebooks," Enid deadpans, an unusual cadence for the woman. One she must have picked up from her former roommate.
His stomach lurches, his eyes snap to hers. The monster paces restlessly at the name of his long-dead master, at someone having access to her intimate recordings on him.
"Morticia and Gomez lived in the same cottage Thornhill did for a couple months. Apparently, the authorities hadn't felt it necessary to search her garage for evidence. They, uh," Enid tenses, perhaps realizing what she is about to admit isn't strictly on the up-and-up, "ended up in our dorm room. That's how she knew what to put in that syringe the night we tried—" Enid tapers off.
He stares at the conference table between them, not wanting to make eye contact. Afraid Enid might see just how much he'd wished back then that she'd succeeded. That even now he is sure his monster would do her bidding, no mastery needed.
"Pity isn't a good look for you, Sinclair," he finally snarks out.
An annoyed huff. "Yeah, well, it may be the only reason you get the PR help you so desperately need."
He swallows. "Did I pass your test?"
"I won't be able to represent you," Enid says.
His stomach drops. He hadn't even been aware of the opportunity before his advisor told him someone was in the conference room to meet with him, but now that it is being taken away he feels the sharp sting of the rejection.
"But I'll tell them I believe your work is worth the effort."
Tyler blinks at her. "Thank you, Enid. Truly."
Her nose scrunches. "Don't mention it. Just don't make me regret this."
He nods solemnly. He won't.
The first check arrives the next week. He is used to small donations he is able to scrounge up through interested alumni and the more open-minded Outcasts. He is not used to a single check of $500,000. But here it is, a portion set aside for the PR firm's exorbitant fees. An anonymous donor, the university tells him. Tyler chooses to believe them.
***
2 Years Prior
"Please welcome the author of the series going viral TikTok right now, W. F. Addams!"
Tyler's head snaps up from where he is in the middle of his daily hyde-tiring workout in his apartment's amenity gym. The camera pans and there she is.
There isn't so much as a twitch at her lips as she stares at Robin Roberts holding the first Viper de la Muerta novel, the other four novels in the series thus far lined up alongside the hosts. Her eyes dart to the side as if asking someone off camera if this is really necessary. He snorts softly and finds himself smiling broadly.
"BookTok has made your books nearly impossible to keep on shelves. You must be feeling incredibly grateful to social media," Michael grins.
Tyler leans forward, arms on his knees to take in her response.
"I prefer not to give credence to a predatory application that targets the dopamine centers of feeble-minded individuals to gain data they can sell. It's another example of the unending beast of capitalist greed."
Michael blinks, his lips quivering at the edges. "Ah, okay, let's talk a bit about the books themselves. Your first two books included a character, Ryder, who became a quick fan-favorite and potential love interest for Viper—"
"Love interest?" She cuts in, the slightest furrow between her precise brows.
Robin and Michael share an uneasy glance. "Yes. He was her first kiss after all."
"And a deluded serial killing monster who put Viper and her family—both blood and chosen—in danger."
"Oh! Spoilers folks," Michael exclaims apologetically to the camera
Robin however, seems to see some sort of opening and presses. "Many of the fans point out how Ryder was groomed as a reason that he deserves a redemption arc."
Again, dark eyes slide sideways off camera. Tyler wonders if it's Enid who's been tasked with keeping the author on track.
"I don't write for the readers. I write for myself."
"Even when it's so clear Viper still harbors feelings for him?"
If looks could kill, she would have a hard time refuting the video evidence in court.
"Feelings are irrelevant."
Tyler's jaw drops. She didn't deny it.
"If readers are interested in seeing some bitter townie redeem himself, I recommend indulging in the time-honored tradition of fan fiction. My publicist has informed me there are countless works that explore the pairing, many quite sexually explicit."
If he had managed to detach himself from the interview long enough to take a spit from his water bottle, he would've spat it out. Instead, a very curious part of his brain wonders where he might find said 'works' and if they even come close to what he fantasized about back then.
The obsession he's long suppressed comes forcefully to the surface. Overall, he and his monster are on good terms. He lets it loose in the woods for exercise and hunting, but they've long agreed that she is the one impulse in which they can't indulge. Yet here he is, all but panting at the screen, a deep need for her to see him clawing its way through his veins.
"We'll send her flowers," he mutters aloud, unnecessarily. "If she responds, then we'll cross that bridge."
Workout abandoned, he doesn't even bother to shower before pulling out his laptop and opening the browser. Between Tyler's intelligence and Hyde's single-minded focus, it takes less than an hour to find her address. It is actually concerning, she isn't one to be lax on security. The monster growls, a pressing urge to find, to protect, making his blood heat.
"She's more than capable of protecting herself," he grumbles, even though Tyler is beginning to struggle to parse his desire from the hyde's.
They settle on a massive bouquet of black dahlias and a cheekily worded message about being more careful with her personal information on the internet because 'there are some real creeps out there.'
He then calls in sick and drives as far as he can in the opposite direction of her apartment to a national park with an elk overpopulation issue. The hyde spends four days resolving said issue. He only returns to work when he is sure they have an understanding.
The bouquet never receives a response.
***
6 Months Prior
Tyler lifts his head up from the PCR machine.
"Holy shit!" He jumps at the sight of the tall, dark-haired man standing in front of his desk.
"Hi, Tyler," Pugsley Addams smiles at him openly.
"Uh, hi, Pugsley," Tyler gently pushes back from his station. "Did I have a meeting with your mom that I forgot about?"
He leans back in his chair to catch a glimpse of the large wall calendar over his writing desk outside. There isn't a note about his semi-annual coffee with Morticia. Pugsley's head shakes quickly.
"Oh, no, I just wanted to come visit my friend at work."
Tyler blinks up at him. "Right."
If Pugsley considers someone he'd met once—and had been a part of a plot to literally kill him—a friend… Actually that tracks for an Addams. However, as far as Tyler knows, the younger Addams sibling doesn't reside anywhere near his lab.
"Want to grab a coffee? Or if you want Lapsang Souchong, I've got the ingredients for your mom in my other desk."
"Actually, maybe you could give me a tour?" He asks, not making eye-contact.
Tyler's brow lifts, but he manages to keep the rest of his face impassive. "Sure, man."
The tour is a blur. Tyler doesn't remember much of what he says beyond having to frequently have to advise Pugsley to keep his hands to himself—the man's electrical buzz makes him uneasy as he remembers its sting even all these years later. Otherwise, the tour is rote. Normal. Unsettling.
The youngest Addams swears it's just a personal curiosity. Tyler doesn't question it out loud. But it makes him more prepared for when Morticia visits two months later.
"Tyler," Morticia's voice purrs, the spoon she is using to stir her tea clinking softly against the china.
"Hmm?" He sets down his own espresso cup.
The machine was a gift from the Addams, having shown up after he'd invited Morticia to have their increasingly regular meetings in his office so he could make her tea. That was nearly three years before.
"You are aware Gomez and I sit on the board for the Outcast Community Foundation. The Foundation hosts a gala each year recognizing an Outcast who has made a sizable impact on the community through culture, or philanthropy, or science."
The pause, and slight emphasis on 'science', is enough to clue Tyler in on where this is going. His shoulders tense.
"Your name came up during nominations."
"Did it?" Tyler tries to smile, but knows it falls short. "And who recommended the homicidal hyde for an award of this magnitude?"
"Self-deprecation is rarely an attractive trait, mon ami," she chastises. "I know you've received such honors in the past, but they've all received a polite, if a touch terse, decline. While I appreciate your dedication to a reclusive lifestyle, I hope you'll consider this opportunity."
Tyler shifts in his chair. "I'm better in the lab than with people."
"I thought you might say that," Morticia says, a secretive smile forming that makes his blood run cold. "The gala is taking place at our home this year. All Addams will be in attendance."
He swallows heavily, attempting to keep his face clear of any reaction to the information she's just dropped in his lap. She'll be there. They don't talk about her. Not even once in the almost four years they've been meeting. Gomez almost slipped, once, when he'd accompanied his wife for one of their meetings, but Morticia had quickly redirected them. Tyler had been grateful. Which is why he now needs to know.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" He asks, making his hands busy by folding the small napkin under his saucer needlessly.
Her smile deepens, somewhere between sweet and sinister. "At the very least it will be entertaining."
That makes him snort softly. "Are you sure all your guests will find attempted murder entertaining?"
"There will be a blood oath. No harm will come to your person at the hands of an Addams, I can promise you this."
"And me? Do you want me to make an oath as well?"
A knowing glint forms in her eyes. "I hardly think that's necessary, do you?"
There is a moment he feels like remaining silent, or even lying. But he knows Morticia would see right through it. So instead he offers a four word confession.
"No, it's not necessary."
"Fantastic. I'll send you the details as soon as I return home."
Apparently all it took to draw the reclusive Dr. Galpin into the public eye was a collective six million dollars in donations—and the opportunity to see Wednesday Addams face-to-face for the first time in ten years.