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Wednesday Addams, a creature of gothic precision and emotional constipation, would rather gargle holy water while reciting Hallmark cards than admit a single, solitary weakness. Her entire persona was a meticulously constructed fortress of apathy, sarcasm, and a general disdain for the vibrant, chaotic mess of human existence. So, when she got sick, it wasn't a matter of sniffling and asking for soup. It was an act of cosmic betrayal, a personal insult from a universe that clearly had it out for her.
It began subtly. A tickle in her throat that she blamed on the school's poor air quality, likely saturated with the cheerful vapors of teenage optimism. A slight ache behind her eyes that she diagnosed as a migraine induced by Enid's color-coordinated wardrobe. But when, during her cello practice, a rendition of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 devolved into a series of guttural, phlegmy honks that sounded like a dying goose attempting to summon Satan, even she had to admit something was amiss.
The problem was, admitting it was out of the question. To be sick was to be vulnerable, to be human, to be... weak. And Wednesday Addams was many things, morbid, brilliant, a potential future serial arsonist but she was not weak.
So, she initiated Operation: I am a pillar of gothic health and you are all delusional.
Her first line of defense was denial. When Enid bounced into their room, a whirlwind of pink and yellow and the scent of strawberry shampoo, Wednesday was already stationed at her desk, pen poised over her latest manuscript.
"Morning, 'Wen!" Enid chirped, pausing. "Whoa, you sound kinda gravelly. Did you try to eat a rock again? Because Ms. Weems said—"
"My vocal cords are merely recalibrating," Wednesday interrupted, her voice emerging as a low, raspy rumble. "I am experimenting with a new, more menacing timbre for my novel's antagonist. It is an artistic choice, not a biological malfunction."
Enid squinted, her head cocking. "Right. An artistic choice that also happens to include you looking like a vampire who hasn't fed in a century. Your face is all pale and... clammy."
"It's called a 'deathly pallor,' Enid. It's aesthetic. You wouldn't understand." Wednesday turned a page in her book with sharp, jerky movements. "Now, if you'll excuse me, this corpse isn't going to reanimate itself."
The next phase was concealment. Wednesday's symptoms escalated with the speed of a biblical plague. Her nose, once a delicate sculpted feature, was now a leaky faucet of black misery. Her head throbbed with the fury of a thousand disappointed ancestors. A cough, deep and wracking, began to seize her body at the most inconvenient moments, like when she was trying to glare at a passing jock.
She tried to hide it. She held her coughs in, which resulted in her face turning a fascinating shade of puce and her body making a series of internal, convulsive sounds like a failing sump pump. She dealt with her nose by employing a series of increasingly desperate maneuvers. When she thought Enid wasn't looking, she would perform what she called the "nostril pinch-and-wipe," a swift and subtle maneuver that was about as subtle as a car crash.
Enid, of course, saw everything. She saw Wednesday dabbing at her nose with the corner of a black lace doily. She saw her wrap herself in her woolen funeral shroud in the middle of a not-particularly-cold afternoon. She saw her meticulously sharpen a pencil, then stare at it with profound confusion for a solid minute before trying to write with the eraser end.
The breaking point came during study hall. Wednesday was attempting to translate an ancient Sumerian text about plagues and pestilence, which she found deeply comforting. A massive, soul-shattering cough ripped through her body. It was not a dainty little clearing of the throat. It was a full-body, lung-evicting cataclysm that ended with a sound suspiciously like a small animal being choked.
The entire room fell silent. Yoko, across the table, slowly pushed her bowl of blood-orange slices away.
Wednesday, her eyes watering, her chest heaving, slowly straightened up. She stared at the horrified faces of her classmates.
"Disturbing, isn't it?" she rasped, a triumphant glint in her feverish eyes. "The sound of a soul escaping its mortal coil. I have been practicing. For my performance art piece."
Nobody bought it. Not even the gorgons, who were generally impressed by anything that involved petrification.
Later that night, Enid found Wednesday in the bathroom, staring at her reflection with an expression of profound disgust. Her hair was limp, her dark circles had dark circles, and she was shivering so hard her teeth were chattering, a sound she found mortifyingly undignified.
"Okay, that's it," Enid said, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. "You're sick. Just admit it."
"I am experiencing a temporary state of heightened sensory awareness," Wednesday countered, her voice a hoarse whisper. "The chills are a physiological response to the overwhelming mediocrity of this institution."
Enid sighed, a long-suffering sound that was part affection, part exasperation. "Wednesday, you just tried to drink out of the wrong side of your water glass. You're holding your cello bow like it's a hatchet. You told Thing he had 'a furry little hand' and then tried to apologize to him. You're sick."
"I am not..." Wednesday began, but was cut off by another wracking cough that doubled her over.
Enid was at her side in an instant, not with pity, but with a no-nonsense efficiency that Wednesday secretly admired. She didn't baby her. She didn't coo. She just started taking charge.
"Alright, you goth nightmare, let's get you to bed," Enid said, steering the protesting Wednesday out of the bathroom. "I've got my emergency 'Wolf pup care package' for just such an occasion."
"I do not require a 'care package'," Wednesday grumbled, allowing herself to be guided. "I require solitude and a quiet place to perish."
"Perish later. For now, you get soup." Enid deposited Wednesday onto her bed and then began rummaging in her closet, emerging with a bright pink, fuzzy hoodie with a cartoon wolf on it.
"What is that... abomination?" Wednesday asked, her eyes wide with horror.
"It's cozy. And it's clean. Your funeral shroud probably has, like, ancient plague germs on it." Enid held it up. "Put it on."
"I would rather be vivisected."
"Fine," Enid said with a shrug. "I'll just have to do it for you." Before Wednesday could properly formulate a threat involving taxidermy, Enid had deftly maneuvered her arms into the sleeves and pulled the hood over her head. Wednesday looked down at herself, a vision of black-and-white striped pajamas topped with a shockingly pink, fluffy wolf. She looked less like the harbinger of doom and more like a sad, emo puppy.
"This is the ultimate humiliation," she mumbled into the fuzzy fabric.
"You look cute," Enid said, which was, to Wednesday, the most damning statement of all.
Enid returned with a steaming mug. "It's my special 'Get better or else' broth. It's got garlic, ginger, and enough chili to scare a demon out of a priest."
Wednesday sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled suspiciously... good. She took a hesitant sip. It was warm and spicy and soothed her raw throat in a way that was deeply infuriating. She glared at Enid over the rim of the mug. "This does not change the fact that I am perfectly healthy."
"Of course not," Enid said, patting the pink hood. "You're just taking a strategic rest to lull your enemies into a false sense of security. Very cunning."
Wednesday sank deeper into the pillows, the warmth of the soup and the ridiculous hoodie seeping into her aching bones. She felt a sneeze building, a catastrophic, world-ending sneeze. She tried to fight it, to suppress it, to glare it into submission, but it was no use.
"Ah... ah... AHHH-CHOO!"
It was a sneeze of epic proportions. It was loud, wet, and echoed through the room. And when she opened her eyes, she saw Enid holding up a small, black square of fabric.
Wednesday stared. It was one of her special-occasion, hand-embroidered, black silk handkerchiefs. The one with the little skull and crossbones in the corner. The one she kept in a sealed box.
"I knew you were getting sick yesterday when you started alphabetizing your poison collection by toxicity instead of by name," Enid said softly, handing her the handkerchief. "You only do that when you're feeling off."
Wednesday took the handkerchief, her fingers brushing against Enid's. She looked at her girlfriend, who saw through every layer of sarcasm, every wall of denial, every pathetic attempt at concealment. She saw the fever, the aches, the miserable, sniffling girl underneath the gothic armor.
She blew her nose with a sound like a deflating bagpipe. "You are an observant and irritatingly perceptive wolf-girl," she conceded, her voice thick with congestion and something else she refused to name.
___
Enid just grinned, a flash of white in her colorful face. "Takes one to know one, gloom-and-doom-girl. Now, drink up. I've got a whole regimen planned."
"Regimen?" Wednesday eyed her with the suspicion of a cornered raccoon. The word implied a schedule, a routine, a series of cheerful, mandatory events. It was her personal version of hell.
"Oh, yes," Enid chirped, already bustling around the room. "Step one: soup. Step two: hydration. Step three: entertainment. You're not allowed to be bored and sick. It's against the rules of my care package."
"There are no rules in your 'care package'," Wednesday grumbled, taking another sip of the broth. It was a tactical surrender, she told herself. A necessary intake of fluids to maintain optimal organ function for later brooding. "It is anarchy in a fuzzy pink hoodie."
"Exactly! Now, for hydration." Enid presented a large, garishly yellow water bottle with a straw, covered in wolf paw print stickers. "I even put a lemon slice in it. For vitamin C."
Wednesday stared at the bottle as if it were a vial of bubonic plague. "I refuse to drink from that... sacrificial vessel. It looks like a canary threw up on a wolf."
"Fine, then you'll get dehydrated, your fever will get worse, and your brain will turn to mush, and you won't be able to finish your novel about the emotionally repressed undertaker," Enid said, tapping her foot. The logic was infuriatingly sound. With a sigh that could power a small wind turbine, Wednesday took the bottle and drank. The straw was an indignity, but the water was cold and her throat was on fire.
"Happy now?" she asked, her voice a gravelly complaint.
"Ecstatic. Now, entertainment." Enid clapped her hands and hopped onto her own bed, grabbing the remote. "We're starting with 'The great British bake off'."
"Absolutely not," Wednesday stated, her voice flat. "I will not watch a group of simpering fools celebrate the creation of confections. It is a grotesque display of frivolity. Their joy is an affront to the inevitable decay of all things."
"You say the most romantic things," Enid sighed, turning on the TV anyway. "This is the season finale. Someone's going to cry over a collapsed Baked Alaska. It's basically a tragedy."
Wednesday opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but was cut off by a coughing fit so violent she nearly dropped the offensive yellow water bottle. When she could finally breathe again, Enid was beside her, rubbing her back in firm, steady circles.
"See? You need a distraction. You can't brood properly if you're busy hacking up a lung."
Wednesday slumped back against the pillows, defeated. She watched as a cheerful woman named Mary Berry described a Victoria sponge with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious relics. It was absurd. It was pointless. It was... strangely mesmerizing. The precision, the quiet competition, the potential for disaster. It wasn't so different from one of her family's less lethal dinner parties, just with more icing and fewer poisonings.
"This 'soggy bottom' phenomenon is fascinating," Wednesday found herself saying, her voice raspy. "A structural failure at the foundation, leading to total culinary collapse. A perfect metaphor for the fragility of human ambition."
Enid beamed. "See? I knew you'd like it."
"I 'like' nothing," Wednesday corrected, but she didn't look away from the screen.
The hours passed in a haze of pastel colors, baking disasters, and Enid's relentless care. She brought Wednesday a cool cloth for her forehead, which Wednesday complained was "damp and intrusive" but secretly found blissful. She fluffed her pillows, which Wednesday declared "an unnecessary disruption of my established resting geometry" but which made her feel wonderfully cocooned.
At one point, Thing scurried onto the bed and tapped out a message on Wednesday's blanket: ARE YOU DYING? CAN I HAVE YOUR CELLO?
Wednesday, in a moment of feverish weakness, patted his hand with her finger. "Not yet, you five-fingered vulture. But I am updating my will."
Enid just laughed and brought her a bowl of lime Jell-O. Wednesday stared at the wiggling green mound. "It looks like an ectoplasmic biopsy."
"It's jiggly and fun! Just like you!" Enid teased.
Wednesday's glare was half its usual wattage. "If you ever compare me to this gelatinous abomination again, I will replace all your hair dye with permanent black ink."
"A threat! You must be feeling better," Enid said, completely unfazed.
Wednesday ate the Jell-O. It was cold and sweet but not too much because Enid knew she hated it and slid down her sore throat with ease. She hated how much she enjoyed it.
As night fell, her fever spiked, and a deep, bone-weary ache settled in. The cheerful baking show was no longer a sufficient distraction. She felt miserable, truly and deeply miserable, in a way that had nothing to do with her usual existential dread. She shivered, despite the warmth of the room and the ridiculous pink hoodie.
Enid noticed immediately. She turned off the TV, the room falling into a comfortable dimness. "Okay, bedtime for grumpy ghouls."
"I do not require assistance in retiring," Wednesday insisted, trying to sit up and failing spectacularly. Her head swam, and she fell back against the pillows with a soft groan.
"Right," Enid said softly. She helped Wednesday shift under the blankets, tucking the dark wool around her. Then, to Wednesday's utter shock, Enid climbed into the narrow bed beside her.
"What is the meaning of this?" Wednesday hissed, her body stiffening. "This is a flagrant violation of personal space. Our designated sleeping areas are clearly demarcated by the invisible wall of mutual coexistence."
"The wall is down for repairs," Enid said, settling in. "You're shivering. You're a human-sized ice pop with a bad attitude. I'm a werewolf. We run hot. It's just basic thermodynamics, Wednesday."
Before Wednesday could formulate a protest involving the laws of physics and personal sovereignty, Enid snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around her. The heat that radiated from Enid was immediate and overwhelming. It seeped through the black silk of her pajamas, into her aching bones and churning stomach. It was... divine.
"This is unacceptable," Wednesday mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow. But she didn't push her away. In fact, she found herself unconsciously leaning into the warmth, her rigid posture slowly melting.
"Yeah, you hate it," Enid whispered, her voice a low, comforting hum right next to Wednesday's ear. She began to gently stroke Wednesday's hair, her fingers tracing slow, calming patterns on her scalp.
Wednesday closed her eyes. The world, which had been a sharp, painful, and noisy place just hours before, was now quiet and warm. The constant throb in her head receded to a dull ache. The shivering stopped. All she could feel was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Enid's breathing and the comforting weight of her arm.
"Enid?" she whispered into the darkness.
"Yeah, 'Wens?"
"This is... tolerable."
Enid's soft laugh was the last thing she heard before she finally drifted off to sleep, for the first time in days, not feeling like a harbinger of doom, but just a girl who was sick, and who was, despite her best efforts, being taken care of. And in the quiet, feverish depths of her mind, she had to admit, it was more than tolerable. It was almost... nice. But she'd rather die than ever say that out loud when she was feeling better.
___
Wednesday awoke to a sensation so alien and unfamiliar it took her addled brain several moments to identify it. It was the absence of misery. The throbbing in her head had subsided to a dull, distant echo. The vice-like grip on her sinuses had loosened. The fire in her throat was now merely a pile of smoldering embers. She took a deep, experimental breath.
It didn't sound like a dying asthmatic. It sounded like a breath.
She blinked her eyes open. The first thing she saw was a riot of pink. Enid's hair, a vibrant cloud, was splayed across the pillow next to her, and the arm draped over her middle was clad in the fuzzy sleeve of the wolf hoodie. The sheer, unapologetic cheerfulness of it all should have been nauseating. Instead, it felt... grounding.
A soft snore escaped Enid's lips, a tiny, almost inaudible puff of air. Wednesday lay perfectly still, a predator observing an unsuspecting creature. She analyzed the data. The fever had broken. The congestion had cleared. The aches were gone. The scientific, logical conclusion was inescapable: she had been cured.
And the cure was currently drooling slightly on her shoulder.
This was a problem. Wednesday Addams did not get cured by things like "care" and "warmth" and "jiggly green ectoplasm." She survived. She endured. She conquered illness through sheer force of will and a healthy dose of pessimism. To admit that Enid's... maternal ministrations had been the catalyst for her recovery was to concede a power dynamic she was not comfortable with. It was an admission that she needed, which was, in her lexicon, the ultimate weakness.
Carefully, with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, she began to extract herself from the tangle of limbs and pastel fleece. She slid an inch. Then another. Enid murmured something about "fluffy clouds" and tightened her grip. Wednesday froze. She considered her options. She could employ a nerve pinch. She could feign a sudden, violent nightmare. Or she could just lie there.
She chose the latter, for now. It was a tactical retreat, she told herself. A moment to gather her strength before re-establishing her emotional boundaries.
But as she lay there, listening to the soft rhythm of Enid's breathing, a strange warmth bloomed in her chest that had nothing to do with fever. It was a feeling she couldn't quite name, a sensation that was both soft and sharp, like a velvet-wrapped dagger. She remembered the cool cloth on her forehead, the taste of the spicy soup, the ridiculous yellow water bottle, the way Enid had defended her choice of television show to an empty room.
It was all so inefficient. So illogical. So... effective.
Enid stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She blinked at Wednesday, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across her face. "Your eyeballs aren't trying to escape their sockets anymore. That's a good sign."
"My eyeballs were never attempting escape," Wednesday rasped, her voice still rough but no longer a gravelly ruin. "They were conducting a stress test of the ocular muscles. The results were... inconclusive."
"Right." Enid propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a glorious mess. "How do you feel?"
Wednesday sat up, testing her body. There was a slight weakness, a residual tremor, but the overwhelming sickness was gone. "I am functioning at approximately eighty-seven percent capacity. An acceptable level for non-critical operations."
"So, basically, you're better."
"I am experiencing a significant reduction in symptoms," Wednesday corrected, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up, a little wobbly but upright. "I shall now resume my duties."
"Your duties include glaring at your cello and alphabetizing poisons?" Enid asked, stretching.
"And plotting the downfall of my enemies. A full agenda."
"Okay, well, before you start any doomsday plotting, you're having breakfast." Enid bounced out of bed, all energy and morning cheer. "I'm making toast. The good kind, with the crusty bread. And I'm putting honey on it."
"Honey is the regurgitated nectar of insects," Wednesday stated flatly. "It is an unappetizing concept."
"It's delicious and it's good for you. Now sit." Enid pointed a commanding finger at Wednesday's desk chair.
Wednesday considered arguing. She considered a withering monologue on the principles of entomology and personal autonomy. But she looked at Enid, who was already rummaging through the mini-fridge with the determined air of a field medic, and found she didn't have the energy. Or perhaps, the will.
She sat. She watched as Enid expertly toasted the bread and slathered it with honey, her movements practiced and sure. She placed the plate on the desk in front of Wednesday.
"There. Queen of the Macabre's first post-plague meal."
Wednesday picked up a slice. It was warm, the honey glistening in the morning light. She took a bite. The sweetness was a shock to her system, but not an unpleasant one. It was comforting. Nourishing. She hated it.
"It is... adequate," she conceded, after swallowing.
Enid beamed as if Wednesday had just declared it the most exquisite delicacy she had ever tasted. "High praise coming from you."
The day continued in this fashion. Wednesday attempted to return to her routine, to re-forge the armor of her apathy. She sat at her desk, pen in hand, but the words wouldn't come. Instead of dark and twisted prose, she found herself doodling a small, lopsided wolf in the corner of her page. She scowled at it and scribbled it out.
Later, she picked up her cello. She played a few scales, her fingers regaining their memory. The sound was clear and strong, no longer the tortured honk of a dying waterfowl. She felt a flicker of her old self, the solitary artist in her gloomy tower.
But the silence felt different now. It wasn't the peaceful emptiness she usually craved. It felt... hollow.
She found her gaze drifting to Enid, who was on her bed, happily painting her nails a violent shade of purple. The quiet scratch of the brush against the nail, the soft humming coming from her lips, it filled the hollow space. It was an intrusion. It was an irritation. It was the reason she could breathe through her nose.
The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow. She hadn't just been sick. She had been lonely. Her solitude was a choice, a fortress she had built and maintained. But when the walls had been shaken by fever and weakness, the fortress had felt cold and empty. Enid hadn't just brought her soup; she had brought warmth. She hadn't just fluffed her pillows; she had filled the silence.
That evening, as they prepared for bed, Wednesday felt a return of the chills, but this time they weren't from fever. It was a pre-emptive strike of her own psyche, a fear of the vulnerability she had allowed herself to feel. She pulled on her usual black silk pajamas, a familiar armor.
Enid noticed her silence. "You're quiet tonight. And not your usual 'I'm-plotting-something' quiet. It's a different quiet."
"I am contemplating the ephemeral nature of existence," Wednesday replied, staring at a crack in the plaster.
"Uh-huh." Enid walked over and stood in front of her. She didn't say anything, just looked at her with those big, knowing eyes that saw far too much.
Wednesday held her gaze, her own expression a mask of indifference. But inside, the walls were crumbling. She remembered the feeling of Enid's arm around her, the simple, unthinking comfort of it. She remembered the taste of honey on toast, the sound of her laugh. She remembered feeling safe.
She broke. It wasn't a dramatic collapse. It was a quiet, almost imperceptible shift. She reached out and her fingers brushed against Enid's.
Enid didn't hesitate. She took Wednesday's hand in hers, her own warm and strong. "You know," she said softly, "it's okay to admit you were sick. And that you maybe, just a little bit, needed help."
Wednesday looked down at their joined hands. Her pale, slender fingers intertwined with Enid's painted ones. It was a study in contrasts, a perfect, impossible balance. She couldn't say the words. They were trapped in her throat, too heavy, too revealing.
So she did something else. Something that said everything she couldn't. She gently tugged Enid's hand, pulling her closer. She didn't say a word as she climbed into bed and held the edge of the blanket up in a silent invitation.
Enid's smile was soft and understanding. She slipped into bed beside her, and just like the night before, wrapped her arms around her.
Wednesday settled against her, the familiar, unwelcome-yet-necessary warmth seeping into her bones. She closed her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the darkness.
It wasn't an admission of defeat. It was an acknowledgment of a truce. A recognition that even the strongest fortresses sometimes need a little warmth to keep the chill at bay. And for the first time, Wednesday Addams didn't feel weak for it. She just felt... better.