Work Text:
Something was up the second Enid entered the dorm. First and foremost— there were black blankets seemingly tacked above the window to block out whatever light may be dwadling in the early turn of night, and secondly, there was absolutely no sound.
She wondered briefly if she had entered some kind of sensory deprivation room, and gave the wall by the door a few cautionary knocks to ensure she could still hear. She flinched at the loudness from the simple action that reverberates through the darkness, followed by skittering that sounded like nails on the wood.
Enid blinks, trying to adjust before calling out quietly. “Wednesday?”
The skittering stops. Theres a sliver of light, as Thing’s silhouette goes leaping from the windowsill before fluttering shut again. If a discombobulated hand were able to emote, Enid would guess he looked apologetic and equal parts exhausted.
Then, like a gust of kerosene has blown by, candles light. More specifically, a ring of candles, that looked awfully similar to one’s she’s seen Wednesday use for seances before. Said girl sits in the middle of it all, her expression drawn out from beneath a much too large hood sprouting from a much too long robe.
“Hello, Enidabeth.”
“My name isn’t short for anything.”
Wednesday waves her words away, releasing a long and tortured sigh. “Things in this world are much too short.”
Enid’s eyes slot to their sides to also ensure she didn’t step into some alternate timeline (her Heathers poster remains proudly above her net full of squishies), before bouncing back to the raven.
She pads across the room slowly to not spook whatever fragile process the morose girl is in, smiling tentatively. “Uh, Wednesday are you okay?”
Wednesday watches her approach cautiously. “Wellness is a spectrum I do not contend with.” She replies, before dropping her gaze to the small leather-backed book in her lap.
Doodle-covered Nike’s stop just outside the red-painted circle. She knows better than to disturb the sanctum the other girl has no doubt painstakingly created, but her heart just lurches painfully in her chest when Wednesday’s frown deepens and she says nothing more. She’d give another couple thousand dollars in dorm damages to fix whatever was making the other teen so upset.
“Wednesday? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Wednesday’s eyes follow the nervous shifting of the pink gym shoes, before she releases an exaggerated breath. “I am dying, Enid. I am performing my final rites.”
Enid slips on nothing, falling ungracefully to her ass but doesn’t react, too busy flailing to get as close to Wednesday without breaking the drawn line, so she ends up sitting on her heels and sort of clawing at the air. “W-what? Oh my god, what?! How— ? Show me!”
One side of Wednesday’s lip quirks grimly at the werewolf’s frantic pawing, and unveils her mortal wound…
Enid thinks about committing a felony. “Is that a fucking paper cut?”
On Wednesday’s pale thumb is a thin, half inch line, discoloured and swollen but otherwise normal. The skin seems to have even knitted itself back together already.
Flummoxed, Enid breaks the circle as she scoots across on her knees. Wednesday tuts reprovingly at the action. Glowers when the back of her head gets cuffed by Enid’s palm.
“That is abuse.” She says monotonously.
Enid’s eyes widen “No, scaring me like that is abuse! God— what is wrong with you!” She crows, delivering another well-deserved smack to the back of Wednesday’s head.
“It’s a tiny cut! People have had limbs cut off with less theatrics!” Enid continues, her hitting relentless. “You can’t just say you’re dying over something super mundane and human!”
Wednesday, fed up, catches her wrist in a split second, tilting her head enough for the blonde to see her glare. Wholly unprepared for the salty treks along pale skin, Enid gasps.
“I do not get cuts, Enid. Ever. This is dire. This means there is something fundamentally wrong with me.” Wednesday says, her voice gravelly and slow-spoken like she’s forcing it to keep from catching.
Enid blinks, frowning. She carefully extracts her wrist from Wednesday’s grip and flexes her fingers. She scoots closer to tentatively weave her fingers into un-braided hair, and when Wednesday leans into the contact, it both breaks and builds Enid.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Wends. Don’t you and Pugsley torture each other all the time? Surely you get scraped up.”
“No.” The goth huffs, dropping her book to the ground and turning her body to face Enid, her hood falling. Enid’s breath comes in shaky bursts at the sight of unruly waves falling like molten chocolate around Wednesday’s shoulders. “No. I’ve never broken skin. It does not occur. It is why we have escalated to more aggressive forms like electroshock, because Addams’ are notoriously unbreakable. I am..” she swallows thickly, fat tears forming in her eyes. “I must be dying.”
Enid looks around, scratching soothingly at the base of the Raven’s skull as she tries to come up with some kind of solution to such an unprecedented situation. Wednesday Addams; crying about mortality.
“You’re not dying you’re just…”
“An insipid welp with no survival skills.” She offers, though her voice is softer the longer Enid mindlessly plays with her hair.
“I was going to say human, but okay.” Enid chuckles, running her hand down to the ends of velvet hair and back again, her lips permanently upturned. “What did you do to get a tiny cut, anyway? Cleaning your typewriter too thoroughly again?”
Between what sounds specifically like purring, Wednesday answers. “I was crafting a chandelier made of uncut obsidian blades for my Medieval Arts class. One of the crystals nicked me.”
Bewildered, Enid drops her hand. “You— you’re playing with the sharpest thing in the world and only got a tiny cut?! I thought it was from like, a book!”
Glaring, and apparently to the point of apoplexy Wednesday laces their hands together in her lap. “Of course not, don’t think me so insolent Enid, please.” She says, “And obsidian has never betrayed me so. I must be losing my edge.”
But Enid’s body is alight— heat licking from her palm up to her cheeks. Her fingertips feel fuzzy, where they occasionally bump Wednesday’s wrist (her very still, very cold wrist.. did she even have a pulse?)
The werewolf uses the heel of her free hand to rub at her eyes, trying to focus on the shapes behind her eyelids instead of the pounding in her chest.
“When’s the last time you slept, Wends?” She asks once she’s sure she’s not going to go flying into the ceiling like a sycamore seed.
Wednesday tilts her head, squinting against the candlelight in thought. “Perhaps a fortnite.”
“Wednesday!” Enid groans, forgetting that the touch makes her wobbly in the knees in the face of her roommates health, and easily tugs the other girl to her feet. “C’mon. You need a break from… your morbidity and then some rest. What’s something fun you like to do to unwind after a long day of being ornery?”
Wednesday hums contently when she speaks, “My favorite hobby is falling into traps, I enjoy experiencing the ingenuity of the criminal mind.”
“How about a true crime documentary?”
“…that could be satisfactory.”
“Amazing,” Enid sighs in relief, stretching out her neck. She glances around at the candles, and the big red circle that isn’t even worth trying to wash off. Slowly, she starts to blow them out being careful to not set off the smoke alarm Weems had installed after Wednesday tried to burn the dorm down one afternoon.
“Enid.” Wednesday says, voice uncharacteristically soft, squeezing their joined hands.
Enid whirls around, eyes wide in fear that Wednesday was about to unveil something else that would raise her blood pressure.
But Wednesday isn’t looking at her though, she’s looking down at their hands. Studying them, almost.
Enid flushes bright as the red paint beneath her feet. She had been the one to initiate physical contact, sure, but she hadn’t been the one to initiate the hand holding! That was Wednesday. If she could feel the lack of a pulse in the other girls wrist, then Wednesday could probably…
Enid sucks in a breath, trying to slow her heart rate with sheer will alone. Wednesday doesn’t look away, her face the picture of focus as she stares at their hands, studying them.
It looked like doing nothing, but too important a nothing to interrupt. So Enid waits, her free hand anchored in her pocket and top lip tucked between her teeth, chewing hard enough to draw blood. She looked so small, standing there in her large robe with her hair falling in front of her eyes and shoulders drawn up to her ears.
She waits, until she’s sure the candles still lit would be burnt down to the wick. Until her body, tired from practice, starts to quake a little bit from standing so still.
And she waits, until Wednesday finds whatever she’s looking for in the grooves of their knuckles and looks up, eyes dark and imploring. “Thank you.” She says, then tilts her head as her thumb skirts forward a few inches to press into Enid’s fluttering pulse, whose eyes widen comically and jaw drops at the movement that feels like cutting static, and from the unexpected gratitude.
Wednesday’s mouth quirks. “You're incredibly beautiful when you are stricken with fear.”
Enid’s lungs collapse. “You think I’m beautiful?”
The other girl gives her a look, not like she’s stupid, but like she’s the reason poetry was born. “I think you are exquisite.”
“That's nice," Enid says, voice breaking into some kind of a stressed squeak, her one free hand turning to cover both her eyes.
She jumps half an inch when a cold hand brushes her bangs from her forehead, curled from the sweat of practice—
“And the thumb she pressed, grooves blackened with ash, to my forehead was the only salvation I'd receive…” Wednesday says, entranced like she’s saying a private prayer.
And this— Enid hasn’t expected this. The touch and the words and its Wednesday Addams.
So Enid laughs so hard that she snorts, then immediately covers her mouth and closes her eyes in horror. Wednesday’s echoed laughter— honey and power ringing in the air— opens them again, though, and Enid drops her hand to lightly grasp Wednesday’s hip. She doesn’t move away.
Just offers that little reverent smile and is it her imagination, or is Wednesday closer that she was a second ago?
“Come now Enid, I wish to lose myself within the mind of a murderer.”
Nothing has ever sounded so sweet.
They don’t stop holding hands the rest of the night.