Chapter Text
The relief Wednesday feels when Enid comes barreling at her is foreign and all-consuming. Next comes the worry, snaking around her gut and crawling through her throat when she sees the blood obscuring Enid’s face, the bits of the forest stuck in her hair. Before she can process her feelings , Enid crashes into her, knocking Wednesday’s already-shaky legs out from under her.
To push Enid away is instinct, yes, but Wednesday also needs to see her, to quickly catalog the damage, feel the red-hot flare of anger and guilt that comes with the knowledge that it was her fault.
To pull Enid in is also instinct. She takes herself by surprise when she does it, but the part of her that is achingly, deeply human breathes a sigh of relief. She can feel the erratic thump of Enid’s heart, her hands grasping desperately at Wednesday’s blazer, can smell the metallic tang of blood on Enid’s skin. She ignores the throbbing in her shoulder and buries her face in the crook of Enid’s neck, trying to force air into her lungs.
Wednesday feels alight with a sense of contentment, Enid’s presence a balm to any wound. She wants to pull Enid closer, to meld as one, to show Enid the home she has carved out in her chest for her.
“He is gone,” Wednesday murmurs as the two of them pull apart. Enid’s hands remain grasping at Wednesday’s shoulders. She cannot say she is opposed.
Enid merely sends her another small smile, tears leaving tracks in the blood on her face.
As the ringing in her ears fades and her vision widens outside of just Enid , Wednesday is suddenly all too aware of all their classmates staring at them. The urge to remove Enid from their judgmental line of sight makes Wednesday suddenly snap around, Enid’s hands falling from her shoulders, Wednesday catching one in her own. She storms off towards the school, Enid stumbling behind her, desperate to satiate the roaring beast inside her that begs for alone, alone, alone . When that alone came to include Enid, Wednesday does not know.
Enid is quiet and complicit in following her, her ragged breaths and Wednesday’s heavy boots on the stone filling up the quiet night. She belatedly thinks of Eugene and Bianca, leaving them to sort out the mess that is Nevermore’s student body, but really, she cannot seem to care.
It’s not until they are inside their room and Wednesday is leaning her head against their door that Enid speaks.
“Wednesday?” she asks, voice scared, exhausted, timid. All words that should never be associated with her. Wednesday wants to skin Tyler alive, watch the suffering in his eyes, in revenge for what he has done to Enid.
“Are you…okay?” Enid tries when Wednesday does not turn around. Wednesday almost laughs. She takes a sharp breath in and turns to face Enid.
“Don’t be foolish,” Wednesday says, lacking any bite. “I am not the one who fought a Hyde and won.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“As are you.”
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” Enid says with a sniff. Wednesday stares at her.
“Well,” Wednesday says, hesitant. “We could - just…” She forcefully exhales, strides across the room towards Enid, and pulls her into the bathroom.
“Sit,” she says, and starts collecting what she needs. Enid collapses heavily onto the toilet, watching Wednesday with half-lidded eyes flickering between golden and ice-blue. Wednesday tries to ignore the curiosity swirling in her gut, the urge to kneel before Enid, to devote herself to her. She takes in a breath. Perhaps being resurrected by a long-dead ancestor had some adverse effects. Like feelings.
Wednesday returns to the task at hand. Feather-light, she reaches out to brush Enid’s hair out of her face. If her fingertips linger longer than strictly necessary, well, Wednesday’s lost a lot of blood. All her movements are a little slow. That’s all. And if Enid’s eyes flutter closed, tension seeping out of her shoulders, well, Enid’s tired. She’s had a long day. It is to be expected.
“This might sting a little,” she murmurs.
“I’m a big girl,” Enid replies, voice soft. “I can handle it.”
I know , Wednesday thinks. The image of Enid’s wolf flickers across Wednesday’s mind, the sharp change from pure fury to soft recognition as she laid her eyes on Wednesday that had left her stunned and grappling with…so much.
She commits this picture to memory as well - Enid, covered in blood, fang poking out as she gently bites her lip, staring up at Wednesday with nothing but trust in her eyes. It’s a feeling wholly unfamiliar to Wednesday, something she never imagined she would receive, let alone desire . Wednesday could think of at least a hundred ways to kill Enid in this moment. Instead, she blinks once, and sets to cleaning Enid’s wounds. They both know she would never hurt her, anyway.
They don’t speak as Wednesday works with gentle precision, Enid’s eyes tracking Wednesday’s carefully neutral face and Wednesday resolutely not meeting them. There is so much she could say, truly, but it’s all embarrassingly sentimental or emotional, two hallmarks of Enid’s personality, not Wednesday’s. She’s glad Enid’s not dead. Glad does not even begin to cover the depth for what Wednesday feels. And, oh, does Wednesday feel. Dreadful, terrible emotions she worked so hard to avoid, flowing out from behind the barriers Enid had torn through like they were made of sand instead of the impenetrable steel she had thought.
She’s been hurtling towards this with no sign of stopping ever since she first set foot in their dorm. It was inevitable for her to fall for Enid Sinclair. How ironic, for Wednesday Addams to fall so fast and so hard for someone her opposite in every way, bright and empathetic and so, so tenderhearted. Wednesday’s heart was hardened. She did not care for others. It was a kill or be killed world, and everyone was out to get her. To attach yourself to someone was the ultimate weakness, the biggest liability of life. She witnessed it with her parents, their utter devotion to the other, the knowledge that if one died, the other would follow. It terrified Wednesday to her core.
Warm fingers gently wrapped around her wrist, snapping Wednesday back to the present. Her trembling hand had been ghosting over Enid’s now clean face as Wednesday lost herself in her musings.
“Apologies,” Wednesday mutters, taking a quick step back. Enid’s hand falls from her wrist. The place of contact burned. Wednesday aches for it. Enid frowns.
“You’re shaking,” Enid says. “Are you okay? How much blood did you lose?”
Wednesday blanches. The bloodied towel drops from her fingers to the floor. She wraps her arms around herself in some desperate attempt to hold the fracturing pieces together. She backs into the counter as Enid jumps up, hands reaching out to Wednesday.
Stay away, Wednesday thinks. Her presence is a poison, something she had always been proud of. In this context, it only makes her sick. She was the cause of Enid’s suffering. Enid was in pain, bloodied and bruised, and all Enid can do is ask if Wednesday is okay. If she stays around Enid, she will only drag her down, kicking and screaming all the way. Wednesday feels like she’s been hurtling down towards the earth with no parachute, rushing up on everything she’s been trying to ignore since she met Enid.
Enid’s clawed hands are ghosting around Wednesday’s frame, worried eyes lined with unshed tears. Even now, even after Wednesday’s pure moment of weakness outside the school, Enid respects the stupid boundaries Wednesday insisted upon.
“What - what can I do?” Enid asks, desperation laced in her voice. Wednesday hates it. She hates what she’s done to Enid, what Enid’s done to her.
She wants to carve Enid’s heart out of her chest with a silver dagger in revenge for how Enid has clawed into Wednesday’s, leaving it bloody and bruised yet more alive than it ever was. She wants to lie six feet under, side by side, wants Enid’s heart to decay inside the cavity of her chest, and hers in Enid’s. What a fitting way to spend eternity. God, Wednesday wants . She aches and yearns, the burning poison of love tearing through her, dripping from her mangled heart, torn from her fingers, weeping from her eyes.
Part of her wants to scream Go, go and don’t look back at Enid, chain herself to the floor so she cannot follow, let Enid escape Wednesday and the beast that she is. The selfish part of her wants to pull Enid close and never let go. But Wednesday’s always been a selfish person. What had she told Tyler? I’ll always put my needs first. But this is different. Perhaps…perhaps Wednesday’s needs are not unmatched.
It doesn’t take half as much willpower as Wednesday would have liked to extend her hand out to Enid, who surges forwards, throwing her arms around Wednesday for the second time that night. And, again, Wednesday lets herself go. She clings just as desperately to Enid and finds that the expected embarrassment of emotional vulnerability does not come, but instead pure relief, a feeling of belonging settling deep in her stomach. She’s crossed the last of the lines she had drawn, thrown herself headfirst into what is sure to be a disaster. She lets herself fall apart, held together by Enid’s strong arms, letting the human part of her win for a moment. She’ll surely regret all of this come morning, but for now, protected by the walls of their dorm, wrapped in Enid’s embrace, Wednesday cannot find it in herself to care.
Before she can process it, Enid lifts her up and sits her on the counter, hands settling on Wednesday’s waist, just short enough to tilt her head up ever so slightly to meet Wednesday’s eyes. And Wednesday does not blush. She wills her eyes to stay trained on Enid’s, to not stray any lower.
“You’re still hurt,” Enid whispers, and Wednesday can feel her breath tickling across her face, they’re so close. Enid pulls back suddenly, tongue darting out across her lips.
“Shoulder,” Wednesday croaks. A smirk ghosts across Enid’s face, and it fills Wednesday with a new kind of pleasant rage. Enid Sinclair is too smart for her own good.
Enid tugs on Wednesday’s blazer sleeve, and Wednesday complies, shrugging it off and pulling her vest off with a grimace that Enid definitely notices. She also pales considerably upon seeing Wednesday’s once-white shirt stained with blood. Wednesday starts taking her tie off, pointedly ignoring Enid’s stare.
“Wednesday,” she starts. “Why are there two rips in your shirt?”
“It’s healed,” she says, assuming that would placate Enid. She assumed wrong, apparently.
“What do you mean, it’s healed? What happened? I thought it was just your shoulder! You mean to tell me you’ve been standing here this whole time and you had two wounds !?” Wednesday blinks.
“It’s nothing to worry about. Goody healed me.”
“As in Goody, the dead ancestor you were trying to summon? What - Wednesday. What happened?” The worry is back, Enid anxiously tapping her fingers together, brows creased.
“I’ll tell you later,” Wednesday says. Everything is really starting to catch up to her now that she’s sitting down, and she slumps back against the wall, tapping a finger to her shoulder. “This is what is…bothering me. The good news is that I already took the arrow tip out. The bad news is that it has not been keeping the blood inside me.”
Enid eyes the bloodstain on her stomach one more time before sighing, shoulders slumping.
“I’ll have to see the wound,” she says. Wednesday nods once, setting to unbuttoning her bloodied shirt. It was a decided improvement to the piece of clothing. Enid watches with wide eyes as Wednesday tries to peel the fabric back from her wound with a hiss, head falling back as she lets it drop off her shoulder. Enid’s hand reaches out, brushing over the raised scar on Wednesday’s stomach, eyes flickering between that and her shoulder. Wednesday’s stomach clenches, and Enid draws her hand away. Wednesday desperately hopes Enid cannot hear her heart thumping erratically in her chest. Oh, how it has betrayed her this night.
Enid shakes her head in the way she does when she wants to clear it of thoughts, humming to herself as she prepares to tend to Wednesday.
“Sorry if this stings,” Enid mutters, fang popping out again as she bites her lip, leaning in to wipe away the blood. You could break every bone in my body and I would not care, Wednesday thinks. She frowns to herself. Is this really what her parents feel like every single day of their lives? How exhilaratingly exhausting. Enid’s slotted herself between Wednesday’s legs, leaning up against the counter, and Wednesday begs her body to behave normally. Though, normal would be kicking Enid clear through the door into their room for even being close to her, so. The night has already been so ludicrous, she might as well totally give up.
“This is going to need stitches,” Enid says, pulling away.
“I did not realize you knew how to treat wounds.”
“I’m a werewolf,” Enid says, flashing her a fangy grin. “We get hurt all the time while out on full moons, so basic care is kind of necessary. Don’t worry, I totally did not dig having to learn about it. I think I cried, like, twenty times every lesson my parents tried to teach me. Great news is that I happen to be an incredible seamstress, so it’ll be fine!”
Satan help her, Wednesday is irrevocably fucked for Enid Sinclair.
She watches in silence as Enid stitches her shoulder with careful movements, sure she can feel the way her heart wants to beat directly into Enid’s hands. Enid ties it off with a flourish, and then she leans in and quickly presses a kiss next to it. Wednesday freezes, and Enid grins cheekily.
She skips out of the bathroom, leaving Wednesday sitting there in shock, mind whirling with so, so many thoughts. First of all, how dare she? Second, why did Wednesday not particularly detest that? Because you’re becoming like your parents, a voice says. Wednesday’s lips twitch in her version of a frown, and she gently touches the spot where Enid’s lips had touched her.
Wednesday is drawn out of her thoughts when Enid comes back into the bathroom, setting Wednesday’s neatly folded pajamas on the counter next to her. Wednesday stares.
“Do you need help getting down?” Enid asks, clearly fighting a smile. Wednesday outright scowls at that.
“ You put me up here,” Wednesday says, trying not to be petulant and failing miserably.
“I know,” Enid chirps. “And now I’m offering to help you down. You really did lose a lot of blood. You should probably, like, eat something. Ooooh, we could have a little girl’s night! Eat snacks, brush each other’s hair…spill secrets of what happened with an undead pilgrim.” The grin falls from Enid’s face as she narrows her eyes at Wednesday. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this without explaining what happened.” Suddenly, Enid’s upon her, hands on either side of Wednesday, caging her in. The intensity in her eyes makes Wednesday’s mouth go dry, her stupid human heart hammering out a song of desperation. Wednesday wills it to just shut up already.
“Fine,” Wednesday chokes out.
Enid beams again, wrapping her arms around Wednesday and lifting her from the counter to the floor. Wednesday grabs her pajamas, turns heel, and most certainly does not run out the door. She can just imagine the self-satisfied grin on Enid’s face.
She stumbles upon Thing, who is already dragging a basket with all sorts of nausea-inducing snacks over to Wednesday’s bed. He turns, and in a flurry of excitement, throws question after question at Wednesday.
“I’m fine, ” she snaps. If hands could give death stares, Wednesday would be in the blissful embrace of six feet of dirt right now.
“You are so not fine,” Enid says.
“Do not side with him.”
Enid shrugs, taking a seat on Wednesday’s bed. Wednesday opens her mouth, then closes it. Enid stares at her, daring her to say something. Wednesday does not. She is a weak, pathetic creature.
Thing gives his version of an exasperated sigh and retreats under Enid’s bed.
“I am going to change,” Wednesday says, and steps into her closet. She changes with unfortunately minimal discomfort, trying to not rip Enid’s careful stitches. She traces a finger over her new scar one more time, takes a breath, and returns to face Enid.
Enid jumps up when Wednesday’s closet door opens, hastily wiping at her cheeks.
“Are…are you alright?” Wednesday asks. The sentence feels clunky in her mouth.
Enid smiles, but it is painfully fake.
“‘Course,” she says. Wednesday’s eyes narrow.
“You still have bits of the forest in your hair.” Enid’s mouth opens in surprise, hand going up to absentmindedly touch at the leaf clinging there.
“Man, I need a shower so bad,” Enid says, but makes no move to leave. Wednesday does not want her to leave.
“Well,” Wednesday starts, before she can stop herself. “You had wanted a girl’s night. It seems Thing has brought us snacks. I can…finish cleaning you up.” It comes out far more tender than Wednesday ever would have wanted, but the light that returns to Enid’s eyes makes it worth it. She claps, bounding across the room to grab her brush. Enid sits back on Wednesday’s bed, patting the spot next to her. Wednesday gingerly sits down, accepting the brush Enid presents her with. Enid hoists the basket of snacks onto the bed and turns her back to Wednesday. Wednesday takes a moment to compose herself. Enid tears into a pack of Oreos.
Carefully, Wednesday pulls the small leaves and twigs from Enid’s hair, depositing them in a small pile on her bedside table. Enid remains quiet, apparently content for the moment.
Wednesday picks up the brush and starts with intense focus, taking care to gently untangle every knot in Enid’s hair. It’s unfamiliar, taking care of someone like she has tonight. Wednesday takes and takes and takes, as is typical of an Addams, but she never gives . Addamses give to each other, yes, so either Wednesday is wholly out of her mind (exhilarating) or Enid is meant to be an Addams (terrifying).
She does not share these musings with Enid. Truth be told, Wednesday worries that she would scare Enid away with her intensity. But she knows that Enid is not the delicate, breakable thing people perceive her as. Enid is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, underlaid with a layer of danger that Wednesday finds so incredibly appealing. Thus far into their relationship, Enid has only matched Wednesday’s intensity, growing into herself in a way that Wednesday, loathe as she is to admit, is proud of. Enid is strong, and powerful, and Wednesday finds herself staring at the toned muscle of Enid’s back, exposed under her camisole.
Enid turns when Wednesday stops, satisfied with her job but also filled with the urge to bolt before she does anything drastic.
“My turn,” Enid says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Your braids are a mess, and you have an injured shoulder. You wouldn’t want to mess up my work, would you?” Enid asks, and has the audacity to throw in her puppy eyes.
“Fine,” Wednesday grits out, and hates herself a little for it. The smile Enid gives her is almost worth it. Wednesday retrieves her brush and sits primly on the edge of her bed. Enid moved behind her, shins pressed up against Wednesday’s back, hands steadying on her shoulders. Wednesday, again, fights the urge to flee. How unbecoming of her. What a torturous situation.
With the utmost care, Enid takes one braid, undoing the strands before doing the same with the other. Wednesday can feel her heart hammering away in her chest once again. No one has touched her hair since she was old enough to braid it herself.
Enid starts brushing her hair out. Wednesday makes a pleased noise that is immediately followed by a strike of embarrassment, eased only by Enid’s small giggle. Enid takes a moment before speaking.
“Tyler was going to kill you.” It isn’t a question. Wednesday wishes it was.
“But you saved me.” She pauses. “Thank you.”
“What if I hadn’t?” Enid asks, and there’s a shaky desperation that Wednesday does not like in Enid’s voice. Wednesday turns to face her. Unshed tears shine in Enid’s eyes.
“Enid,” Wednesday starts, “you saved me. There is no what-if. You wolfed out, you fought a Hyde and won, and you saved the school. You should be so proud. I know I am.”
A tear falls down Enid’s face. Wednesday wants to lick it away, taste the salt on her lips.
“Your wolf was quite impressive,” Wednesday continues. “I have done extensive research on lycanthropes, and I have not heard of wolves being so large or powerful, especially on the first shift.”
“Oh,” Enid says, a pretty blush dusting her cheeks. “Um, thank you? I…didn’t notice. I was so caught up in just…” Another tear, shining in the moonlight. Wednesday grabs Enid’s hand. “I saw him with his claws around your throat and I just…I felt so angry and scared and I was so worried I was too late. I wanted to tear him to shreds. To feel his flesh ripping under my claws, smell his blood and desperation in the air for what he’d done to you. I’ve never felt that way before.”
Wednesday has never wanted to kiss Enid more than she does right now. It feels like a confession, out in the air, like Enid is testing Wednesday to see how she reacts.
“That is so sweet,” she murmurs.
Enid smiles shyly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. A nervous habit.
Wednesday leans in and presses a small kiss to the tip of Enid’s nose. Enid’s mouth drops open in surprise. Wednesday lets a small, self-satisfied smirk play on her lips. So Enid can dish it out, but she cannot take it?
“We should sleep,” Wednesday says. Enid nods vigorously, cheeks pink, eyes shocked.
Wednesday gestures for Enid to move so she can pull back the duvet. Enid scrambles off the bed, still staring at Wednesday in wonder. Wednesday lies down. Enid does not join her. Had Wednesday misread the situation?
“Enid,” she says, but it comes out a little too hesitant. “Don’t make me ask.”
“Oh,” Enid breathes, and practically falls into bed with Wednesday, who turns with her back facing Enid. A tentative hand lands on Wednesday’s waist. She does not move. Suddenly, Enid is fully in Wednesday’s space, exactly where Wednesday wants her. She wants to build a home in her heart for Enid. She already owns it, anyway.
“Sweet dreams,” Wednesday says.
“Terrible nightmares, Wednesday.”
A smile flickers on Wednesday’s face. It will all come in time, she knows. Enid Sinclair will be hers, and she will be Enid’s. Dark and light, Enid the moon of Wednesday’s black sky. Wednesday with a dagger in one hand and Enid in the other. Yes , Wednesday thinks, how awfully beautiful.