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Wednesday doesn’t dream.
She doesn’t remember the exact details from her childhood— most people don’t, but she knows her nights have always been empty. No nightmares, unfortunately. But no ‘pleasant’ escapes either. She’s always preferred it that way.
She’s never understood the scenes in novels where the protagonist wakes up in a sweat, unsure if what happened in their head was real. Never had the fortune of experiencing a night terror. Never even been tempted by the idea of a good one.
Not until she dreams a thousand dreams in a single heartbeat.
Her coma starts slow. The Hyde’s distorted face fills her vision. Then… pain. Shattering glass. The sound of her bones breaking against stone. Then quiet.
Somewhere in that quiet, she thinks she hears her name. It’s faint. Unsteady. She thinks she feels hands under her head, careful in a way that almost makes her flinch.
She can’t tell who it is. She can’t move. She can’t feel anything except a warmth she’s not sure she wants. Comfort is not something she trusts.
But this moment is different. She has always been close to death before— close enough to see the threshold— but this time it feels like she’s stepping across the entryway.
Enid, she thinks. She can almost see her if she squints through the blood hard enough, crying into her chest, begging her not to go. Wednesday wants to tell her it’s fine. That she’s fine. That if she’s kept Enid safe— if she’s traded her life for hers, then everything is in balance.
Because a world without Enid Sinclair would be stripped of its sun. A world without Wednesday Addams would keep turning.
She takes a last, uneven breath. Then the dreams begin.
They come in phases. Quick, shifting flashes. Her childhood birthdays: the spider piñata, the shrill panic of the other children, her parents’ approving smiles. Then the darker ones— Enid walking out of their dorm last year, eyes sharp with betrayal and disappointment. Her most recent vision of Enid dying.
She resents it. Even in dreams, Enid refuses to leave. Can’t her mind conjure something else? Anyone else?
The last dream is nothing but darkness. No images, only Enid’s voice, fragile and close, whispering her name. It makes something deep in her chest twist. She wills it away.
She knows she’s unconscious. She knows she’s not in hell, because hell wouldn’t waste time on something this simple. This is just her mind keeping her under, replaying what it knows will hurt.
Only once, she dreams of Tyler. He's in his human form, standing over Enid’s bloodied body. It’s the most revolting she’s ever seen him, and that's saying something.
The dreams circle back on themselves. The same scenes replay, slightly altered, like a broken record. Enid retreats back further away each time. Tyler’s shadow grows larger, his boots wet with someone’s blood, knowing deep in her evil subconscious that it's Enid's and not hers.
She tries to force her mind elsewhere— toward something familiar, controllable. Her cello. The smell of formaldehyde. The comfort of horror story's pages turning in an otherwise silent room. But inevitably, the color bleeds in. Bright. Warm. Blonde.
Enid has no business invading her mind like this. No right to be louder than death itself. And yet here she is. Always here.
At some point, the darkness thins. Not much, but just enough to make her aware of the weight of her body. Her breathing. A faint, sterile scent she knows too well from hospitals.
Her eyes feel heavy, but the pull toward waking is stronger than before. She follows it.
The light is dull when she opens them— muted by blinds and the thick haze in her head. She’s lying in a narrow bed, pale sheets tucked in with tight precision.
And then she sees her.
Enid is slumped in a chair by the bed, head resting against one arm, her posture a tangled mess of exhaustion. Her hair is frizzed in every direction, the colors dull from lack of care. There’s a faint red mark on her cheek from where she must have been leaning on her hand before she drifted off.
Her school uniform is wrinkled, the sleeves stretched from being pulled over her hands too often. She looks uncomfortable. She looks… smaller than usual.
Wednesday’s first instinct is to catalogue these things clinically. Assess, analyze, store them away. But the longer she stares, the more that becomes impossible.
Because she remembers the sound of her voice in the dark. The way it cracked on her name. The warmth of hands cradling her skull.
And she realizes Enid has stayed.
Stayed through whatever happened. Stayed long enough to fall asleep in that terrible chair. Stayed because she refuses to be anywhere else.
Wednesday feels the strangest thing: relief. It is not clean or simple. It’s messy and heavy, pressing against her ribs. But she doesn’t push it away. Not yet.
She doesn't know when she doses off. Between the soft inhales of Enid's ragged breath, or between Wednesday’s pupils pulling up and down till her eyes got loopy from roaming her entire form.
-
She wakes to a sound worse than laughter, worse than joy, worse than Xavier’s insufferable, nasally whining. Her mother's concerned voice.
She keeps her eyes shut, preserving the illusion of unconsciousness. Stillness has always been an art form she’s mastered— each muscle held precisely in place, her fingers folded neatly across her chest where they belong.
“Darling, our daughter is stronger than that entire school combined,” her mother says, tone flat but unshakably certain. “She’ll be awake in no time.”
“You’re right, cara mia,” her father replies, warmth bleeding into his voice. Oh how she loves her father but despises hearing her parents speak to each other. If the concept of soulmates had an inventor, she’s certain they were the prototype. “All we can do is wait.”
Enid’s voice is absent. The realization lands with unwelcome weight, and she almost wills herself back into the safety of unconsciousness, until the horrible vision flashes in her mind.
What if Enid had died while she drifted in that black limbo? What if her stupid vision had come true?
Her body reacts before she thinks. A sharp breath escapes her, arms tearing from their folded position, head snapping forward. A monitor erupts in a shrill, relentless beeping. Someone else gasps. She speaks without opening her eyes.
“Enid,” the word stumbles from her throat, ragged. Her fist twists in the fabric of her hospital attire, her eyes are squinted enough to make out the color of her gown and nothing more—black, of course. She silently commends whoever ensured that. “Enid.”
Hands press against her shoulders, easing her back into the bed. A soft, measured voice murmurs near her ear.
“Slowly, dear. Slowly,” her mother soothes. “Everything is okay.”
She attempts to open her eyes. Nothing. Her hands refuse to obey when she tries to pry her eyelids apart. Pain knifes through her ribs, sharp and unyielding, stealing the air from her lungs. A dull, persistent throb hammers in her skull, each beat heavy and unwelcome. Every breath scrapes through her parched throat, the raw dryness making each inhale feel like a battle.
She hates the weakness of speaking only a single word. She hates even more the necessity of doing so. “Enid...”
The beeping accelerates, erratic now. Footsteps close in. She imagines the flurry of doctors swarming, adjusting, restraining.
Mercy arrives in her mother’s next sentence.
“Enid is safe. She’s outside.”
Three words. That’s all it takes for her body to surrender again. This time, there are no dreams. She almost misses them.
-
She wakes again but quietly, without panic. Her eyes open first this time, ahead of her body’s full cooperation.
The lights above stab at her vision, white and clinical, and for a brief, traitorous moment she almost prefers the oblivion she’d just left. Her gaze tilts to an IV drip hanging beside her, steady and efficient. The steady blip of the heart monitor draws a faint curl of her lip. There's nothing more intrusive than a machine reporting her most involuntary functions to an audience.
Her eyes shift, taking in the room. It takes a moment before her mind catches up to what she sees. Enid is here, awake, but slouched forward, head buried in her hands, eyes fixed somewhere far away.
The first thing she notices is the shift in Enid’s breathing. It’s subtle, but after living across from her for so long, Wednesday can read it like a book.
Enid’s head lifts. Her eyes lock onto hers, wide and disbelieving. Relief hits her face so hard it almost looks painful.
“You’re awake,” she says, voice cracking just enough to betray the days or weeks, she’s been waiting for this. She grips the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing tethering her. “You’re actually, oh my god-”
Her hands hover, fluttering uselessly before she catches herself and pulls back like she might accidentally hurt her. The smile comes next, messy and overwhelmed. But it’s gone just as fast as it arrived.
“You-” Enid’s voice turns sharp, like she just remembered something she’s been holding in. Her shoulders stiffen. “You could have died , Wednesday. You almost did. And you…” she stops herself, jaw tight. “You risked your life for me .”
Wednesday stares at her, silent. She’s never seen her go from joy to fury so quickly—it’s almost impressive. She wonders who snitched. She wracks her brain trying to find whoever she told about her vision. Everything is a blur.
Enid’s voice starts to shake, and it’s not just anger anymore. “Do you even get what that would’ve done to me? I wouldn’t have…” her voice catches. “I wouldn’t have been okay. I wouldn’t be okay. I’m still not .”
She looks wrecked. Her hands keep moving, fingers clenching, unclenching, like she’s trying to physically get rid of whatever’s building up inside her.
Wednesday doesn’t know what to say to that. Words feel like the wrong tool, but they’re all she has.
“I’m alive,” she offers. “And you remain unharmed. “That’s what matters.”
Enid’s mouth falls open, and for a moment Wednesday wonders if she’s about to be strangled in her hospital bed. “That’s… God , you don’t get it. You don’t get how scared I was, Wednesday. You can’t just…”
She cuts herself off, looking away, swiping at her eyes like she can erase the whole conversation. “I thought you were gone,” she says, quieter now. “I thought I’d lost you, and I…I couldn’t breathe .”
There’s a tightness in Wednesday’s chest at that, though she refuses to examine it too closely. She doesn’t like seeing Enid like this—hair frizzed, eyes red, hands restless. She’d like it to stop.
“You’re a mess,” Wednesday says. “Pacing, crying… it’s exhausting to watch.”
Enid blinks at her, caught between confusion and offense.
“Just get in the bed,” Wednesday acquiesces. “You’ll feel better.”
Enid blinks. “I’m sorry… what?”
“The bed,” Wednesday repeats. “There is room. You’ll be less dramatic if you're here instead of…” she gestures vaguely toward the empty space beside the bed. “Out there, dripping your emotions onto the floor.”
Enid lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you are still here.”
She watches as Enid hesitates, then finally toes off her shoes and crawls onto the bed. The mattress dips under her weight. She doesn’t press against Wednesday at first. She just sits there, close enough that their shoulders brush.
It’s strange, having her this near without the usual flurry of noise and motion. Warmth radiates off her, steady and unyielding. It seeps through the hospital gown and into Wednesday’s skin.
Enid exhales, slower this time, the fight in her shoulders loosening. “You scared me so bad.”
“I’ll try not to do it again,” Wednesday says, though she knows her tone makes it sound less like a promise and more like a reluctant compromise.
She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but eventually Enid shifts, leaning her head against her shoulder. Wednesday doesn’t move away.
It’s tolerable. Perhaps… preferable.
-
Enid’s head grows heavier against her shoulder.
At first, Wednesday assumes it’s fatigue from panicking for so long, but the way her breaths start to lengthen and even out betrays her. Her weight shifts subtly, leaning more into Wednesday until their sides are fully pressed together.
Wednesday doesn’t stop her. She doesn’t exactly encourage it either, she simply adjusts her arm so that Enid’s head rests more securely against her, the motion slow enough not to wake her. The scent of shampoo and faint traces of hospital air mingle together. It’s oddly grounding.
Hours pass. Wednesday’s mind is still sharp, alert for any change in the steady rhythm of Enid’s breathing, but her body remains still. She could sit here indefinitely.
The door opens without warning.
A nurse steps in, her voice automatically dropping to a whisper when she sees the girl in the bed, and the one cuddled up beside her.
Wednesday lifts her gaze. “Don’t wake her,” she says, low and calm, like a command rather than a request. “She’s fine. I’m here.”
The nurse—mid-thirties, tired eyes, practiced in the art of ignoring overprotective relatives and friends, gives the smallest nod and moves with careful precision. She checks the monitors, silencing a faint alert with the press of a button, then leans in to adjust the IV line, her movements deliberate and noiseless. The only sounds are the occasional beep and the steady sigh of the oxygen concentrator. She gives her a cup of iced water and Wednesday drinks it greedily.
“How long,” Wednesday says suddenly, eyes never leaving Enid’s sleeping face. “Was I… indisposed?”
The nurse glances at her, hesitates as if debating whether the answer will do more harm than good. “Two months,” she says quietly. “You’ve been through a lot.”
Two months. The number lodges somewhere deep, heavy, but Wednesday doesn’t flinch. She files it away. It’s data, nothing more.
“I see,” she says simply. Enid's still here. There's no time crunch on that yet. Her vision hasn't come true. Perhaps she even stopped it.
The nurse scribbles a note on her clipboard, then adds. “Your family’s been waiting. I’ll bring them in, if you’re ready.”
Wednesday’s gaze finally shifts to her. “They may enter.”
“Of course,” she nods, with the faintest hint of a smile. She slips out just as quietly as she came, leaving the room in the same dim stillness as before.
First comes her father, loud even while trying to whisper. “There's my little viper!”
Gomez lights up the moment he sees her awake. Then he notices Enid, curled into her side, and his grin tilts knowingly. Her mother follows, gliding into the room, gaze sweeping over her daughter before pausing on the blonde girl nestled in her arms. One brow arches ever so slightly. She says nothing, but the curiosity in her eyes is louder than words.
Thing scuttles in next, fingers drumming excitedly on the bedrail. Pugsley isn’t far behind, looking far more flustered than the rest.
“You’re okay?” he blurts, nearly tripping with the speed he runs near the side of the bed like he’s afraid to touch her but desperate to make sure she’s still real. “They said you were… I mean, you almost-” he stops, takes a breath. “You’re okay.”
“I am,” Wednesday replies simply. It seems to be enough for him.
Then there’s Agnes, her superfan she had completely forgotten about until this moment, leaning against the doorframe with all the casual arrogance of someone who enjoys stirring trouble.
She tilts her head, smirking. “Wow. Didn’t think you had it in you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday doesn’t bother to look at her. “Your observations remain as unwanted as your presence.”
Agnes grins wider, unoffended.
Ignoring her entirely, Wednesday turns her attention to Thing, narrowing her eyes. She now remembers who knew of her visions. “You didn’t tell Enid, did you?”
Thing freezes, then makes an awkward gesture that’s somewhere between denial and a guilty shrug.
Her gaze sharpens. “Thing.”
He taps his fingers together nervously.
“Because if she finds out why I did all this,” Wednesday says. “She’ll take it as some melodramatic act of self-sacrifice and make it her personal mission to be insufferably guilty about it for the rest of the semester.”
Thing hesitates, then reluctantly admits the truth with a small nod. Wednesday exhales slowly through her nose. “Congratulations. You’ve doomed us both.”
Enid stirs slightly at the movement, but doesn’t wake. Wednesday tightens her arm around her, keeping her still. The room continues to hum with conversation, glances, and unspoken questions. The others can think what they want. She has no interest in correcting them.
Pugsley shifts closer, still hovering like he expects her to vanish if he blinks. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
Morticia studies her just as intently, voice soft but carrying weight. “You’ve been unconscious for quite some time, darling. We were concerned.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, the motion slow and deliberate. “Death has unfortunately not caught up to me yet, mother.”
Gomez chuckles under his breath. “That’s my girl.”
Morticia’s lips curve faintly, but her gaze sharpens. “What happened to you, querida?”
Wednesday leans her head back against the pillow, recounting it like it was yesterdsy. “I was in Willow Hill. I found a woman—unwell, but cooperative—and attempted to escort her out. Tyler intervened. He decided to throw me out a window.”
Pugsley’s eyes widen. “He threw you out a-”
“Shh,” Wednesday cuts in, sharp enough to silence his reiteration almost immediately. “You’ll wake her.”
She tilts her head slightly toward Enid, who’s still curled against her side, sleeping soundly. Pugsley clamps his mouth shut.
“When I collapsed from the black tears for the first time, I saw a vision. Enid’s death. Caused by me,” her gaze flickers briefly to her mother. “I’ve been trying to get Goody’s book to prevent that outcome. Everything I’ve done recently has been to ensure her survival.”
There’s a pause. Gomez is the first to speak, voice low with a mix of pride and concern. “Ah. A quest of the heart.”
Agnes smirks. “Translation: she’s been risking her life for her little wolf girlfriend.”
Wednesday finally turns her head toward her. “Say that again and I’ll have Thing remove your vocal cords.”
Agnes raises both hands in surrender. “Just calling it like I see it, boss. Which is: you’re terrifying and I’m here for it.”
Morticia hums, tilting her head. “You never told us your reasoning before.”
“I don’t care for wasting words,” Wednesday replies. “Besides, this is my problem to fix.”
Pugsley frowns. “So all of this, everything you’ve done… was for her?”
“Yes,” Wednesday says simply. “If she dies, I’ll have to listen to my own conscience. And I despise being lectured by anyone, especially myself.”
Agnes snickers. “That’s the most Wednesday Addams way to say ‘I care about someone’ I’ve ever heard.”
Wednesday ignores her again, smoothing the blanket over Enid’s shoulder in one careful motion. “Now, if you’re all finished with your clumsy interrogations, I suggest you lower your voices. She needs rest.”
Because Enid is shaking even in her sleep, flinching occasionally.
Wednesday’s gaze drifts to Thing again, perched now on the armrest like a guilty sentinel. “And where were you,” she asks, voice even. “While she was driving herself into the ground?”
Thing flinches—a twitch in his fingers—before beginning a flurry of signs.
Gomez steps in, hands spread in placation. “Don’t be too harsh on him, bombita. He’s been worried sick about you. And your little ray of sunshine here wouldn’t hear a word against pushing herself. She refused water, food, rest and wouldn’t stop until she knew you were safe.”
Wednesday’s jaw goes still. The room hums faintly in the silence that follows, but inside, something softens. She had already suspected as much, the stubborn set of Enid’s shoulders even in sleep gives her away, but hearing it aloud scratches at a place she keeps bolted shut.
She looks down. Enid’s cheek is pressed against her sleeve, her breathing shallow but steady. There’s a faint scrunch between her brows, as if even unconscious she’s braced for bad news.
Wednesday inhales once, quietly. Then, with all the finality of a judge’s gavel, she says. “Leave.”
There’s a rustle of protest, but her glare sends them scattering. Morticia touches her arm briefly on the way out, Gomez tips his hat and Thing lingers until Wednesday nods him toward the door.
When it’s just the two of them, she waits. Her hand hovers over Enid’s shoulder, then settles with careful precision. “Enid,” she says, low. “Wake up.”
It takes a moment. Enid stirs, eyelids fluttering, and blinks up at her with a dazed, vulnerable smallness that makes Wednesday’s breath feel heavier in her chest.
“You will take this,” Wednesday says, holding out a glass of water. Her tone is matter-of-fact, but she keeps her hand steady until Enid’s fingers curl around it. “And you will drink all of it before you argue.”
Enid obeys, slow and quiet, still watching her as if she might vanish. Wednesday sits back only when the last drop is gone. “Good.”
Enid blinks rapidly, hair sticking up on one side, eyes bleary. The second she registers Wednesday's presence without the sleep deprivation clouding her thoughts, she’s upright, nearly sending the cup in Wednesday’s hand flying. “You’re awake—oh my god, you’re awake.”
Her hands hover like she wants to touch her but isn’t sure where it’s safe. “Do you feel dizzy? Are you in pain? Do you need-”
“Enid. I'm fine,” Wednesday cuts in, voice steady, though her eyes can’t help scanning Enid for signs of neglect—dark circles under her eyes, the pallor in her skin, the slight slump in her posture. She lifts a hand to cup Enid’s forehead, testing for fever without thinking.
Enid grabs her wrist, startled. “Uh, you’re the one who’s been in a coma for two months, remember?”
“And yet you look far worse than I do,” Wednesday replies flatly.
Enid huffs, blinking too quickly, as if she’s fighting tears. “You scared me.”
“I told you I’m fine.” Wednesday doesn’t remove her hand, even when Enid weakly tries to push it away again.
“What happened that day?” Enid asks finally, her voice quieter now, hesitant.
Wednesday gives her the barest recount, short, clipped sentences that sketch the danger without lingering. Just enough for Enid to understand without inviting the memory to take root.
Enid’s expression darkens halfway through. “Tyler-”
“No,” Wednesday’s tone is immediate, final. “You will not speak to him. You will not see him. He almost killed you once. Threatened you another. I will not give him another opportunity.”
Enid bristles. “I’m not scared of him-”
“I am not asking,” Wednesday says, and for a beat the air between them stills.
Enid looks away first, jaw tight. “Fine.”
Satisfied, though she’ll never admit it, Wednesday’s attention returns to looking over her. She tilts Enid’s chin up, brushing her hair out of her face, fingers lingering at her temple.
Enid rolls her eyes, but her voice is softer. “Seriously, stop worrying about me. You just woke up from-”
“And you haven’t been sleeping,” Wednesday says simply. “Which is worse in its own way.”
Enid laughs once, shaky. “You’re impossible.”
“You've already said that,” Wednesday doesn’t move her hand.
Enid finally lets out a breath and leans forward until her forehead rests against Wednesday’s, like she’s giving in without wanting to say it aloud.
Wednesday stays perfectly still, but her eyes close, just for a moment.
Wednesday has always considered her parents’ constant displays of affection an unnecessary eyesore. All that hand-holding, the lingering touches, the way they speak to each other as if no one else exists…it’s indecent. Uncivilized. Maddening.
But as Enid sits beside her, still fussing despite Wednesday’s insistence that she’s fine, she feels a shift. Not a revelation—she’s far too rational for that—but an understanding. If this is what her parents feel— that need to keep the other in sight and within reach, then perhaps their nauseating behavior is less weakness and more inevitability.
She doesn’t plan to start gazing into anyone’s eyes in public any time soon. But she also doesn’t push Enid’s hand away.
Some curses, it seems, are hereditary.