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The door creaked open sometime after Wednesday had stopped pretending she was counting the minutes. She did not turn toward the sound, she already knew who had entered.
Enid Sinclair had always possessed the unfortunate ability to exist loudly, even in silence. The careful rhythm of her footsteps, the faint scent of whatever excessively sweet product she had applied that morning. It had become as recognizable to Wednesday as the sound of her own heartbeat. A fact she would have found disturbing if she had not spent the last several months discovering there were far worse things than being familiar with someone.
"Of course you're here," Enid murmured, and Wednesday could hear the exhaustion hidden beneath her words. "Because apparently drinking alone in a dark room after midnight is exactly the kind of healthy coping mechanism I should expect from you."
Wednesday stared at the bottle. "It is considerably more productive than pretending everything is fine when it is not," she replied, her words slightly slower than usual, the alcohol interfering with the precision she valued far too much.
Enid moved closer, that was always her mistake. Not leaving, not recognizing that some things were better abandoned.
"You disappeared," Enid said quietly, and there was no accusation in her voice, which somehow made Wednesday feel worse. Anger would have been easier. This was simply pain, and Wednesday had never developed an effective defense against someone else's pain.
"I was busy." The response was automatic.
Enid exhaled, and Wednesday hated that she recognized the sound immediately, the same sound Enid made whenever she was attempting to understand something that had already wounded her.
"You always do that," Enid whispered. "You always make it sound like you just happened to disappear, like you weren't making a choice."
Wednesday's fingers tightened around the bottle. Enid was always so irritatingly close to the truth.
"I was protecting you." The confession slipped free.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Enid gave a small humorless laugh. "Wednesday, you don't get to keep hurting me and call it protection." The words settled heavily between them.
"You think I do not understand the consequences of my actions?" Wednesday asked, finally looking at her. Her vision was slightly blurred, though she refused to acknowledge whether it was because of the alcohol or something considerably more humiliating. "You think I do not know that everyone near me eventually becomes a target?"
"You're doing it again," Enid said.
Wednesday frowned. "Doing what?"
"Turning yourself into the villain because it's easier than admitting you're hurt." The statement struck harder than it should have. Enid was right, and Wednesday despised that she was right. She had spent years perfecting her ability to identify weaknesses in others, yet somehow failed to recognize the most obvious one within herself. She was terrified, terrified of attachment, of needing something she could lose, of finding a person who made the world bearable and then discovering the world could take them away.
"No," Enid continued, "You understand losing people, you understand guilt, you understand blaming yourself for things you can't control." Her hand moved closer but did not touch her. "You're just not understanding that I chose you anyway." The words were unbearable because some small part of Wednesday had been waiting for them.
"I don't know how to be loved," she admitted. The sentence was so quiet she almost convinced herself she had not said it.
"I know," Enid whispered. A different person might have found that insulting, but Wednesday found it devastating. Because Enid did know, she knew exactly how difficult Wednesday was. She knew every defensive response, every attempt to destroy something before it could be taken from her. And she stayed.
"I hate that you know me so well," Wednesday murmured.
Enid smiled sadly. "I know."
"I hate that I missed you."
The admission hurt more than any confession of affection could have. Enid's hand finally found hers, and Wednesday allowed it. A small action, except it wasn't, because Wednesday Addams had spent her entire life treating vulnerability like a fatal wound. Yet here she was.
"I love you," Enid whispered. The words felt strangely inevitable. Wednesday looked down at their hands, at the warmth she had spent so long insisting she did not need.
"I know," Wednesday said.
Enid's eyebrows furrowed slightly. "That's not exactly a confession."
Wednesday was silent for several seconds. Then, because she was tired and because the alcohol had removed the barriers she normally guarded with her life, she allowed herself one moment of honesty. "I love you too." And perhaps tomorrow she would regret saying it. Perhaps tomorrow she would rebuild every wall she had allowed to weaken. But tonight, with Enid beside her and the world temporarily quiet, Wednesday allowed herself to believe something she had spent years denying. Not every weakness was something that needed to be destroyed, some were simply proof that something mattered.