Chapter Text
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Enid POV °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
God, I couldn't be happier. Like, really, couldn't. It feels weird even writing that down in my head — thinking it, saying it, living it. Me and Wenny... we're back as friends. Or, well, as close to "friends" as Wednesday Addams can probably manage without combusting or hexing me in my sleep. But still, it's something. It's huge. And the things with me and Ajax? Oh, don't even get me started. They're moving... veeeery slowly. Like, slow-motion slow. Like a snail crawling uphill through molasses in January. But hey, slow is still something, right? It's progress. It's hope. It's me, not completely losing my mind for once.
Wenny should honestly be made a saint. Like, canonized right now. Forget martyrs, forget miracles — just the fact that she's sat through me every single day without setting me on fire deserves a stained-glass window in some creepy gothic cathedral somewhere. My diary is already overflowing with words about her — no exaggeration. Pages and pages of my handwriting, my feelings, my frustrations, my squeals, my dreams. It's like my diary turned into a shrine to the slow, impossible project of befriending the most unfriendable girl on Earth.
And yet... she keeps listening to me. Somehow. I don't know how she does it. How she sits there with that perfectly straight back, that unreadable face, those eyes like bottomless wells of black coffee, and just listens. Her ears must be overflowing with my words by now. Like little rivers pouring into her head, my chatter bouncing around like pinballs. Any normal person would've screamed by now, or at least shoved me out the window. But her? Nothing. Not a word. Not a sigh.
And that's how I know — how I know — I've gained a soft spot in her cold, black heart. It's there. It's tiny, sure, but it's there. She doesn't tell me to shut up anymore. She doesn't throw those dagger-sharp insults at me like she used to. She just... lets me talk. Lets me be. And that's huge. That's everything.
I flop back on my bed sometimes after talking to her, staring up at the ceiling, thinking, Did that actually just happen? Did she really let me ramble for an hour about Ajax's new vocabulary words without making a single cutting remark? And every time, the answer is yes. Yes, she did. Yes, she's still here. Yes, she's still letting me in, inch by inch. And it feels like victory. Not a loud, confetti-throwing victory. A quiet one. A private one. The kind you keep in your chest and smile about when no one's looking.
I'm lying on my stomach on my bed, chin propped up on my palms, legs kicking idly behind me as I watch her from across the room. Wednesday sits at her desk, back perfectly straight, hair falling like ink over her shoulders, the lamplight catching on her pale skin. Her fingers move across the keys of her typewriter with the same rhythm as a metronome — click-clack, click-clack, click-clack — like she's punching holes into the silence. Every sound is so sharp and crisp it feels like it's rattling inside my skull. My poor ears honestly want to curl up and die. But I don't say anything. Not today.
I just keep my eyes on her. She's been weirdly decent with me lately — not warm, obviously, but not scathing either. No glares, no cutting remarks. And because she's been decent, I'm trying to be decent back. No complaining about the typewriter, no whining about the cello at midnight. Just... sitting here, soaking her in. She looks so completely focused, like the whole world outside her page doesn't exist. Her shoulders don't slump. Her braid doesn't move. It's like watching a statue breathe.
I let out a sigh and tilt my head, cheek resting against my palm. The question slips out before I can catch it. "Ugh, Wenny, why are you so smart?"
The noise stops immediately. Dead silence. The kind of silence that makes my heart skip. She turns her head slowly, braid swinging, dark eyes pinning me in place like a bug under glass.
"Excuse me?" she says, voice cold and flat, like an icicle falling from a roof.
I blink, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Yea, like..." I roll onto my back and throw my arm over my eyes dramatically. "Ugh, you are just so smart. Diligent. Just... ugh, perfect in all. HOW?" My voice cracks at the end into a half-whine, half-groan.
It was all meant as a compliment — obviously. But it's true too. She's so much. She's just... so much. How does she do it? How does she get up every day and walk around like the world is something she's already solved? How does she type for hours without losing focus, play the cello like it's second nature, never break a sweat over anything?
Her face stays perfectly stoic. Her eyes don't blink. She doesn't answer. Just sits there, quiet, like my words bounced off her black armor and fell to the floor unheard.
"Yea, ugh, okay," I mumble, rolling onto my stomach again to peek at her, "no need to answer. You're just perfect 'cuz you are." The words come out as a whine, but I mean them. Every bit of them.
I push myself up off the bed and smooth my skirt out, the soft fabric brushing against my knees. My feet make little soft sounds on the floor as I pad across the room toward her. She doesn't move. She doesn't flinch. She just watches me approach, eyes following me like she's trying to decide if I'm about to touch something she'll have to sterilize later.
The closer I get, the more I can smell her ink, that faint metallic tang of the typewriter, the slightly cooler air on her side of the room. My pastel fairy lights flicker and glow against her shadows, making the room look like two worlds glued together.
"Seriously, though," I say, my voice soft but still a little whiny, "how do you do it? You sit here for hours typing like it's nothing. You just... never stop."
She doesn't answer. Her face is still, unreadable, like a mask.
I sigh, stopping just beside her chair, my eyes flicking from her pale hands to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. The letters are perfect. Straight. No smudges. It's so obviously her — deliberate, precise, untouchable.
I tilt my head, letting a small smile slip across my lips. "Ugh, you're impossible, you know that? But you're also kinda amazing."
She doesn't look up. She doesn't say anything. But she doesn't tell me to shut up either. And somehow, that tiny, quiet nothing feels like the biggest win I've had all week.
With a couple of strides, I push myself off my bed and cross the room before my brain can talk me out of it. The air on her side always feels different — cooler, heavier, like it's been filtered through some invisible cloud of gloom. I stop right in front of her desk, right in front of her, and for a second, I just... look. Wednesday Addams, queen of mystery and permanent scowls, sitting there looking like she was carved out of pale marble and given the faintest pulse just for dramatic flair.
I lean forward slightly, the faint scent of her shampoo — something clean and crisp, almost old-fashioned — drifting up to meet me. My fingers, before I even register what they're doing, reach out to touch one of her braids. It's smooth and heavy, like silk dipped in night. I twirl the end between my fingers for half a heartbeat before realizing what I've done and blurting out the first thing that pops into my head.
"Ugh, can I borrow your shampoo or something?" I say, half whining, half breathless, my words tumbling over each other in a rush. "Your hair is just amazing, like seriously, how is it so shiny and perfect? Mine's over here rebelling against gravity, and yours looks like it belongs in some gothic shampoo commercial!"
She doesn't even move. Just sits there, frozen in that statue-perfect way of hers, eyes fixed on me like she's trying to decide whether I'm serious or delirious. My fingers drop away from her braid as I keep rambling because, honestly, stopping isn't my strong suit.
"I mean, I'm gonna see Ajax later, and—ugh—he asked me out earlier when we were out, and I just—ugh, I need to look perfect, and your hair, it's just so—"
"Fine."
The word cuts through my voice like a knife. Sharp, clipped, exactly two syllables long but somehow holding enough weight to make me freeze. Her tone is stoic — a little harsher than usual, but not cruel. Just... Wednesday.
For a split second, I blink at her, my mouth hanging open mid-word. And then it hits me.
"Oh my god. Thanks, Wenny! Thanks, thanks, you are just so amazing!" The excitement rushes through me like a sugar high, and before I can stop myself, I'm bouncing on my heels. "I promise I won't waste too much! I'll even replace it with one that smells like lavender or something nice and—okay okay I'll stop talking!"
She doesn't respond, of course. She just blinks once, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable as ever. But I swear — swear — there's a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. The kind of microscopic movement that only someone obsessed with decoding her like I am would notice.
Still grinning like an idiot, I spin on my heel and head straight toward my side of the room, practically skipping as I go. My closet bursts open in a riot of color — pastels, sequins, sparkles. I pull out half my wardrobe in five seconds flat, the sound of hangers clinking like a cheerful little symphony.
My heart is pounding. Ajax asked me out. Wenny lent me her shampoo. And for once, everything feels like it's working.
Behind me, I can hear the soft click-clack of her typewriter again, steady and precise. The world's tiniest acknowledgment that life has resumed its usual rhythm — her in her shadows, me in my colors — perfectly mismatched, perfectly us.
"If he breaks your heart, I'll nailgun his."
She says it flat, like it's a weather report. Classic Wednesday — deadly, blunt, and somehow tender under all that black. I stand there for a second, grinning so hard my cheeks ache because of course she'd threaten bodily harm on my behalf; it's her version of care.
"Y-yes, yes, Wenny, thanks," I say, voice all bubbly and incredulous, and then I laugh because honestly, who else would make a murder threat sound like a promise of friendship? "But there will be no need. Zero need." I wave my hands like I'm trying to catch the excitement in the air and keep it from exploding.
I head for the bathroom on light, bouncing feet because my heart's doing somersaults and I can't stand still. Halfway there I spin and call back over my shoulder, "Oh, and maybe I could say a few words about you and Xavier to Ajax — you know, they are—" and then she cuts me off, like she always does, with that perfectly cold little command. "No. Move. I want quiet."
Stoic. Short. Final. The way she says it would be terrifying if it weren't starting to feel comfortingly familiar. I can't help a little laugh that escapes me as I shrug. "Okay, okay, quiet it is," I mutter, because honestly, her "no" has this weirdly soothing authority.
I shut the bathroom door and stand under the warm spray for a minute, letting the steam blur the world and thinking about how absurd my life is—Ajax asked me out, Wednesday threatened to nailgun his head off, and now I'm sneaking into her shampoo like it's a secret relic. I grin, shake my head, and start getting ready, humming a tiny, off-key tune as I go.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟNo man has ever loved me like you do ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ