FORGET ABOUT SMUT. PLEASE I AM TIRED OF IT. I NEED ANGST. I NEED GUT WRENCHING EMOTIONAL TURMOIL THAT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH. I NEED TO BAWL JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT IT.
Ahehehem. We are gathered here today in defense of Isaac Night, who did patently fucked up things in the later half of the series, true, but I would argue for a semi-justified reason.
Ladies and gentleman of the jury, here's my defense for why Isaac deserved to crash out as hard as he did.
("let villains be villains and stop trying to justify everything they do-" I hear you dear reader. And I choose to ignore you. I haven't been this fired up about fandom theory since FNaF back when I was 13. In 2014.)
The Summary: Everything (well, mostly everything) we know about the Iago Tower explosion is a falsehood that Morticia made up to cover her tracks, after which she continued to tell lies about him to sour his reputation.
Cool.
Whats my evidence? I'm so glad you asked.
Part One: Regarding Intentions
The most damning evidence first, lets revisit E08 "This Means Woe" for the description of the events in Iago Tower - from both perspectives.
Claim: Isaac planned to kill Gomez because he needed, quote, "more than just a spark". Morticia intervened in time, leading to the explosion - but Gomez lost his powers.
Morticia's evidence for Isaac's murderous intent is that he allegedly dug the grave beneath the skull tree in advance.
(followed by the quote "He even dug your father's grave underneath the Skull Tree in preparation")
Immediately preceding this scene, however, Wednesday has a vision. This vision opens to the sound of a shovel. The sound of digging. And it pans over to Morticia urging Gomez to hurry up while he digs the grave beneath the skull tree, with Isaac already laying dead. He throws the shovel away and rolls Isaac's corpse into the grave.
Isaac never pre-dug the grave.
(this is after literally throwing the shovel away)
For being close to death, Morticia sure is keen to let him do all the work, huh?
And that's aside from her really hamming it up with the tears as she's recounting this. This is from Morticia Addams, who goes to funerals as a passtime and to whom near-death experiences are basically foreplay. Could be that it's just one of the many blunders the writers made in characterization, lord knows theres enough of that, but there's enough suspicious shit for me to wonder if they actually did intend to let you dig a little for the truth.
Wednesday then asks "So you buried Isaac in the same grave he intended for father?"
And Morticia doesn't answer immediately. She looks to Hester. She hesitates. The music crescendos. She finally says "Yes". She hesitates on her own story detail.
Now onto the potential counter "but Gomez lost his powers so clearly Isaac did SOMETHING nefarious"
To her credit, she doesn't explicitly state that it was the overtaxation that robbed Gomez of his ability.
But think.
In E06 "Woe Thyself", Isaac describes the purpose of his machine as follows:
The machine wasn't made just to cure Francoise's Hyde affliction. It was made to remove Outcast abilities. Without discrimination.
So what's more likely? That Gomez lost his powers due to being overtaxed by Isaac? Or that he lost his powers when the machine literally made to remove Outcast powers was sabotaged and backfired? Fork found in kitchen. An ability was lost with the ability-losing machine. It just happened to be Gomez when Morticia intervened.
Okay, I hear you argue "But Morticia (untrustworthy though her word has been so far) said that her "darling Gomez" was "near death" when she found him!" Sure, this is her word against my theory. If you exclude the fact that she was perfectly happy to let him dig Isaac's grave the same night, but oh well. Thats Wednesday!Morticia for you.
Here's my alternative explanation:
She stumbled upon the experiment, assumed the worst, attacked Isaac (welcome back Thing), and sabotaged the machine. The machine backfired onto Gomez, leading to him losing his powers. Francoise Hydes Out and flees the scene after seeing her brothers corpse (because that's the only way I can explain why she'd let M&G over here just drag his corpse all the way out to Skull Tree to bury him in an unmarked grave).
After he vanishes, his reputation is tarnished with the "clockwork heart made him cold" thing, which is clearly bullshit, because Isaac has two modes, caring (a LOT) for his sister (... possibly too much but hey that's codependency for you), and being extremely pissed off. He's showing emotion all the damn time. Anyway, that part's unimportant, I just want to get the record straight.
Part Two: Why he deserved a little crashout. As a treat.
An additional argument for why this is likely what happened is because it literally happens again.
Agnes follows Isaac back out to Judi's fuckass Prius and climbs in the trunk because... she's Agnes, and she is doing Agnes Things. Lets be clear here, if Agnes had not intervened, then he would have gone through with his plan to cure Francoise, and he never would have had to capture Pugsley. Up until this point he has shown no indication of really wanting revenge against the Addams' - he even actively walks away from Gomez at the fair.
He wants to cure his sister. That's all that he wants, at this point. Agnes intervenes, she gets put in a cell (threats of snacking on her brain aside, what is he meant to do with her? she is the one who put herself in danger following them all the way here, and they're in a time crunch), Wednesday and Enid come to the rescue, and in the rescue, the machine is sabotaged. Again. Womp womp.
Another stupid pointless intervention because something looks worse than it is. Another explosion. Another failure, and an Addams is the cause.
Agnes had no place being in that fucking Prius let alone in Willow Hill, lets be clear on that. The Professor's death, at this point, is the only questionable death of a potential innocent, and even that seems weirdly er, personal.
He threatens Agnes, but they ultimately just throw her in a cell. Agnes is fine.
Interlude: Taking a look at pre/post Crashout Morality
Lets just... round up Isaac's victims.
During "Slurp Era", before he is able to talk again:
Numerous innocents! I'll give you that one! The driving instructor and the camp boss dude. And he licks Gomez. I counter the fact that he literally didn't have a brain all the way up until around-about the sewers/the Pilgrim Tent.
Post "Zombie Era", when he is more present of mind:
The Hunter (who Tyler kills but Isaac snacks), deserved, as complicit with Judi
Judi (who he has personal history with and who tortured his sister for funsies for a decade straight)
The Professor (with whom Isaac has some undisclosed beef - possibly related to him helping to cover up Isaac's death. It would fit thematically and with just how personal their beef is. To Isaac's credit, the talking head in a jar that's only alive because of his genius was a bit out of line to call him a perversion of nature. I'm just saying. And I think that was a very odd response of Orloff in the first place. Why would he be so hostile? anyway this was a partial desperation kill, he needed the power source no matter what, and he needed it fast)
(Threatened to eat Agnes, theoretically, when she was caught snooping repeatedly and attempted to sabotage them again)
During Peak Crash Out
This is where Isaac starts getting really morally questionable (outside of the Professor and Agnes, which both had dubious but tenable excuses to kind of have it coming). Not gonna argue that.
The Vet. The only innocent on the list really, and this is after his big hope of curing his sister has been smashed by a fucking Addams for no good reason, AGAIN, after he was almost killed, AGAIN, after Tyler then dunks on him AGAIN, and Francoise is rapidly declining.
Part idk: back to explaining the crashout
But listen, hear me out.
If you
Had one goal in life - to save your sister - and you almost succeed, only for the procedure to fail due to your best friend's asshole girlfriend misreading the situation, and killing you in the process
Had your death then covered up by everyone involved while you rot away in a shallow, unmarked grave
Had your reputation dragged through the mud until it sparked (heH) an urban legend that you were a heartless monster who died to your own hubris or some shit
yeah thats right they killed you, covered up your death, and then used your fucking chronic illness and subsequent heart transplant to make the claim that you are "literally heartless" and were driven by ambition rather than love for your sister. anyway.
Had your machines stolen by your teacher - and then repurposed and used to torture your sister for a decade straight
Got revived by the same powers that indirectly led to your death, and then treated like a pet and shocked repeatedly (... justified. Isaac couldn't help the brain-lust but Pugsley was right to stop him from, yknow, doing that)
Found out that the people who killed you and dumped your body in an unmarked grave also kept your (now animated) severed hand and treated it like a pet
Your sister's kid is kind of a dick who's parading around Hyde Pride or whatever when all that specific power has brought is pain and suffering, including to Tyler himself
Side note: Treated your severed hand so shittily that they gave it fucking depression and several complexes. They gave your severed hand depression. Your severed fucking hand attends support groups. Isaac KNOWS ABOUT THE SUPPORT GROUP, he makes a joke about it before killing the Professor.
sorry this part is just really funny to me.
You get all your ducks in a line to finally reattempt the procedure and fulfill your life's quest to cure your sister, but the attempt is sabotaged by a nosey red-head and Wednesday Fucking Addams for "Lets Get Nearly Blown Up Due To An Addams, Part II, Electric Boogaloo"
Your sister's son is a dick about it to add salt to the wound
Your sister is doing really fucking awfully now actually and is out of meds so you have to raid a fucking veterinary office and perform an impromptu transfusion (plus point: you look hot again, because the universe had to hand you at least one win)
Your sister, who you got SO CLOSE TO CURING TWICE NOW only to be foiled by an Addams, AGAIN, is now insisting that you cure her bitchass son (who doesn't even want to be cured) instead. The Addams Family is now not only directly responsible for your death and the cover up thereof, but also indirectly responsible (twofold) for your sister's inevitable demise. Yippee.
said bitchass son was the reason she had to transform and "exacerbate her condition", btw, which is why you were so desperate to get a fucking move on that Agnes was even able to hitch a damn ride in the first place.
you try a third time and get foiled by the Addams' a third time, your sister dies, everything fucking sucks, and the hand they treated like shit turns on you and rips your own heart out
the end.
Isaac's a villain and he was sure as hell outta line for kidnapping Pugsley and I'm certain he didn't give a shit at that point if Pugs lived or died. but like, i get it. i get the reasoning.
I just think he's a complicated villain (though that might be due to shit writing. It's likely due to shit writing) and I'm kind of hoping the writers, who largley run this shit on fan service anyway, might see Isaac's popularity and bring him back. But then that might mean they make him worse so. Maybe not.
its now almost midnight and i have work tomorrow because I'm unfortunately employed but like. there you go. I rest my case.
content warning: smut, sexual inexperience and exploration, masturbation, masochism
notes: initially reader was going to be wearing a skirt but then i thought to myself it would be more pathetic of him this way… like a victorian man seeing an exposed ankle. virgin isaac on my mental, thanks @arquiiva for plaguing me with these thoughts. don’t forget to reblog, comment and like.
preview: The irritation flares, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always worked against him.
Isaac always nurtures an almost pathological affection for his craft, regarding idleness not as the human necessity it is, but as a moral failing: a peccadillo for which he bore no mercy, least of all toward himself. He spirals off into soliloquies about whatever venture had seized his imagination this week, you bear witness in tolerance, used to his particular brand of monomania, his disinterest in the conventional rituals of conversation, and the fact that he regards your attention as optional, at best.
The lab scarcely qualifies as a workspace; it is more accurately a mausoleum of clutter, where paper towers buckle under their own ambition and indecipherable contraptions crouch in the corners like household pets no one remembers acquiring. You had been gone all of ten minutes, yet in Isaac’s orbit, entropy is not so much a gradual decline as a competitive sport. Your bag has already vanished into the morass, absorbed without ceremony. The table groans under an indiscriminate scatter of papers: aborted sketches, algebraic graffiti, and hieroglyphics you had no interest in decoding. “Ten minutes,” you say, “and it already looks like a tornado hit. You knew I would be back.”
Isaac doesn’t bother to lift his head. “I know exactly where everything is. And where it belongs.”
“And my bag?” you push.
A beat, then the subsequent grin — smug, odious: “can’t expect me to be responsible for your misplacements.”
“You just can’t help yourself,” you intone flatly. “I’m meeting up with Eli and I’m already late.”
“And what a loss, to be deprived of the profound insights of your boyfriend. I’m sure you’re missing out on a riveting conversation,” he jibes, his hand hovering lazily in mid-air while, beneath it, the pencil skitters across the page in precise counterpoint.
“Not my boyfriend,” you say. “Besides, we don’t do much talking.”
That makes him glance up. The smile is hollow, but tight around the edges. “Figures,” he says. “Conversing implies the existence of something worth saying. In that idiot’s case, I can see why you’d skip it.”
He then proceeds to articulate the rudiments of his latest contraption. “If I can devise a method to stabilize it,” he begins, “then the rest is a matter of trial and error.” Without so much as a glance in your direction, he pivots to the next phase: “There’s a vial on that shelf.”
“Y’know, for someone who loves showing off his telekinesis, you make my life unnecessarily hard,” you say, but there’s no bite to it, only an exasperated amusement as you begin to thread through the cluttered shelves, rifling through glass bottles and chemical apparatus.
“The cryogenic fluid is the sole element capable of salvaging this. I’ve—” He glances up for a moment; a mistake on his part. He falters, mid-sentence, the cadence breaking as his eyes land unexpectedly on you stretching to retrieve the vial, your shirt inches upward to reveal a narrow expanse of skin at your stomach. His throat tightens. A momentary lapse, but one swiftly veiled with the same level of cohesiveness from before. “…begun formulating my own variants. It should keep the core below critical temperature.”
You returned to the table and held out the vial. “Here. You’re welcome. Now hand it over.”
He makes a vague motion at the table without any further acknowledgment, preoccupied with his instruments. A perfunctory wave in the table’s general direction and from beneath the layers of lab detritus, your bag launches itself into the air.
You snag the bag, abandon the vial, and collapse into the The search is methodical, almost clinical: lipliner, gloss, each motion familiar, rehearsed, a private liturgy you enact with practiced ease.
Isaac, subsumed in his work, takes one glance at the bag through his periphery and uses a hand to angle a concave mirror toward you, unthinking, as if this were his reflex. Your hands falter mid-rummage.
Then you smile, small, clandestinely, and lift the lipliner to your mouth.
*
After your departure, Isaac grew restless, unable to force his mind to the task at hand. He paced, from one machine to another, coat billowing behind him theatrically. He tinkered without conviction, fiddling with half-finished contraptions, shuffling through the dregs of earlier designs as though some abandoned sketch might jolt him back into coherence. Nothing took. The harder he pushed, the more barren his concentration became, his so-called inventions reduced to busywork.
When he yields to it, it’s not a full relenting: there’s no actualization of anything, just a tightness coiling in his stomach. He doesn’t concern himself with the removal of clothing, just shuffles and lets his unbuttoned pants sag low on his hips, his hand gripping himself with the grim intention of dispatching it quickly. Just friction, a quick release and then he can move on. He works at a punishing pace, as if masturbation could be itemized on his itinerary between soldering and recalibration. The point is expedience, not pleasure. He needs it finished, he wants the clutter in his head scrubbed clean.
You knew I would be back.
He gasps as though you’ve already breached the doorway. You could return at any time, the knob turning, your voice cutting through the thick air of the lab. The danger of it should kill the urge. Instead it worsens it. You have already invaded his space; worse, you have infiltrated his mind and now the equations won’t stop getting entangled.
And the image is persistent in its refusal to leave: stretching for the vial, shirt riding high, that flash of smooth, bare skin. He thinks back to when you’d lean over him to retrieve something, your breath hot on his skin. It needles into him, slows his wrist, alters his rhythm until what was perfunctory begins to spiral into something else. The irritation flares, but his body doesn’t care. It’s always worked against him. His palm drags, tighter now, strokes unspooling into a rhythm meant to prolong, not end.
At the back of his mind there’s a scintilla of annoyance but he lingers. Your presence barges in, insolent, like you were the first time you had stumbled into his space, and impossible to get rid of. He envisions the heat of your breath when you lean close, the shape of your mouth forming a retort, the warmth of skin revealed so casually it brands itself into his memory. His strokes deepen, a rhythm forming despite himself, his body treacherously savoring what his mind condemns. He should be vexed by the ease with which you occupy his mind. Instead, he accommodates you, his hand matching the shift in tempo, slow and more deliberate.
An unsolicited thought intrudes with the shift in pace: how would you touch him? At first he conjures up your manicured fingers grazing, the practiced tease. But the fantasy collapses almost immediately. The pressure mounts, grip hardening, nails scoring flesh; whatever softness there was curdles fast into something relentless and sharp.
His fist works over the head, smearing it, precome thick enough to string between knuckles and leave his cock shining. Each drag of his palm only coaxes more, dribbling down the underside, slipping into the dark curls at his base. It spatters onto his thighs, obscene in its persistence, wetting him beyond function. The mess clings sticky and translucent, dripping steadily with each jerk until it slicks the heel of his hand, until his strokes become sloppy, sliding over the length with no restraint.
His head tilts back, mouth falling open. “Fuck,” he hacks, throat rough. “Fuck.”
Experimentally, Isaac reaches down with his free hand to grip into his thigh, nails gouging in to hurt, to draw blood. The sharp sting only fuels him, making his strokes jerk and stutter. He presses his teeth into his lips, nose scrunching into a sneer and tugging at his own flesh until a sharp trickle of blood slides down his chin, a taste that makes the heat spike harder, his lip twitch. Pain and pleasure fuse together, cloying and messy, like an experiment gone wrong and every slick, clumsy stroke drags him deeper into the chaos of need.
His breath grows ragged, filling the cramped room with the sound of him straining against his own restraint. He imagines your warmth, your voice close enough to graze him, the way your mouth would part if you noticed the hunger in his eyes. His hips lift, chasing sensation, no longer controlled, no longer detached.
Do you think of him at night? The question rings through but he refuses to delude himself, you and him were nothing more than friends and you had a repertoire of paramours. He knows this degeneracy only exists in the aberrant confines of his mind, but your voice drifts through so vividly, curling through his head. “Isaac…” He shudders violently, cock slick in his fist, precome running down the underside, pooling at the base. His strokes jerk and falter, sloppy and desperate.
“Do you like that I’m thinking of you?” you whisper, almost teasing, almost patient, and heat flares through him like fire. Hips jerk, chest heaving, nails pressing into the tender curve of his thigh, every flare of pain sharpening the wet friction in his hand.
“Look at you… just can’t help yourself, can you?” The words curl through him, coiling around every nerve, making his grip sloppy, desperate. Precome glistens thick and sticky, dribbling down his thighs, clinging to the slick already there. Sweat mixes in, hot and wet, running over chest, stomach, collarbone, and into the mess already coating him.
There’s a wavering grin that comes from him at the question you pose, fondness permeates his clockwork-heart. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips.
“Do you want me to touch you?” The whisper lands like a lash, making him tilt, trembling, but he clamps down, impelling a control he does not feel. His hips lift and jerk anyway, nails rake into thigh, each flare of ache feeding the wet slick on his hand, every movement sloppy and ragged, every pulse of heat unbearable.
“Looks like you’ve got that covered,” you hum, sharp-edged. “I’ll have to take care of myself.” His eyebrows pull together, almost in dissent, though dissent is meaningless; his body has long since abandoned his reason. “I’ll just make myself come—” The thought truncates because your eyes flick to his throbbing length, then to the dark smear of his own blood along the curve of his thigh, and back up to meet his gaze.
“It’s okay,” your whisper curls through his mind, intimate, teasing. “It’ll be easy, because you’ve already helped.” In his imagination, your fingers lift, and he sees them coated in his come and blood.
He does not think his body could get any hotter, but it does, ribs tightening, hips twisting instinctively as your hand vanishes beneath the band of your clothing, glossed mouth parting, each contrived motion driving him insane and all he can think of is how you’re touching yourself with his come, his blood and the possessiveness he feels, sets his nerves aflame and it’s enough for his release to overtake him, it wrenches through hot and ungoverned. A low, harsh grunt escapes him, your name leaving his lips, clipped and urgent. He spills over his hand, his stomach, the tremor in his thighs betraying how hard it hits. A muffled curse escapes, unplanned, before he can bite it back. He shudders through the aftermath, chest heaving, hand sticky with the evidence of how far gone he let himself get.
Pairings: Isaac Night x gn!reader
Summary: as you befriend Isaac, you are determined to help him save his sister, but who will save you when you're the one who needs help?
Content: whump, hurt/comfort, reader injury & blood mention, strangers to friends to lovers, happy ending
A/N: my first Isaac fic! I don't know whether I'll do any more since this was my one idea, but I'm open to requests I think!
Word count: 5.5k
The shadow of Iago Tower loomed across the courtyard of Nevermore, blocking out the rare presence of the sun. You knew the disused tower was off limits, Professor Stonehearst reminded everyone often enough, but every time you were reminded of its existence you couldn't help but wonder what was up there. Whether the rumours of a secret laboratory and a mad scientist were true. You had time to kill during lunch, and the quad was so full of chatter that nobody would notice you were gone. You could just…
All the noise of the world fell away as you wove through the empty hallway, the stone walls cold to the touch despite the warmth of the spring day outside. You half-expected to find an old wooden torch or a musty skeleton. To your surprise (and no small amount of suspicion), there was barely even a cobweb. Instead, there was the husk of an elevator cage which ascended through the centre of a spiralling iron staircase. So much for being disused. Someone must have been here, and recently. You opted for the stairs, a quieter approach to the mystery above, and tentatively began the journey upwards.
After what felt like an age, you finally reached the top, and emerged onto a wooden landing beneath a network of metal crosswalks. Another spiral staircase led you up to the metal decking, which you realised with amazement was covered in machinery, a whole bank of dials and handles and blinking lights. Wait, blinking? Someone hadn't just been here recently, someone was here now. No sooner had you thought it than you felt an unseen force come over you, a wave of control which pinned your arms to your sides and lifted your feet from the ground. The force turned you around to face a young man with his right hand raised in the signature pose of a DaVinci and a scowl across his features. His dark, unkempt curls were a stark contrast to the white lab coat which was buttoned up to his neck. With a flick of his wrist, he moved you until the cool wall bumped against your back. He didn’t throw you against it hard - he didn’t need to, you already knew that he could hurt you if that was his intention, and he didn’t need his powers to pin you there either as he approached swiftly to press his forearm against your throat. It was him, the mad scientist, in the flesh.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he snarled. In the silence of him awaiting a response, all you could hear were his ragged breaths, the coos of a pigeon somewhere in the rafters, and a faint ticking. That was odd. The clock on the tower hadn’t worked in years.
You steadied yourself. You didn’t want him to think you were scared; you weren’t scared, he hadn’t done anything to warrant it. Instead, you shrugged as best you could under the pressure of his arm. “Got curious.”
He almost faltered. Perhaps that wasn’t the reaction he expected. “This tower is off-limits.”
“And yet here you are.” You quirked a brow in challenge. He held your firm gaze a moment before stepping away, turning to the machinery. “I’m y/n,” you added.
For a moment, you thought he was going to ignore you or worse, send you plummeting down the stairs or the lift shaft, but after a beat he spoke. “Isaac.” The name was short, clipped, but now he’d calmed down his voice was softer, a little deep in the back of his throat. You knew that name. He was Stonehearst's prodigy, the boy who had beaten death with a clockwork heart. The ticking wasn't coming from the tower, then. According to the stories, his metal heart had made him cold and detached, yet here he was giving you the opportunity to walk free in his space, almost opening himself up to conversation. You grinned and slowly bounded over to look at what he was working on. The console he was leaning over was alight with different coloured buttons around some sort of pressure or voltage gauge. You weren’t quite sure what it all meant, but you suspected it had something to do with the massive piece of machinery above the gurney in the middle of the room. You reached out towards one of the buttons.
“So what’s all this about, then?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh come on,” you huffed, “you were fine with me being curious but you’re going to leave me questioning?”
“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked dryly.
“You don’t, but I don’t know I can trust you either. I’m just taking a chance.” You kept your eyes fixed on the flashing red light where your hand hovered above it, scared to touch anything yet.
Isaac stepped away from the console and began to raise his hand. You tensed, waiting for that sensation to come over you again. Instead he hooked a finger under your chin and tilted it upwards until your eyes met his. They were dark and scrutinising, set within the shadows of one too many sleepless nights. Even though he wasn’t using his powers, you still couldn’t help but stand perfectly still, enraptured, as he searched your gaze for any hint of malice or treachery. Eventually, his hand left your chin to pinch the bridge of his nose, accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice lowering in defeat, “I suppose I could show you around.”
—
Your second visit to the tower began much like the first. Almost as soon as you set foot on the metal platform, you felt the grip of Isaac’s power lifting you from the floor.
“Oh, it’s just you,” he said as he lowered you gently back onto your feet.
“Who did you think it was?” you asked with a frown.
He mimicked the shrug you gave at your first meeting. “Didn’t think you’d come back, that’s all.”
“I told you, I’m curious.”
Over the next few weeks, you began spending more and more time in the laboratory. Isaac’s project was fascinating - a machine designed to remove outcast abilities - but not as fascinating as the boy himself. Once you proved you could keep the lab a secret he began to warm to you, but he was still very guarded. The way he spoke about the machine made it seem like there was a personal reason behind his need for its success beyond just proving he could do it, but whenever you tried to prompt him to share anything more intimate than stories about his friendship with Gomez Addams he would clam up. Still, he was opening up in other ways. He helped with your homework when you needed it, calling answers over his shoulder while he tinkered with wires, and even allowed you to work on parts of the machine when he needed a spare pair of hands. The more you worked with him, the more you realised how much he needed your help despite how fervently he’d deny it if you ever said as much. Sometimes it was just that it was easier having you there to pass him tools or hold things in place, but sometimes he seemed so utterly engrossed in his work that you’d show up the next morning convinced he hadn’t slept and would have to find a way to subtly convince him to accept a coffee or a five minute break.
You met him in the tower one evening after classes. It was the first time you’d gone up in the evening; normally you’d just visit on your lunch break or if you had a free period. He’d reached a difficult point in the build and begrudgingly admitted he would appreciate your help. “I can’t do this alone,” he’d said the day before in a quiet, strangled sort of voice that had made your stomach flip. It was both rewarding and uncanny to hear him being that honest, and you weren’t sure why you suddenly felt so protective. You’d barrelled out of your final class, eager not to waste a minute and to get to the lab before anyone could see or ask where you were going.
“Over here, y/n,” a voice called out when you arrived, almost as though he could sense your confusion at the emptiness of the room. You glanced around, eventually catching sight of a hand waving from… within the control panel? You approached cautiously, and after a moment, Isaac’s head popped out from between two sheets of metal, hair wild. By now you could tell that it was tousled in a way which meant he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. His ticking was echoing round the inside of the machine.
“Having trouble?” you sighed sympathetically.
“You can say that again,” he groaned. “One of the wires got caught and I snapped it trying to pull it free, but it’s right in the middle and I can’t get close enough to solder it.” He carefully disentangled himself, stumbling as his foot caught on his exit and giving an angry kick to the side of the machine. “I can’t afford for this not to work, and it’ll take too long to tear this whole section out to fix it.”
You bit your lip. Up until now you’d avoided using your ability in front of him, in truth you didn’t much like using it unless you absolutely had to, but now might be exactly the moment for that. With a deep breath, you ignited a tiny blue flame on the tip of your finger. It barely wavered, precise and controlled. Isaac looked taken aback, but as you allowed the flame to lift from your finger and move back and forth his face lit up into a smile.
“I knew there was a reason I let you stick around,” he winked, passing you the coil of solder and holding out a hand to help you clamber through the small space into the belly of the machine. It was eye-opening getting to see its inner workings like this, and you gained a newfound respect for Isaac and the fact he’d built this all himself. Whatever his reasons were, he was certainly dedicated. Warmth blossomed in your chest, but perhaps that was just residual heat from the circuits surrounding you. You quickly spotted the problem, and leaned in closer for a better look. Your face brushed against something slimy and you recoiled to glare at the greasy pipe in your way. It was no use anyway, even if you could reach in with the solder the ends of the wire were too far apart for you to hold all three parts with one hand while you lit up with the other.
“Could I borrow your ability?” you called out of the hole. You thought you sensed Isaac appear behind you, but you were too lodged in the machine to look, you just had to hope you were right about him being there. “Can you bring the wire together with the solder? I can’t quite reach.” In your peripheral vision you saw his hand appear, reaching past your face. Why was he doing that? He could control everything perfectly well from out there. You soon discovered why as he gave you a thumbs up which made your giggle bounce off the metal plating around you before pinching his fingers together, and the ends of the wire drifted to either side of the levitating roll of solder. You quickly summoned your flame, shrinking it down to navigate it through the surrounding cables until it reached the joint and grew taller. Soon the damage was fixed, and you went through the process of trying to extract yourself from within the machine. Your foot caught on the same edge Isaac’s had and you pitched forward, but he caught you with one hand on your shoulder and another on your waist. You both froze for a moment, and your breath hitched as his hand left your shoulder to wipe away the streak of grease across your cheek.
“Thanks, that was-” he coughed awkwardly, “I mean, I couldn’t have done that without you. Well done.”
You beamed at the praise, but before you could say anything you were interrupted by a rumble from your stomach. Good job you’d brought food. You hopped up onto the gurney and pulled a paper bag from your backpack. Inside were two sandwiches, each sliced in half, and you waved one of the pieces in Isaac’s direction. He eyed it suspiciously, as he always did when you tried to offer him food. He’d never once accepted, but that didn’t stop you from trying.
“It’s cheese, it’s not going to kill you,” you rolled your eyes.
“I’m not hungry. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” He was betrayed by a similar rumble.
You frowned and waggled the sandwich again. “You’ll work a lot better when you’re running on a full tank.” The machinery metaphor was working on him and you knew it. He swayed, the parts he was busy moving stuttering in midair, before he allowed them to fall back onto the table and joined you on the gurney with a defeated huff. When he finished the first slice, you wordlessly held out the second, and to your surprise he took it without protest.
As you ate, you gently tried to coax his story out of him. “This really does mean a lot to you, doesn’t it? I don’t think you’d have let me help otherwise.”
“That’s not-” he cut himself off. Clamming up again. But apparently it was just that one thought he wanted to keep quiet, as he furrowed his brow and continued speaking. “It’s for my sister. She was all I had growing up, our father was terrible to her and I was too weak to do anything about it. He brought out her… her Hyde.” He faltered over the word, but you sensed it was more the fear of your reaction than of her. You gave a small nod which seemed to encourage him. “I had to build myself this new heart just to keep myself alive, and I realised I could use my ability to keep her alive too.”
You frowned. “I don’t understand, is she…?”
Isaac chewed the inside of his cheek, weighing up whether he’d already opened up too far to someone who didn’t yet grasp the importance of his work. But you’d shown your worth in progressing the project, so he owed you this much. “It’s slowly killing her, being a Hyde. Every transformation makes it a little worse. But if we can- if I can make this work, I can remove her outcast ability before it’s too late.”
Your jaw dropped; Isaac’s jaw tensed.
“You mean this could-” you began.
“Forget it,” he snapped suddenly, jumping down from the gurney and returning to his pile of bits.
“Wait, I just-”
“I said forget it!” You recoiled a little at the cutting edge to his tone and his raised voice. He noticed, softening immediately. “Sorry, I just need to keep working. We’ve made such good progress, I can’t stop now.”
You hastily fastened your backpack and slung it over your shoulder, your lips pursing into a hard line as you drew back the elevator gate with a sickening metallic grinding. “Well don’t let me stop you. Good night, Isaac.”
—
The following morning brought bleary eyes and an uncharacteristic chill in the air. You’d barely slept, partly in thanks to a bout of bad weather through the night but mostly from thoughts of Isaac, alone in the tower, ploughing on with his work to his own detriment. You’d truly believed you were becoming friends, but just when things were getting good he’d blown up at you like that. You needed to get away for a bit, so you went where you always did when you needed to clear your head - an abandoned Stingers’ hut in the woods that you and your friends had refurbished into a den. Morticia, one of the other architects of the hideaway, had offered to come along and keep you company, allowing you to vent to someone you knew without a doubt was actually your friend.
“I just don’t get it, Tish,” you said as you lay draped across a beanbag, staring at the fairy lights above, and finished recounting your night. Of course, you kept the details of the project to a minimum - even if you were mad at Isaac you couldn’t betray his confidence like that.
“May I be perfectly honest?” Morticia said in that smooth, gentle way she often did when she was up to something. You nodded for her to go on. “I don’t think you would be this upset about the situation if it was just a friendship you thought you were missing out on.”
“What are you saying?” you stared at her in confusion. She raised an eyebrow, and the penny dropped. “No. No! That’s ridiculous!” You hesitated. “I mean, yes, obviously he’s good looking and charming and all that, but that’s not… And fine, we make a good team and he’s quite easy company, I like talking to him, and there’s a few little things he’s done that- oh.” A look of realisation heated your cheeks as it crossed your face, which finally made Morticia lower her brow.
“See, darling, am I ever wrong? Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Well nothing. He’s clearly shown he’s not that interested, and I’m not about to go traipsing after him just because he-”
A knock, short and sharp, rattled against the door. It didn’t sound like the one from Gomez, and he was the only other person who usually came out here.
“Come in!” Morticia called. The door swung open to reveal a familiar curly head of hair. You let out an almost imperceptible squeak and buried your face in the hands of your sweatshirt. Morticia rose swiftly, fanning out her coat to give you some cover to compose yourself. “Ah, Isaac. I’m afraid Gomez isn’t here, have you tried the dorm or the dining room? Perhaps the library?”
“Actually, I was looking for y/n.” You blinked. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, with the rasp of a morning without sleep. You peeked round the side of Morticia's coat; he was barely over the threshold of the hideout, trying to see round the fabric to you. He'd traded his lab coat for a simple white shirt and trousers. It suited him.
Morticia sounded like she was about to respond, but you dragged yourself to your feet with a sniffle and glowered at Isaac. “Can I help you?” you asked pointedly. You didn’t much feel like helping him with anything right now, least of all his project.
He glanced sideways at Morticia, who immediately took the hint and commented something about breakfast before leaving. As soon as the door clicked shut, he began fidgeting with his signet ring.
When he didn't speak, you let out an irritated sigh, but in the back of your mind you knew something was up. He wasn't usually like this. “Isaac?” you prompted. “What's going on?”
“Yes!” he blurted, snapping out of it immediately, though he carried on fidgeting. “I… came to say I'm sorry. About yesterday. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. You were just trying to show an interest, and I appreciate your help, I really do.” You considered that perhaps the rasp in his voice wasn't just from tiredness, but from the strain it took him to admit this. But he was definitely tired too, the bags under his eyes were bigger than usual and he was wavering on his feet.
You clicked your tongue. “Thank you, but I can't keep helping you if you're just going to keep running yourself into the ground like this. You did stay up working all night again, didn't you?”
“No! Well, yes, but not on the machine. I made you something.” He reached into his pocket and presented the ‘something’ to you. It was a tiny fire sculpted from copper wire, partially oxidised so each flame appeared to be flickering with orange-blue light. At the top, the centre flame curled round on itself to form a loop. Isaac spoke again, his voice so quiet it barely escaped the back of his throat, low and impossibly gentle. “I didn't have any chain, but I thought that might give you the choice of whether to put it on a necklace or bracelet or… keyring? Provided you want it at all, I suppose.”
You softened, hands wrapping around his as you lifted the delicate pendant from his fingertips. “Of course I want it, it's lovely.”
“I didn't use my power, either. It's all me,” he declared proudly. You felt your cheeks flush again. It would have been so easy for him to flick his wrist and make this in an instant, but he was so excited about the fact he'd put in the effort. For you.
“I don't suppose,” you suggested hesitantly, Morticia's ‘what are you going to do about it’ ringing in your ears, “you could make time in your busy schedule of machine building and jewellery making to come to the dining hall for breakfast?”
“I suppose,” he echoed your words, “it couldn't hurt, if you'd be willing to come back and work with me afterwards?”
You smiled, fetching a necklace from your desk and replacing the charm on it with the copper fire. Isaac’s grin was warm as he held the door open for you to lead the way.
—
“Isaac, please can you just-”
It had been another difficult week. The beautiful spring weather had taken a definite turn, and a storm had been brewing for days. Isaac was sure he could harness it to power his machine, which meant he'd spent every waking moment making sure it was ready, and every night giving himself extra waking moments. Between the utter lack of sleep and overuse of his ability, he was dead on his feet, and you'd barely seen him to notice how far he'd pushed himself. You'd just had to catch him from almost collapsing after moving a particularly large piece of conductor, ragged breathing and incessant ticking beneath your fingers as they splayed across his chest, and you made the mistake of suggesting he rest. Just for half an hour or so, you'd said.
“No!” Rage exploded out of him, propelling him away from your touch. “You know I can't, you know how important this is to me, why don't you listen?” You stepped back, away from the wild, manic look in his eyes, until your back hit the railing that overlooked the floor below. He followed, hands gripping your blazer lapels and raising you onto your tiptoes as he pressed in so close you could feel the angry breaths on your face. You knew he'd never hurt you, or at least you hoped you knew it, but all the same you clutched desperately at his arms.
“I know,” your voice was tight, on the verge of tears. You wanted to yell right back at him, tell him that he was as important to you as this project was to him. That you weren't trying to stop him, that you wanted to be by his side in any way you could, in any way he would allow. Instead all you could muster was a strangled “I just want to help.”
“I don't need your help,” he spat, finally pulling you away from the precipice, only to release you carelessly and turn back to his machine. “Maybe you should go.”
You did as he said before he could see the tears that had broken free.
The night was black enough to give Morticia's wardrobe a run for its money, the sky split apart by faraway tendrils of lightning. One such flash illuminated the path into the woods as you stumbled along it, coat pulled tight around your trembling form. It was a pathetic attempt at protection against the howling wind and lashing rain, but you were beyond caring. In the distance, the low rumble of thunder reverberated through the trees. The storm was almost here. If you could just make it to your hideout then it would be okay. You couldn't bear one more moment in Nevermore, with its suffocating classrooms and people prying about your tear-stained cheeks and him. Still, perhaps you should turn back, return to the warmth before the cold bluish fingers which gripped your coat snapped off or the raindrops on the tip of your nose turned to icicles.
Another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, arcing behind you. You turned. In the distance, the clock face of Iago Tower was lit from within by a faint glow. Your chest tightened. Even after everything, you couldn't help the desire to run back up there, to apologise to Isaac and ask him to take you back. As a project partner of course, you hadn't been anything else to him no matter how much you wanted to be. To help him harness this storm before it killed him or he killed himself for want of trying. No, it was too late for all of that. You just had to get yourself to safety. Turning on your heel, you began to dash through the dark of the woods. You were so close now. Suddenly, your foot caught on a loose root. You yelped as you pitched forward. There was nobody there to catch you, not this time. The yelp turned into a scream as you felt a searing pain from your ankle, but the sound was cut off when your head hit something hard on the ground. You rolled over slowly, trying to assess the damage or look for nearby shelter, but your vision swam and faded to blacker than the night surrounding you.
You had no idea how long it had been before you finally opened your eyes, or were they even open? The sky was unnaturally black even for being in the middle of the woods, and the gnarled branches of the trees above seemed to be silhouetted against an otherworldly glow as they grappled towards you. You were vaguely aware of the sensations of your own body, though it felt heavy and so, so cold. The only real feeling came from the throbbing pains in your ankle and head. As you tried to look towards your foot, figures appeared, glowing at the edges where the light spilled onto them: your family, standing in silent judgement of all the choices that had led you here; your professors, scowling; Morticia and Gomez, mildly concerned yet intrigued as to what delightful manner of death was about to befall you; Isaac… Wait. Something was different this time. Where the others stood still, Isaac seemed to be running towards you. Where the others had appeared normal, Isaac's white coat was billowing in the wind and his curls were sopping wet and plastered to his head, and while the others had been silhouetted against the light, he was holding it out in front of him. And he was speaking - no - shouting. You tried very hard to concentrate and turn the sound into real words.
“Y/n!”
That was you, wasn't it? He remembered. You smiled to yourself, and allowed the darkness to wash over you once more.
—
The light behind your eyes was bright, too bright, and not the warm light of morning. It was harsh, cold, almost blue. With great effort, you forced your eyelids to flutter open.
You were in the infirmary, back at Nevermore. The crisp white bed had been closed off from the rest of the room, leaving you alone without even a nurse, just the cloying silence broken by a soft ticking. As your memory slowly returned to you, you glanced down towards the end of the bed. One of your feet was sticking out of the tightly wrapped blankets, an ice pack placed underneath your horribly swollen ankle, and beside it was something brown and fluffy. You blinked and looked again. It was Isaac, his head flopped onto your bed while his body was contorted uncomfortably into the chair he'd pulled up beside you. His curls had regained a little of their bounce, but they were still flat and lifeless as though they'd been out in the rain. Oh. You hadn't dreamt him out in the woods. Fighting the ache which filled your entire being and struggling to release yourself from your cosy cocoon, you reached out and carefully wound your fingers into his hair, bringing it back to its usual unruly state. Isaac stirred under your touch, looking around suddenly before realising the implications of having someone's hand in his hair and bolting upright so quickly he almost tipped backwards out of the chair.
“Y/n! You're okay!” He paused. “You are okay, right?”
You grimaced. “I'm alive, I think. Things wouldn't hurt if I wasn't.”
He let out a chuckle in spite of himself. “That's true. What hurts the most?”
“Ankle. Head.”
“Your ankle is just twisted, not broken, which is good. You hit your head rather hard, so you've got stitches.”
“Oh.” You looked at him properly for the first time, preparing to bring up the fight. Your resolve faltered when you noticed he'd been stripped down to his shirt, which clung, still damp, to his skin and was open enough to give you a glimpse of the golden metal in his chest. His lab coat lay on a table to one side, beside your uniform and the puddle it was slowly dripping onto the floor. The usual pristine white of his coat was splattered with mud and had a pinkish stain radiating across the chest. It was the kind of stain you only get from mixing blood and water, like leaning a head wound against wet fabric. You swallowed your anger, a lump taking its place in your throat. “Did you… come and carry me back?”
Isaac ran a hand through his hair, not quite meeting your eyes. “I tried your dorm first, then Morticia and Gomez, and when they hadn't seen you I got worried.” He looked at you now, and you'd never seen him look so vulnerable. His eyes were wet and his lip held a slight tremor. “I'm so sorry, y/n, this is all my fault. I should never have pushed you away like that.”
Something clicked in your addled mind. “Wait, what about the storm? Your sister?”
He let out a small breath. “There'll be other storms, other chances to save her. This was my only chance with you.”
“But all your hard work this week-”
“Is the reason I almost lost you, and I'd never forgive myself. I-” he hesitated, a glow creeping into his cheeks, and if you didn't know better you'd swear his ticking grew a little faster. “You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time, and I'd like you to keep happening to me a little while longer if I can help it. If that's alright with you.”
Your expression lit up into a bashful smile. “Of course that's alright with me, I'd thought you'd have learned from our first meeting that you can't get rid of me that easily.” He laughed properly at that. “I do have some conditions though,” you finished sternly.
“I'm all ears,” he sat up in exaggerated attentiveness.
“I will help you with your machine and any future projects, and will continue providing drinks, sandwiches or meals of your choice, and my impeccable good energy. In return, you will listen to me when I tell you you're pushing yourself too hard, and take regular breaks.”
“That sounds reasonable, I suppose. And I will never treat you like I did again as long as you promise to never scare me like you did.” He held out a hand for you to shake, then let out a gasp of surprise when you used the gesture to pull him into a hug. His hands lingered in midair before wrapping around you, allowing you to bury your head in the crook of his neck. The ticking was louder here, a calming rhythm which your breathing mirrored, and he was so wonderfully warm against your rain-chilled body.
“How about this?” he murmured into your hair. “I'll finish up slowly in the lab for a couple of weeks while you rest, and then once you're back on your feet we go into Jericho for coffee? Or dinner?”
“Now that sounds like a spectacular compromise. If I'd known this was an option I'd have run away weeks ago.”
He laughed again, pulling back to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, as far from your wound as possible. “Are you trying to make my poor little clockwork heart malfunction?”
You leaned up and brought your lips to his, smiling into the kiss. “Is it working?”
need someone to write a fanfic where after he's fully regenerated Isaac doesnt go all psycho wanting revenge mode and tries to finish his time at Nevermore purely because I want to see him, Pugsley and Eugene as a bestie trio after I saw a tiktok 💔🥀
