Work Text:
The raging of natural forces lasted for nearly three whole days. Depressing clouds, black as night. Dreary rain, flitting between periods of gentle drizzle and buckets dropped from on high. Cold enough to mist breath, flowers wilting beneath its onslaught.
A wind that frothed the air, violence incarnate as it whipped down from the north.
Beautiful, in a word. The sort of weather that was guaranteed, without fail, to empty the house.
Her parents had run off galavanting in the first hours, yet to return. Likely they were doing something atrociously romantic and ostentatious, sickeningly sweet. The cold hardly bothered them or anyone else. Uncle Fester had been in and out, dragging machinery from the depths and out onto the front lawn. Lightning rods, gangles of tubing wreathed in pale fire. Grandmama had made one loud bang from above and then disappeared with Pugsley and Thing in tow, likely to find ingredients for her potions.
Lurch was off somewhere. Enjoying the silence, maybe, or just catatonic with nothing to do.
Not that Wednesday had the drive to find him. She was absorbed here, wholly, with the furiously coloured werewolf in her lap.
They had plans before the rains started coming down. Goals set back for one day, then two, and at last they’d managed to eke out a rhythm amidst the leaden days. The part of that dearest to Wednesday - and which she would never admit to enjoying - was here, now.
Breakfast over, digesting in relaxation. Enid lying peacefully stretched out atop the window seat and her head in Wednesday’s lap. Breath coming in short, sleep-warmed bursts.
It was a perfect sense of stillness. Quiet and calm, the best sort of moment for Wednesday to let her mind wander. She supplemented the peace by scratching delicate patterns into Enid’s scalp, twisting and twirling the ends of multicoloured hair. The nape of her neck downy with recent fur. The tips of her delicately pointed ears.
A wave of heaven-shaking thunder rumbled through the house and Enid scrunched up, pulled and shifted herself closer to Wednesday. The reverberation continued and Wednesday soothed her wolf with whispers in fluorescent language.
This was a state of mind and body she could get used to. The simple domesticity of it all. Scratching behind her lover’s ear, the valuable knowledge of learned spots that the years between them had brought to the fore. Quiet nights spent within their shared wing, exploring every fancy that caught Enid’s attention.
Moon-drenched picnics at the local cemetery, mapping out the rows and finding little treasures. Tossing a humerus or a tibia for her fuzzy partner to chase after. Startling the caretaker until paroxysms wracked his heart. Strained visits to the livelier parts of California, a parasol as Wednesday’s only relief from the sun.
Daggers glared at Enid’s mother, shared nods of appreciation with her father.
Some nights spent letting Enid claim her in the throes of violent passion, the forest's darkness obscuring debasing acts from any prying eyes.
Oh yes, she could get used to it.
But for now she settled on counting the raindrops slamming against the window, letting herself flit through the perfect mental space of being aware but elsewhere. A parallel observation, floating. Tracing patterns in looping cursive against Enid’s neck, her back. Black nails pressing thin rivulets into woollen pastels.
The cushion they sat on creaked and groaned in leather distress as Enid once again moved closer. An arm, sleepily, began to snake itself between the window and Wednesday’s back, grasping faintly onto her hip.
A sigh pierced the silence as Enid gently drifted, Wednesday leaning back to rest her temple against the glass.
It was cold, yes, but comfortable. The condensation from her breath hid the world outside in thin, misty film. She hesitated for a moment before withdrawing from Enid, ministrations left behind. Her finger raised against the glass, dragged through it and looping to create a symbol.
It wasn’t anything close to anatomically correct, but it was enough for Wednesday to express herself. Temporary proof of genuine intention. The lifted space filled in with yet another breath, her body rotating away as Enid pulled herself up.
“Why,” Enid slurred. “Why’d you stop?”
Wednesday glanced down, tilted her head. “Stop what?”
“Petting. Scratches. Gimme more,” Enid said.
“Of course.”
Wednesday pushed herself back, pulled Enid down, settled the werewolf and returned to their former positions. Massaging Enid’s neck, her shoulders. The thin junction where spine met skull, dragged down and over her back. Swift fingers under the hem of Enid’s sweater, rising along each bump of her spine with luxurious pressure.
“Harder, please,” whispered Enid. Her eyes were closed, breath evening out.
Beatific in composition and form.
“As you wish,” came the reply.
A smile hidden in a darkened room.