Work Text:
𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙤,
𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬.
𝙏𝙧𝙮𝙣𝙖' 𝙧𝙪𝙣 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙯𝙞𝙥𝙘𝙤𝙙𝙚.
Wednesday didn't know why she had chosen that song.
Okay, that was a lie. She knew, but she refused to admit it. It was easier to believe that her fingers had found “Dashboard” by chance, that the sequence of notes had emerged from some vague memory, some unconscious association that didn't deserve to be investigated, than to accept that, ever since she'd sat down in front of the cello that night, she'd been searching for something that could say for her what she couldn't say aloud or even allow herself to feel.
The room was immersed in that bluish half-light that came after midnight, and the only illumination came from the desk lamp and the open window, through which the dark, indifferent sky stretched over the trees. Wednesday had always preferred that hour. The night didn't ask her questions, didn't demand answers, and, above all, didn't expect her to be okay. It expected nothing beyond her simply existing, if she was being honest. That night, however, even the silence seemed to know too much, and it was irritating her to an extraordinary degree.
She was fine.
But she couldn't deny that there was something in the air that reminded her of Enid's absence, and Wednesday was beginning to grow tired of the sheer number of things that had started reminding her of her. Every day, something insisted on reminding her that Enid had chosen to save her, sacrificing her own humanity for Wednesday's life, and she was beginning to grow tired of the joke her life had become. She didn't believe in any kind of God or in anything as limiting as fate, but she couldn't escape the feeling that something was playing with her. For months, she'd searched for Enid, and she'd failed on every single occasion. The feeling was degrading, completely outside the realm of reality.
How? How could she not find Enid?
She positioned herself correctly behind her cello. The bow glided across the strings, and the first sound filled the room with such delicate melancholy that it almost made her stop. But she didn't. She continued playing, letting her fingers find the notes before her mind could interfere, because thinking was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant arriving at that moment again, inevitably, at the instant she'd understood what Enid had done and the way the world had seemed to become terribly silent afterward. It had been much easier to deal with danger than with the choice. Monsters could be fought and people could be interrogated, threatened, manipulated, and even death, when one possessed enough knowledge, could be turned into a problem with some kind of solution. But there was no solution for someone looking at you with those eyes that Wednesday knew better than she'd like to admit and deciding, with a tranquility that still haunted her, that their own life was worth less than yours.
What Wednesday couldn't forgive was the choice. The choice. Because Enid had chosen for her. She had made a decision about both of their futures without giving Wednesday the opportunity to say no, as if the fear she felt could justify turning her own destiny into a bargaining chip. And Wednesday knew, with the most rational and cruel part of her mind, that it was unfair. She knew Enid hadn't done it to hurt her. She knew that, in that moment, Enid probably hadn't seen any other possibility. She knew that if the situation had been reversed, if Wednesday had been the one faced with the choice between her own humanity and Enid's life, she would have done exactly the same thing without even thinking twice, and that infuriated her. Because how could she hate Enid for a choice she herself would have made? How could she call her selfish when all there had been in that gesture was the most absolute and painful form of altruism she had ever known?
The bow kept moving, and Wednesday realized she was playing too forcefully. The strings vibrated beneath her fingers, the sound taking on a harshness that hadn't existed in the composition, but she didn't lessen the movement. She let the music carry that violence because it was easier to allow the instrument to scream than to admit that she wanted to do the same. She wanted to scream at Enid. She wanted to ask how she'd dared. She wanted to know at what point she'd decided that Wednesday's life was more important than her own, at what point she'd looked at everything she could lose and decided it was worth it. She wanted to say that she didn't need to be saved that way, that she hadn't asked for it, that she would rather have died a thousand times than continue living with the certainty that Enid had abandoned a part of herself to keep her alive. She wanted to tell her that she had no right to do that to Wednesday, to turn her survival into a memory so painful that every morning became a kind of punishment. And, above all, she wanted to ask why Enid believed Wednesday could simply accept a gift like that.
Because it was a gift. Enid had given her her own life, and Wednesday didn't know how to receive it. Her absence had infiltrated Wednesday's routine with the same persistence with which Enid's presence had once infiltrated it, and, after enough time, it had become impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
That was when she let longing turn into anger.
At first, she missed Enid and allowed it to hurt, because she still believed the pain had some purpose, that perhaps it was simply the inevitable price of waiting for something to change. Then, when she realized nothing would change, when she understood that this version of Enid might not return and that there was no ritual through which she could reach her, she began to feel angry. Anger was more bearable. Anger had a direction and could be placed onto something, could be fed, could be used to keep functioning. It was much easier to wake up thinking she was furious with Enid than to admit she'd woken up thinking about her. It was much easier to clench her fists and remember the decision she'd made than to remain lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, missing a girl she might never be able to get back in the same way again. Anger allowed Wednesday to survive the longing without having to admit how much she was suffering. But that night, as the bow crossed the strings and the music spread throughout the room, she realized she was tired of lying to herself.
She was furious because she missed her. She was furious because she knew the decision Enid had made was hers to make, and there was nothing Wednesday could have done. She was furious because she'd promised she would hunt her down and bring her back, and she would not, in any universe that existed, break the words that had carried the greatest weight ever to leave her mouth.
Wednesday closed her eyes for a moment but continued playing, feeling the music move through her body as though someone had found a way to carefully open every door she'd kept locked. She missed Enid in a way she didn't know how to explain without sounding ridiculous. She missed her voice, even when she talked too much. She missed the absurd comments, the colors, the constant presence, the way she could enter a room and completely alter the atmosphere without even realizing she'd done it. She missed arguing with her. She missed being interrupted by her. She missed hearing her name spoken in that particular voice, as though Enid had found a way to turn two syllables into something no one else could ever reproduce. She even missed the little things she'd once pretended were unbearable, and perhaps that was the most humiliating part of all: there was nothing left about Enid that Wednesday wanted to erase. Not even the things that had once irritated her seemed irritating anymore. Everything had become precious simply because it belonged to the person who wasn't there.
She opened her eyes and stared at the empty space in front of her. For a second, she could almost imagine her there. In her wolf form, in her human form. Just Enid. The Enid she'd met on that first day, still incapable of remaining silent for more than a few seconds. The Enid who smiled at her while saying that they worked, in their own way. The Enid who had never seemed so brave or beautiful to Wednesday as she had on the night of her first transformation. Wednesday could remember her face with painful precision: the way her eyes narrowed when she was trying to understand something, like the way she tried to understand what Wednesday was feeling when she was dug uo the ground, the expression she made when she was about to laugh, the way she tilted her head whenever Wednesday said something particularly cruel and she had to decide whether she should be offended or find it funny. There were so many small versions of Enid stored inside her that sometimes it seemed impossible that a single person could have been capable of occupying so much space.
And she had chosen her.
As much as she loved her own life more than anyone, as terrifying as it must have been, in that moment Wednesday had seemed more important than remaining exactly as she was, and Wednesday hated that fact more than anything. Because no one had ever chosen her that deeply before. And it was unfair. It was unbearably unfair.
Wednesday continued playing as she felt the wind brush against her bangs. She wanted to keep it all inside, wanted to remain with every fragment of longing until she could learn how to live with it, but the truth was that she no longer knew how much longer she could keep doing this. There were nights when she woke convinced she'd heard Enid calling her. There were mornings when it took her a few seconds to remember. There were moments when she almost sent a message before remembering that there might no longer be anywhere to send it to. And there was that constant, silent emptiness that absolutely nothing could fill.
The music began to fade beneath her fingers, but Wednesday didn't notice immediately. The movement of the bow became slower, more careful, until the notes seemed to dissolve into the air before they could even reach the walls. She remained there, motionless, her head bowed over the instrument, feeling the weight of everything she'd tried to turn into anger for so long. And, finally, she allowed herself to think it without trying to correct it.
She wanted Enid back.
A small movement caught her attention. Thing was on the desk, his fingers resting against the wood, watching her. Wednesday didn't need to ask what he wanted to know. She'd known that hand long enough to recognize the inquisitive tilt of his fingers, the irritating insistence with which he gestured whenever he believed she was avoiding something.
“No.” Thing moved again. “I said no.”
His fingers made a slower gesture, pointing first toward her and then toward the cello before opening and closing in exasperation. Wednesday looked away.
“I’m not avoiding anything.” Thing remained still. She took a deep breath, irritated by how easily he could see through her. “I’m merely choosing an effective method of getting rid of unwanted feelings.”
The hand moved closer across the desk, and the fingers made a gesture Wednesday knew perfectly well. A simple question she already knew.
What are you feeling?
She remained silent, but Thing insisted. Wednesday pressed her lips together. “There is nothing to elaborate on.”
The fingers stopped. She looked at him for several seconds, knowing perfectly well that she hadn't convinced him.
“It’s an unpleasant situation,” she added at last, with the same objectivity she would have used to describe a corpse. “And I have no interest in discussing unpleasant situations.”
Thing made a gesture that, in anyone else, could have been interpreted as an eye roll. Wednesday narrowed her own eyes.
“Don’t do that.” The hand pointed toward her chest.
Then toward the door.
Then it made a small heart with its fingers.
Wednesday felt something tighten inside her chest. “No.” Thing didn't move. “I’m not going to talk about her.”
His fingers remained suspended in the air.
“I won’t.” He waited. Wednesday held the hand's gaze for several seconds before finally looking away, toward the cello. “And even if I wanted to talk, I wouldn’t know what to say.”
The confession came out so quietly that it almost seemed as though it didn't belong to her own voice, and Thing didn't respond.
Wednesday slowly ran her hand over the strings without producing a sound. “She made a choice,” she murmured, more to the instrument than to him. “I know it was a choice made out of loyalty. I know she didn't expect anything in return. I know I should understand.” She swallowed. “And I try.” The words seemed to hurt. “I just don't know how to understand something that…”
Thing remained completely still, and Wednesday closed her eyes. For a moment, she thought about saying more. She thought about finally letting the whole truth out, but she couldn't. When she opened her eyes again, her face had already regained that carefully indifferent expression. “That’s all.”
The fingers moved one last time, silently asking whether she was sure.
Wednesday looked at him. “No. But it’s all I intend to say.”
Thing seemed to accept it. He moved away across the desk, leaving Wednesday alone once again. She remained in front of the cello for a long time, staring at the strings that still seemed to hold the echo of the music.
𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙤𝙣, 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙨
𝙄𝙩'𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙨𝙩