Chapter Text
Words were not just tools for Wednesday Addams. They were scalpels. Delicate, honed, and most satisfying when they cut deep.
She understood language the way a mortician understood anatomy— intimately, unflinchingly. Words had weight, and shape. They were not plucked at random like daisies in a field, but cultivated carefully like the carnivorous blooms she kept near her window back in the Manor. She didn't just write them. She orchestrated them. Strung them up like marionettes on paper, each syllable dancing to the tempo of her design— much like her cello, which she didn't simply play, but commanded— no different from writing.
In a blank page, she was an entity capable of anything.
In the company of Enid Sinclair, she was a farce.
Wednesday Addams had crossed the gates of Nevermore with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner entering a low-security facility. She expected triviality, vapid teenage drama dressed up in uniforms and half-hearted mysteries for students who mistook mood lighting for substance. She intended to remain unsolvable, untouched, and unbothered. There was nothing there she hadn't dissected before.
She hadn't anticipated being wrong.
The strange events that slithered through the town of Jericho— the Hyde, the riddles— should have been the surprises. And for a time, they were. The mystery surrounded itself around her like a corset, tight and thrilling and familiar in the best of ways. It challenged her mind, sharpened her focus, and gave her the illusion of control. A joyous feeling one could feel when participating in recreational activities. Even the Hyde, with its twisted snarl and misplaced tragedy, held her interest— though not for long. The stalker that had trailed her into school break turned out to be even more pitiful than anticipated, one not even worth mentioning, lacking both prose and teeth.
No, the most unexpected twist in her narrative came in the form of something far more persistent.
Tension.
Not the sharp kind— but the strange, slow-simmering kind. The kind that pooled in silence and lingered in glances too long to be accidental. The kind that rewrote entire paragraphs of logical thoughts she once trusted.
It started with Enid Sinclair.
("Started" was perhaps too generous. It had always been there, in some quiet, humming way— just beneath perception. But now it was louder. Louder than it had any right to be.)
The moment Enid had shifted— coloured claws bared and blue eyes glowing beneath the red moon—Wednesday felt something in her gut. Not with fear. Not with awe. But with the stark, undeniable realization that something had changed. The air had thickened between them.
Enid had always been beautiful, in that insufferably radiant way— sunlight, pastel colors, jittery energy.
(Wednesday couldn't even comprehend how she managed to stay a foot close to her, but like Enid's words: "We work. We shouldn't, but we do. It’s like some kind of friendship anomaly." And Wednesday came from a wide range of anomalies to even question such an event.)
But suddenly the wolf brought something else to the surface. Something edged. A sharpness that carved through her usual warmth. She was still herself— loud, reckless, endearingly irritating— but now there was a power threaded through it. A bite to match the bark. A courage that let her meet Wednesday's glare and raise a brow in defiance.
It wasn't just tolerance anymore.
It wasn’t even fascination, though that word itched at the edge of Wednesday’s tongue like a dare.
No, what truly unsettled her wasn't Enid’s transformation. It was the way she further leaned into their arguments now, not in a frustrated way but rather bold, dare she say cocky. In how she grinned when Wednesday spat venom, not out of mockery, but amusement. It was the way Enid had grown teeth— not just literal ones, but metaphorical. And she wielded them with flair.
Wednesday had catalogued every shift with clinical precision, tried to analyze the changes like entries in a field journal. But there was no formula for this. No hypothesis she could test. It wasn't science. It wasn't literature.
It was something... else.
She did not like that.
And it certainly didn't help her in this situation.
It was supposed to be another war of ideologies. Another verbal exchange of Enid's bizarre beliefs about sentient sunflowers and tulips with trust issues. Wednesday had arrived at the greenhouse fully armed: deadpan logic, morbid retorts, and enough sarcastic barbs to outlast even Enid's solar-powered optimism.
She hadn’t expected her internal dialogue to stage a mutiny.
Enid was already there when Wednesday arrived, perched on the low stone bench with a potted foxglove balanced between her knees and a ridiculous pink gardening trowel poking out of her pocket like a concealed weapon. Her hair was in a haphazard messy bun, bits of soil streaked across her cheek like paint, and she looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"Try not to insult the begonias this time," She spoke out cheerfully, the psychic didn't bother to question how Enid could even feel her sudden presence. "They’re sensitive."
Wednesday narrowed her eyes, boots loudly stomping towards the wolf. "They’re plants, Enid. They lack central nervous systems and the ability to perceive offense."
"They also lack the ability to grow in your presence," Enid countered, grinning. "Coincidence? I think not."
"I provide an environment of ruthless efficiency."
"You provide an opportunity for a salad party, Wedns."
Wednesday's lips twitched. Just barely. She circled the greenhouse like a predator sizing up a glittery threat, arms folded, boots echoing sharply on the floor.
"You talk to them," she accused.
"I encourage them," Enid corrected, brushing hair out of her eyes. "You should try it sometimes. Say something nice to the hydrangeas. Compliment the roses. Ask the ferns how their day's been."
"I'd sooner offer therapy to a corpse."
"Well, that explains our conversations."
It was maddening. Enid never played fair—she didn't aim for intellectual superiority, she aimed for the soft spots. The vulnerable underbellies. She wielded her sincerity like it was bulletproof. And the worst part? She flashed her sharp canines while doing so.
"You know," Enid said, looking thoughtful as she gently rotated the foxglove pot, "..if you were a plant, you’d be one of those venomous ones."
Wednesday blinked.
Enid continued, oblivious—or pretending to be. "Something rare and elegant. Beautiful from a distance. Probably used in medieval assassinations. Definitely hard to kill."
"Aconite," Wednesday replied, dryly. "Also known as wolfsbane. How fitting."
Enid grinned. "See? You even know which one you'd be. That’s so you."
Wednesday glanced away, trying not to let the compliment— if it was one— soak in.
Then Enid said, a little softer, "But if you really were a plant, I think you’d be one of those strange flowers that only bloom in moonlight. The kind people write poetry about but never dare touch."
The world hiccupped.
Wednesday blinked again, slower this time. Her heartbeat— it wasn't quick, it wasn't loud, but it existed. She could feel it. That was concerning.
She was preparing a sardonic remark about floral delusions when Enid looked up at her, gaze bright and unflinching.
"Most flowers wilt when they're picked," she said, brushing soil from her palms, "..but I think I’d bloom if it was your hand."
A single sentence. Harmless. Sweet. Utterly devastating.
A dull pressure bloomed behind her eyes— persistent, crawling. Her face prickled with unfamiliar warmth, and her palms.. damp. The betrayal was almost insulting. She did not sweat. Her body, usually frigid, seemed to had chosen disobedience.
Wednesday felt the collapse before she understood it. Every comeback— every icy remark, every literary weapon she’d sharpened over years of disassociation— disintegrated mid-thought. Her mouth opened, but her tongue failed her. Her words, usually lined up like tombstones, now flailed like startled birds.
"I, I—That's…"
The stammer echoed in the silence between them. It felt like blood in the water.
Enid tilted her head, clearly confused and concerned at first but immediately grinned at the new sight. "What? Did I short-circuit your cute gothic insults?"
cute.
cute!?
How preposterous.
Wednesday scowled, but it was brittle. She turned her face away, heart thudding like the footsteps she emitted as she stomped away. "I'm leaving."
"Oh come on, Wends," Enid giggled, reaching out but stopping short. "I was just teasing."
"I know," Wednesday gritted. "That’s the problem."
She spun on her heel as Enid called after her, voice laced with mischief and even from afar, Wednesday could feel and hear the wide smile on her face. "Don’t worry! I like flustered Wednesday. She's kind of cute!"
The greenhouse doors groaned shut behind her, sound dancing alongside the wolf's giggles.
Wednesday didn't dare look back.
She wouldn't survive it.