Chapter Text
June 17th, 2:00 AM EST / 11:00 PM PST
The Addams mansion was not merely silent, it was profoundly silent.
Outside Wednesday's bedroom window, fog drifted lazily between crooked gravestones, each movement slow like ghosts deciding whether to materialize. Moonlight silvered the iron fence surrounding the family cemetery, turning the rusted bars into something almost beautiful. The old yew trees stood motionless against the night sky, their branches reaching up.
A crow landed atop a weather-worn angel statue. Its claws scraped against moss-covered stone.
Then another crow joined it.
Then three more.
Wednesday glanced up from her typewriter, her fingers stilling above the keys. The half-finished sentence about arsenic absorption rates hung incomplete.
"Suspicious," she murmured, her voice barely disturbing the silence.
The birds stared back. Seven pairs of black, unblinking eyes fixed on her window with an intensity that suggested they were either waiting for something, or delivering a message from the underworld. Wednesday had encountered both possibilities before, and neither concerned her.
She stared harder.
One of them cawed, a harsh sound that seemed to mock her.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes, her expression flattening into something that had made grown men confess to crimes they hadn't committed, or they secretly had.
The crow promptly flew away, its companions following in a flurry of black wings and indignant squawks.
Victory.
Wednesday allowed herself the barest flicker of satisfaction before returning her attention to the manuscript spread across her desk. Three hundred and forty-two pages of tightly typed prose.
Seven murders, each more inventive than the last. One dismemberment that had taken her three days to perfect. Two poisonings that she'd researched extensively, including a particularly creative use of nightshade that she was rather proud of.
And an ending that still felt entirely unsatisfactory.
She tapped a finger against the desk—once, twice, three times—the rhythmic sound the only thing breaking the silence. The ending had been rewritten fourteen times.
Perhaps the problem wasn't the ending itself but the protagonist's lack of emotional depth. Perhaps the problem was that her detective had no one to mourn, no one to miss, no one whose absence would make the resolution feel earned.
Perhaps the problem was that Wednesday was writing about things she didn't fully understand.
The room glowed in stark monochrome, moonlight spilling through the window. A single lamp illuminated her typewriter, casting long shadows across the walls.
Everything was exactly as it should be with the organized chaos of her research materials, the neatly stacked reference books, the carefully arranged collection of antique murder weapons displayed on the mantle.
Everything except one person that had been missing.
Her eyes flicked towards the smartphone sitting beside the manuscript.
An abomination.
A tiny glowing rectangle gifted by Xavier before summer break, presented with the kind of hopeful smile that made Wednesday want to gouge out his eyes with a letter opener. She initially considered burying it in the family cemetery. Then setting it on fire in the backyard while Pugsley watched. Then feeding it to his carnivorous Venus flytrap, which would have been poetic justice.
Instead she had kept it.
For practical reasons, obviously.
The fact that one specific blonde werewolf happened to use the same device was entirely coincidental.
The screen remained dark.
10:57 PM PST.
1:57 AM EST.
Three minutes.
Wednesday looked away from the phone with practiced casualness, as if she hadn't been mentally counting down the seconds since the last notification. She picked up her pen, uncapped it, and pretended to review her notes on Victorian poisoning methods.
Then she immediately looked back at the phone.
The screen remained stubbornly dark.
She frowned, the expression creasing her forehead in a way that would have been comical if anyone had been watching. The feeling in her chest was becoming increasingly familiar. That strange, restless sensation that had taken up residence beneath her ribs sometime around the fourth week of summer break.
Unpleasant and irritating. Like waiting for a thunderstorm that refused to arrive, or anticipating the perfect moment to strike only to discover your target had already fled.
The phone suddenly lit up, the screen blazing to life in the darkness of her room.
Incoming Call: Enid 🌈✨🐺
Enid had saved her number that way on the phone before they left Nevermore and Wednesday pretended she didn't know how to delete all those emojis from her name. She just left them as they were, because that was just Enid.
Wednesday answered before the second ring could complete, her thumb moving with a speed that betrayed her earlier indifference.
A colorful blur appeared on screen. Pink and blue and yellow so bright it nearly hurt to look at after the monochrome comfort of her room. Enid's face materialized through the chaos, her grin already spreading across her features like sunrise breaking over a battlefield.
"YOU PICKED UP FAST." Enid said out loud enthusiastically, still amused that Wednesday kept answering her calls instead of blocking her or burning the phone.
Wednesday ignored the observation, her expression remaining perfectly neutral despite the way her heart performed an irritating little skip at the sound of Enid's voice.
"So did you."
Enid's grin widened, revealing teeth that seemed to glow in the soft light of her bedroom. "Maybe because I wasn't doing anything."
"Liar."
"Maybe." The word was drawn out, teasing, accompanied by a shrug that made her colorful tank top string slip off one shoulder. The grin widened further, aimed directly at the camera with devastating precision. "Maybe I was just sitting here, staring at my phone, hoping you'd call."
Wednesday felt something shift in her chest. She chose to ignore it. "Your hope was unnecessary. I don't initiate calls."
"You just did."
"I answered. There's a distinction."
"Mhm." Enid's expression screamed disbelief, her eyebrows arching in a way that suggested she knew exactly how long Wednesday had been staring at the phone. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"I don't sleep."
"Creepy."
"Efficient."
The image steadied as Enid adjusted her grip on the phone, and Wednesday could finally see the full picture of her surroundings.
Enid was sprawled across a bed tangled in pastel sheets that looked like they'd been attacked by a rainbow. Pink and blue fairy lights glowed around her room, casting soft colors across the walls where photographs and posters created a chaotic collage of memories.
The window behind her stood wide open, admitting the warm night air. Wednesday could hear crickets chirping in the distance, their rhythm steady and almost hypnotic. Somewhere beyond that, traffic hummed. The distant, constant noise of a city that never truly slept.
San Francisco.
Warm, bright and loud California.
Everything Wednesday instinctively disliked.
Everything Enid somehow managed to embody with her endless energy and color.
"You look tired," Enid observed, her head tilting as she studied Wednesday's face with an attention that felt uncomfortably perceptive.
"I've been writing."
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
"Mhm." The sound was skeptical, almost mocking, and accompanied by an eye roll so dramatic Wednesday could practically hear it. "You always say that, and I always know you're lying. You've probably been staring at the same page for hours, wondering if that line about arsenic absorption rates is technically accurate."
Wednesday blinked. "That's—"
"Specific?" Enid raised an eyebrow playfully, pleased with herself.
"Accurate."
Enid's grin returned, triumphant. "I know you, Wednesday Addams."
The words landed somewhere unexpected. Wednesday found herself momentarily speechless, caught off guard by how much Enid actually noticed. How much she remembered. How much she paid attention to the small details that most people overlooked.
She covered her confusion by changing the subject.
"You look overheated."
Enid groaned dramatically, flinging herself backward onto her pillows in a display of theatrical suffering. "Don't remind me. It's absolutely awful out here."
"How tragic." The words emerged dry as dust, but Wednesday felt the corner of her mouth twitch despite herself.
"No seriously, Wednesday. It's disgusting. Today was like eighty-six degrees. I felt like I was melting into a puddle of werewolf goo."
Wednesday stared at her with flat incomprehension. "Eighty-six."
"Yeah."
"I fail to see the issue."
Enid sat bolt upright, pointing accusingly at the screen. "Because you're basically a vampire blend-in with psychic. You don't understand how normal people suffer."
"I am not a vampire." Wednesday said matter-of-factly.
"You live in a giant gothic mansion."
"My point remains valid."
"You wear black in summer."
"Black is suitable for every season."
"You enjoy thunderstorms."
"They're soothing."
"You think cemeteries are scenic."
"They are." Wednesday gestured vaguely towards her window where the moonlit gravestones cast long shadows across the lawn, but Enid could not see from this angle. "There's a particular beauty in decay that most people fail to appreciate."
Enid pointed triumphantly, her finger nearly touching the camera lens. "Case closed. You're basically a hybrid psychic-vampire, and I'm basically a puddle, and one of us has clearly made better life choices."
Wednesday considered arguing further. Then decided Enid was objectively wrong and therefore not worth the effort.
"How was your day?" Wednesday asked instead. The question emerged more naturally than she'd intended, like her mouth had simply decided to ask without consulting her brain first.
The effect was immediate.
Enid brightened like someone had flipped a switch, her entire demeanor shifting from theatrical suffering to genuine enthusiasm. Wednesday found herself bracing for impact, because when Enid became excited, conversations ceased to be conversations.
They became natural disasters.
"I went to the beach!" Enid announced, her voice rising with barely contained joy.
Wednesday sighed internally, the sound remaining locked behind her carefully maintained expression. "And?"
"It was amazing." Enid's eyes sparkled, and Wednesday could practically see the memories playing across her face. "The water was perfect, the sun was warm, and I found the most incredible shell."
Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "Incredible how?"
"Okay, so it wasn't actually incredible. It was kind of broken. But I pretended it was a magical artifact from an ancient sea kingdom."
"That seems delusional."
"It's called imagination, Wednesday." Enid huffed.
"I call it willful ignorance."
"There were dolphins."
Wednesday's eyebrow remained raised, but she felt a flicker of interest despite herself. "Dolphins."
"Yeah! Three of them. They were swimming right by the shore, and I almost screamed."
"Did you?"
"No. But I thought about it. Does that count?"
"Not remotely."
"You're impossible." Enid was grinning again. That wide, infectious expression that Wednesday found both irritating and strangely appealing. "But wait—there's more. I got ice cream."
"Predictable." Wednesday said flatly.
"It was salted caramel."
"Marginally less predictable." Wednesday said because Enid did not take her usual stracciatella, chili chocolate and bacon maple syrup combo, with a concerning amount of toppings that could cause artery blockage to someone lesser.
"It melted all over my hands." Enid said, knowing that happens to her everytime she eats ice cream.
"Inevitable."
"I accidentally dropped it."
"Expected."
"A seagull stole the rest."
"Deserved." Wednesday allowed herself the smallest smirk. "You fed wildlife."
"It wasn't intentional!"
"You rewarded criminal behavior." Wednesday said with slightest amount of amusement.
"How was I supposed to know seagulls had such refined taste and like salted caramel?"
"The seagull will escalate. Tomorrow it will demand your lunch. By next week it will have organized a gang."
Enid burst out laughing, the sound crackling through the speaker with brightness that made Wednesday's chest feel oddly tight.
"Oh my God, Wednesday. A seagull gang?"
"Organized crime is a serious matter."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm accurate."
"Same thing, really." Enid settled back against her pillows, the fairy lights casting shifting colors across her face. "You know what else happened?"
"I suspect you're about to tell me regardless."
"I got sunburned."
Wednesday froze, her entire body going still with an intensity that would have alarmed anyone who knew her well.
"What." Wednesday said seriously. It wasn't even a question, just a piercing stare into the camera.
Enid winced, her expression shifting to something almost apologetic. "Just a little."
"What." Wednesday repeated, her expression didn't change at all.
"A tiny bit." She was gesturing now, trying to downplay the severity with increasingly exaggerated hand movements. "Like, barely noticeable."
"What."
Enid sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Okay. Maybe a medium amount. But it's not like I did it on purpose! The sunscreen was right there, and I meant to put it on, but then the dolphins showed up, and I got distracted, and—"
Wednesday set pulled away her manuscript with careful precision, her movements controlled despite the sudden surge of something that felt suspiciously like concern.
"How severe?" She asked, ready to evaluate the severity and take revenge of the sun personally.
"It's not that bad, really."
"Show me." The words left her mouth before she could stop them, propelled by something primal and entirely irrational. She saw Enid's eyes widen, saw the surprise flicker across her features.
Then, a smile slowly spread across Enid's face, transforming her expression into something knowing and absolutely infuriating.
"Oh," she said, drawing the word out like she was savoring it. "You're worried."
Wednesday felt heat creep up the back of her neck. "I am assessing damage."
"You're worried." Enid pointed.
"I am gathering information."
"Wednesday Addams is worried about me." Enid smiled widely, almost giddy.
"I can end this call." Wednesday warned with a low voice.
"You are absolutely worried." Enid's voice had gone soft, almost fond, and Wednesday hated it as much as she secretly treasured it.
Wednesday considered hanging up. She considered throwing the phone across the room. She considered several creative methods of murder that she'd been perfecting in her manuscript.
Instead, she sat frozen, watching as Enid lifted her shirt.
Wednesday's brain promptly stopped functioning briefly, only for moment.
A second.
Maybe two.
But long enough that she registered the curve of Enid's shoulder, the elegant line of her spine, the way the camera angled awkwardly to capture the flushed skin of her upper back. The sunburn wasn't severe, more pink rather than red with only the faintest suggestion of peeling around the edges. But it was noticeable.
Wednesday felt relief wash through her, so intense it nearly made her dizzy. Then immediate annoyance at feeling relief. Then something that made her hyperaware of the fact that Enid was still showing her sunburn, that there was exposed skin on her screen, that...
Wednesday cleared her throat, the sound emerging as more of a strangled cough.
"Aloe vera."
"Huh?"
"Apply aloe vera." The words came out clipped and professional, as if she were delivering a clinical diagnosis rather than panicking internally. "The gel will reduce inflammation and promote healing. You should also consider wearing loose clothing to avoid further irritation."
Enid lowered her shirt, and Wednesday tried to focus on a point over her left shoulder rather than the lingering image of bare skin.
"You know that?"
"My research encompasses more than murder."
"Wow." Enid's voice was warm with something that might have been admiration. "You actually researched how to treat sunburn?"
"It isn't impressive."
"It's kinda adorable."
Wednesday nearly dropped the phone, her fingers fumbling against the case. "What."
"You care." Enid's words were soft, almost a whisper. "You actually care about me getting sunburned."
"I care about preventing permanent skin damage."
"You care about me."
"I care about—"
"You're practically glowing, Wednesday. Did you know that? I think this is the first time I've seen you blush."
"I am not blushing." Wednesday's voice emerged several octaves higher than usual. "There's no evidence of—"
"The evidence is literally on your face." Enid pointed at screen, seeing Wednesday's pale cheeks being a little more rosy.
"I have a fever." Wednesday said the first excuse that came to her mind.
"You never get fevers." Enid had never seen Wednesday getting sick. She thought Wednesday's immune system was literally invincible.
"I could be developing one."
"You're literally the healthiest person I know."
"My health is irrelevant to—"
"You're adorable." Enid's laughed, warm and genuine.
Wednesday made a sound that was definitely not a squeak and pointedly looked away from the camera.
An hour later, they had migrated outdoors.
Or rather, Enid had.
Wednesday remained exactly where she was, seated at her desk in the comfortable gloom of her bedroom while Enid wandered across the backyard deck behind her parents' house.
The camera swayed gently as Enid walked, capturing snippets of California night. Trees swaying in the warm breeze, fairy lights strung across the patio, the distant glow of city lights against the horizon.
"See?" Enid tilted the camera up in the sky, and Wednesday found herself looking at a scattering of stars.
"I see three stars." Wednesday said as she squinted her eyes slightly to count.
"Exactly!"
"That seems inadequate. The city ruins everything. Another reason civilization is disappointing." Wednesday said clinically.
Enid snorted, the sound crackling through the speaker. "You say that like you're not literally living in the middle of nowhere with a cemetery in your backyard."
"I consider that a point in my favor."
"You would."
Wednesday watched as distant lights shimmered against the horizon, pale and washed out compared to the darkness she was accustomed to. The California sky looked almost weak, as though it couldn't commit to true night.
Then Enid asked, "What does your view look like?"
Wednesday considered. Then, without fully understanding why, she rotated her camera to capture the scene outside her window.
The cemetery appeared instantly. Fog drifting between gravestones, crooked angels watching with sightless eyes, the mausoleum looming in the distance. The restless crows had returned, their dark shapes perched along the iron fence, looking judgmental.
Enid burst out laughing, the sound genuine and delighted. "Oh my God."
"What." Wednesday arched an eyebrow.
"Of course that's your view."
"It is pleasing."
"It looks haunted." Enid said as if it's obvious.
"It is haunted." Wednesday allowed herself the smallest smirk. "Three confirmed ghosts, though they tend to be more active during the full moon."
Enid's laughter faltered. "Wait. Seriously?"
"You've met my family. You find this surprising?"
"I mean—" Enid paused, clearly reconsidering. "Okay, no. Actually I don't find it surprising at all. That's totally on brand for you."
"The poltergeist in the east wing is noisy. I've been considering an exorcism, but Grandmama says he adds character."
"Of course she does." Enid frowned a little. "Those crows are creepy, by the way." Enid's voice shifted, becoming more observant.
"They've been gathering for hours." Wednesday observed too as the crows settled again.
"Why?"
"I don't speak crow." Wednesday deadpaned, looking straight into Enid's soul.
Enid snorted. "You'd probably get along. You have the same energy. All mysterious and judgmental and just a little bit threatening..."
Wednesday considered this. "A fair assessment. Crows are highly intelligent and possess excellent memory. They also hold grudges, which I respect."
"Of course you would respect a grudge-holding bird!"
"Birds are more reliable than most humans."
Enid laughed again, and the sound drifted through the quiet mansion, filling empty spaces, making the enormous room feel just slightly less immense.
Wednesday refused to examine that thought.
Around three in the morning New Jersey time, Enid announced she had something important to show.
Wednesday immediately became suspicious, her instincts screaming that whatever Enid considered "important" would inevitably be something that strained her patience.
"Define important." Wednesday said, already mentally exhausted and Enid hadn't even started yet.
"My summer wardrobe."
"I've survived serial killers."
"That's not an answer."
"It wasn't intended to be."
Enid disappeared briefly, her camera facing upward at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars had been carefully arranged in constellations. Wednesday heard rustling, the sound of drawers opening and closing, and what might have been a muffled curse.
Then Enid returned, her arms laden with clothing.
Wednesday's eyes widened involuntarily.
Neon pink.
Bright blue.
Yellow so aggressive it practically vibrated.
Colors so intense they seemed to assault the camera, screaming for attention.
"My eyes." Wednesday recoiled, shielding her face with one hand.
"Oh shut up." Enid held up a dress, the fabric shimmering with an almost painful intensity. "What about this?"
"It resembles a highlighter."
"It's cute!" Enid tried to defend the garment.
"It resembles radioactive waste."
Enid ignored her, holding up another dress. This one a pattern of swirling oranges and pinks that made Wednesday's head ache.
"Thoughts?"
"I suspect that fabric is a violation of the Geneva Convention." Wednesday continued ruthlessly.
"You're just jealous."
"Of what? Your ability to attract attention from satellites?"
Enid laughed and held up another. And another. Each more colorful than the last, each accompanied by Enid's enthusiastic commentary and Wednesday's increasingly dry observations.
Then Enid revealed the bikinis.
Wednesday immediately wished she hadn't.
"Oh look!" Enid held one up with the pride of a collector displaying a prized artifact. "This one's new. I got it last week, and I've been dying to show you."
Wednesday stared at the screen with an expression that was carefully blank.
A bright turquoise bikini. Minimal, colorful and entirely inappropriate.
Not because it was revealing, Wednesday had never been concerned with modesty anyway. Not because it was colorful, though that was certainly part of the problem.
But because other people would see Enid wearing it.
An unpleasant realization settled in Wednesday's stomach, heavy and cold. She imagined Enid at the beach, laughing, moving, existing in that tiny strip of fabric. She imagined strangers watching. Lifeguards looking. Random idiots staring.
The thought made her want to commit violence.
She disliked this feeling intensely. Possessiveness was irrational, a weakness that suggested attachment, that implied caring in ways that made her vulnerable. Therefore she refused to acknowledge it.
"Thoughts?" Enid asked, her voice light with mischief.
Wednesday took a measured breath. "It's small."
Enid choked on laughter, nearly dropping the phone. "Wednesday!"
"What?"
"That's literally the point." Enid gestured at the bikini.
"A poor design choice."
"It covers everything." Enid tried to reassure her gently.
"Barely."
Enid's eyebrows rose, her grin sharpening into something knowing and entirely too perceptive. "You don't like it."
"I dislike beaches."
"That's not what I asked."
"It encourages sunburn."
Enid laughed harder, her joy uncontainable. "Oh my God, Wednesday. Are you actually—"
"I fail to see the humor." Wednesday said flatly, her face devoid of any sign of joking.
"Sure you don't."
Wednesday crossed her arms, her expression firmly neutral. "The color is offensive. The design is impractical. And you will undoubtedly attract attention from marine life."
"There's no marine life on the beach."
"Seagulls. Dolphins. I refuse to accept responsibility if you're mobbed, again."
Enid was still laughing, her eyes bright with genuine delight. "I love how you're trying to pretend this is about practicality."
"Because it is." Wednesday gritted through her teeth.
"Sure. Definitely." She held the bikini up again, turning it this way and that. "I think I'll wear it next week. And you can pretend you don't care from thousands of miles away."
The thought made Wednesday's eye twitch. "I don't care."
"You just made three arguments against it." Enid said as she put the bikini away from Wednesday's vision.
"Logical arguments."
"You looked like you wanted to destroy it."
"The color was offensive."
"You looked like you wanted to burn it and dance on the ashes."
Wednesday chose not to dignify that with a response.
They changed the subject eventually, Enid's wardrobe display coming to an end as she grew tired of Wednesday's increasingly creative criticisms. The conversation shifted, drifting towards easier topics.
"What's your day been like?" Enid settled back onto her bed, the fairy lights casting soft colors across her face.
Wednesday considered the question, mentally cataloging her activities. "Productive."
"Translation?"
"I wrote four pages of the manuscript." Wednesday said flatly.
"Obviously." Enid nodded, not surprised at all.
"I reorganized the poison cabinet. Several vials had been mislabeled, which would have been catastrophic in an emergency." Wednesday continued.
"Of course."
"I assisted Grandmama with a séance. We reached a particularly talkative spirit who had been dead for three centuries."
"Naturally."
"I spent an hour in the basement." Wednesday's voice remained flat, but she saw Enid's expression shift.
Enid groaned, pressing her face against a pillow. "I knew it. I knew there was something you weren't telling me."
"What?"
"The basement. You always end up there when you're avoiding something."
"I'm not avoiding anything." Wednesday's response came too quickly, too defensive. "The basement maintains an ideal temperature."
Enid raised her head, her eyes narrowing. "That's not a selling point."
"It is."
"No normal person wants sixty-three degrees."
"An excellent argument against normality."
"You're impossible." Enid buried her face in the pillow again, her voice muffled. "I can't believe you're sitting in a basement in the middle of the night while I'm trying to have a conversation."
"I'm not in the basement anymore. I'm at my desk."
"Oh, well. That's so much better. A desk in a creepy mansion instead of a basement in a creepy mansion."
Wednesday allowed herself the smallest twitch of lips. "Your concern is touching."
"It's not concern. It's exasperation. There's a difference."
"As you've pointed out several times."
Enid lifted her head, her expression shifting to something softer. "I'm just saying. You could have told me you were stressed. You didn't have to hide in the basement."
Wednesday felt something shift in her chest. "I wasn't hiding."
"You were hiding."
"I was—"
"You were definitely hiding, Wednesday. I know you. You disappear when things get complicated."
The statement landed with unexpected force. Wednesday stared at the screen, searching for a response that wouldn't reveal too much.
"I'm not accustomed to things being complicated," she finally admitted. "My life has always been straightforward, acceptable and ordered."
"And now?"
Wednesday paused, watching Enid's face through the screen. The fairy lights made her look almost ethereal, soft and impossibly distant.
"Now I find myself spending hours on a device I initially despised, speaking to someone I should find irritating, and experiencing emotions I never intended to feel."
The confession emerged before she could stop it. Wednesday froze, her face immobile, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Enid was silent for a long moment. "That's beautiful, Wednesday," she said softly.
"It's inconvenient."
"It's you." Enid smiled, and the expression was so gentle it almost hurt. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."
Time slipped by without either of them noticing.
The moon tracked across the sky, and the fog in the cemetery shifted and swirled. Somewhere in the distance a clock tower chimed, each strike growing fainter as the night wore on.
Stories replaced conversation. Conversation became comfortable silence. Comfortable silence became simply existing together.
The strange thing was that Wednesday usually despised idle chatter. Most people exhausted her with their constant need for validation, their inability to tolerate quiet, their insistence on filling every moment with meaningless noise. Their voices grated against her nerves like sandpaper. Their presence lingered too heavily, demanding attention she had no interest in giving.
But Enid was different. She had always been different.
The call could fall silent for minutes at a time, and neither felt obligated to fill it. They simply remained present and connected, and that was enough.
Wednesday could read while Enid scrolled through her phone, could write while Enid hummed softly to herself, could exist in the same space without needing to perform or explain or justify.
Perhaps it was the most comfortable Wednesday had ever been with another person.
Eventually she glanced at the clock.
3:48 AM.
Enid yawned a huge, jaw-cracking yawn that made her eyes water. Then another. Her eyelids drooped, her words becoming slower, softer, and less distinct.
"You're tired." Wednesday noted.
"No." The response arrived immediately, unconvincing, almost petulant.
Wednesday raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Your biology appears to disagree."
"My biology is wrong."
"Your biology is entirely accurate. You're exhausted."
Enid yawned again, the sound muffled against her hand. "Maybe a little."
"You should sleep."
"You first."
"I don't require as much sleep."
"That's creepy."
"It's efficient. I require four hours of rest to function optimally. You require significantly more."
Enid's voice was drowsy and slurred. "That's not fair."
"Life rarely is."
"You're so morbid."
"I'm accurate."
Enid curled beneath her blankets, the pastel sheets tangled around her like a cocoon. The fairy lights cast soft colors across her face, making her look younger and more vulnerable.
"Stay on?" she asked quietly, the question landing somewhere unexpected.
Wednesday's heartbeat performed a traitorous little stutter, her carefully maintained composure slipping for just a moment. "I am already on."
"You know what I mean." Enid's voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't hang up. Just... stay."
She knew what Enid meant and the admission should have terrified her.
Instead, it felt inevitable.
"Fine."
Enid smiled, the expression small and content. "Good."
Wednesday looked away first, unable to bear the sight of that smile for another moment.
The room grew quieter as the night settled deeper around them.
Traffic faded, the distant hum of California giving way to something slower. Crickets softened their chorus, their rhythm becoming almost hypnotic. Even the crows outside Wednesday's window seemed to settle, their restless movement quieting into something like peace.
Enid nestled deeper into her blankets, her eyes fluttering closed before snapping open again.
"Tell me something."
"What."
"A story." The words were murmured, almost asleep.
Wednesday stared at the screen. "A story."
"Yeah."
"At four in the morning."
"Please?"
The word was so soft, so hopeful, so utterly Enid that Wednesday found herself incapable of refusing.
She considered reading from her manuscript. Then immediately dismissed the idea. The violence was too graphic, the tone too cold, the themes too likely to provoke uncomfortable questions about her psyche.
Instead she reached to a nearby shelf, her fingers trailing across ancient spines until they found what she was looking for. A thick volume bound in cracked leather, its pages yellowed with age.
"What is that?" Enid's voice was curious despite her drowsiness.
"A historical text." Wednesday's voice was flat and uninflected. "From the sixteenth century."
Enid groaned, burying her face in her pillow. "Oh my God."
"The demographic consequences of fourteenth-century plague outbreaks." Wednesday opened the book, the pages crackling softly. "It details sanitation failures, trade route disruptions, and the social upheaval that followed."
"I'm already asleep." Enid squeezed her eyes shut dramatically.
"Excellent." Wednesday began reading, her voice calm and measured. The same tone she used when discussing homicide methods or the chemical properties of various toxins.
The words drifted through the darkness. Wednesday read about mortality rates, about the shifting patterns of medieval trade, about the way death had reshaped society in ways that echoed across centuries.
Enid's breathing slowed, her eyes growing heavy-lidded.
"You're actually reading this," Enid murmured, her voice tinged with wonder.
"You asked for a story."
"I meant, like, a fairy tale or something."
Wednesday paused, glancing up from the book. "This is better."
"How?"
"It's factual."
"It's literally about death."
"Then it's accurate."
Enid laughed softly, the sound dissolving into a yawn. "You're impossible."
"At least I'm honest."
She continued reading, her voice remaining flat and unwavering. The words painted pictures of villages abandoned, fields left fallow, the profound silence that followed catastrophe.
Enid listened. And gradually she began to drift.
Her breathing slowed, deepening with each exhale. The tension in her shoulders melted away, her body relaxing into the mattress like she was sinking into something warm and safe.
Wednesday continued reading.
She told herself she continued because the historical details satisfied her love of precise information.
But every time she glanced at the screen, Enid looked peaceful.
And somehow Wednesday found herself wanting that more than expected. More than made sense. More than she was prepared to admit.
Minutes passed.
Eventually Enid stopped responding altogether.
Wednesday finished a paragraph about agricultural collapse and waited.
Nothing.
She lowered the book, her eyes fixed on the screen.
The camera displayed a sleeping werewolf tangled in pastel blankets, her hair a wild around her face. The fairy lights cast soft colors across her features, picking out the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her eyelashes, the faint smile that lingered on her lips.
As if whatever dream she'd wandered into was a pleasant one.
Wednesday stared, longer than was necessary.
The mansion remained silent around her, the silence settling into every corner of the room. Outside, fog shifted between gravestones, and the eastern horizon began to pale with the first hints of dawn.
She should end the call immediately.
The conversation was over. Enid was asleep, unaware, incapable of responding. The logical thing would be to disconnect, to return to her work, to finish the manuscript and maybe get some hours of sleep too.
Instead she remained motionless, watching Enid's peaceful face. Listening to the quiet sound of her breathing through the speaker.
Something tightened painfully in her chest.
The distance felt cruel at moments like this. The thousands of miles separating New Jersey from San Francisco, the weeks until Nevermore reopened, the seemingly endless stretch of summer that still lay ahead.
Weeks until she could hear Enid's voice without electronic interference. Weeks until she could roll her eyes at ridiculous sweaters in person. Weeks until she could pretend not to enjoy Enid's company.
An intolerable prospect.
Wednesday looked down, suddenly unable to bear the sight of Enid's sleeping face.
Then back at the screen.
Enid shifted slightly in her sleep, one hand reaching out like she's searching for something. She murmured something unintelligible, her brow furrowing for just a moment before smoothing again.
Her smile returned.
Wednesday felt something crack in her carefully constructed armor, her expression softened.
The dawn light brightened beyond the cemetery, turning the fog golden. The crows began stirring, their caws echoing through the morning stillness.
A new day.
Wednesday reached towards the phone, her fingers hovering over the end call button.
But she stopped, hesitating
Then her fingers brushed the screen.
"Goodnight, Enid."
The words emerged quietly, almost lost beneath static. A confession disguised as a farewell. A truth she would never speak aloud.
The sleeping werewolf didn't hear it. Perhaps that was for the best.
Wednesday ended the call.
The screen went dark, the connection severed, the distance restored. The room immediately felt colder. The silence heavier than before, pressing in from all sides.
She set the phone beside her manuscript, the device feeling almost accusatory in its darkness.
Outside, dawn crept across the gravestones, painting the cemetery in shades of gold and rose. The crows took flight, their shadows passing across her window like fleeting ghosts.
Inside, Wednesday sat alone at her desk, the manuscript untouched, the historical text abandoned.
For the first time all night, the solitude felt distinctly inadequate. Which was irritating because there were still several weeks remaining before summer ended.
And Wednesday Addams, much to her horror, already missed Enid Sinclair.
She missed the sound of Enid's voice. She missed the way Enid laughed at her jokes, which weren't meant to be jokes and Wednesday didn't mean them as ones. She missed the warmth that seemed to radiate from the screen, even through the cold distance of technology.
She missed—
Wednesday shook her head, forcing the thought away.
This was unacceptable.
She was Wednesday Addams. She didn't miss people. She didn't long for connections. She didn't feel the absence of others like a physical ache.
And yet here she was, sitting in the dawn light, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of a sleeping werewolf's smile.
She picked up her pen.
Set it down.
Picked up her manuscript.
Stared at the words without seeing them.
Eventually, she gave up entirely, pushing away from her desk and walking to the window. The cemetery stretched before her, familiar and unchanging.
But she wasn't thinking about the dead.
She was thinking about the living.
About a blonde werewolf thousands of miles away, sleeping peacefully in a room full of color. About the way Enid's smile made her chest feel strange. About the feeling of being connected to someone across impossible distance.
Wednesday had never been good at longing. She'd never had reason to practice.
But as the sun rose over the Addams family cemetery, she found herself longing anyway. Aching for something that was just out of reach.
And she despised it.
Almost as much as she treasured it.
Her phone remained dark on the desk. She already knew she'd be checking it again in a few hours.
And again after that.
And again after that.
Because Enid Sinclair had somehow become essential.
Because Wednesday Addams had somehow fallen.
And despite everything she'd ever believed about herself, she wasn't sure she wanted to get back up.