Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

Enid doesn’t know when it became a given that she would be by Wednesday’s side for the majority of their day, but she does know that walking around Nevermore or into Jericho without that small, solid presence next to her feels almost a little bit empty. It probably started after the whole Crackstone saga.

It was like the whole world had shifted.

Wednesday of course has not outwardly recognized their new-ish routine at all, but she does wait in the morning when Enid’s running late for breakfast, sitting stock still on her neatly made bed with her hands clasped in her lap, following Enid’s every flurried move with her dark eyes. Even between classes, Wednesday will slow her march when Enid gets distracted, and then surge forward again when the slightly taller presence is beside her once more.

For these reasons, Enid is around to see a lot of Wednesday’s interactions with the world. Many of them are negative, which Enid herself is used to. Harassment and derision, jeers from the townspeople, typical high school gossip. If words are like knives, Enid’s own protective force field is about as thin as a sheet of gauze, and her chest clenches and her face burns when the nastiness is directed towards her.

Wednesday however takes those knives and sends them right back where they came from, always unflinching and comfortable in her superiority over incompetent fools.

“I will put you in a box six feet deep and wait until you wake up inside it,” Wednesday says, eyes boring into the barista refusing to serve their small group of outcasts.

The barista squints down at Wednesday. “And then what?”

“And then I will walk away and your grave will never be found.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Is that not obvious?” Wednesday asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Standing right behind her, next to Eugene, Enid almost snorts.

The barista shrugs. “I’ll call the cops.”

Wednesday’s head tilts slightly, the closest thing to an eye roll Enid’s seen from her. “I wouldn’t expect any help from those blundering imbeciles. The ineptitude of the Jericho police force is truly astounding.”

The barista scowls, straightening up in front of the register. “Freaks like you belong in prison.”

Wednesday is silent for a beat, and Enid considers grabbing the back of her blazer to prevent her from flying across the counter or whipping out a dagger. She doesn’t know how well that touch might be received, so she squeezes her own hands together, colored nails digging into her palms.

“Freaks like me know how to rip your tongue out of your mouth.”

The barista’s face is murderous. He points at the door. “Get out.”

Wednesday is unmoving until Enid whispers her name. At that, Wednesday’s head swivels around so fast Enid’s surprised she doesn’t hear a crack. Wednesday’s brown eyes meet hers, and Enid attempts to silently convey the message that she would like to get the eff out of here, please.

Wednesday turns back to the barista. She takes a half-empty iced coffee sitting abandoned on the counter, pries the lid off, and wordlessly flings the contents in his direction. Unconcerned with the aftermath, the gasping and yelling, she pivots on her heel and strides towards the door.

Enid and Eugene hurry to keep up.

It’s not until they’re back on the sidewalk, Wednesday’s shoulder bumping against Enid’s arm, that Wednesday mutters, “Their coffee is terrible anyway.”

Enid reaches up and squeezes her elbow, just briefly, just to convey some type of gratitude for getting them out of there.

Wednesday’s steps falter slightly at the touch.

==========

II.

They’re about to begin a fetal pig dissection in biology when Wednesday lifts her gaze, twirls the scalpel around in her fingers like a practiced trick, and offers it to Enid.

“You may incise first if it pleases you.”

Enid breathes a quiet laugh, feels her heart warming like it always does when these sweet little tendencies creep out. “It…does not please me. Go ahead, Wednesday.”

Wednesday nods shortly and gets started. Enid watches, paling only slightly, a little bit queasy but also a little bit impressed. Wednesday’s hands are steady and confident, her eyes unblinking as she adeptly opens up the pig’s abdomen.

“This is, of course, quite simple compared to the more complex dissections I have performed at home,” she murmurs.

Enid hums, not remotely interested in knowing what else Wednesday has dissected. She picks up their laminated dissection guide and clears her throat.

“So, we have to identify stomach, liver, gall bladder, small and large intestines, pancreas, spleen –,” she cuts herself off, swallows thickly, clears her throat again. “Kidneys and bladder.”

Wednesday’s hand stills and her eyes meet Enid’s. “Do you need a bucket?”

“Excuse me?”

“Enid, if you feel you may vomit on our subject, it would be better for you to –,”

“I’m not going to vomit, Wednesday,” Enid scoffs. Honestly, she’s more likely to pass out. “Not everyone is as comfortable with dead things as you are.”

Wednesday’s expression is thoughtful, and she nods almost to herself and returns focus to the pig. “Very well then.”

It’s only a few moments later that something sloppy and sticky splats against Wednesday’s back. Wednesday flinches and whips around on her stool, giving Enid a clear view of the pig guts stuck to her gray wool sweater, right between her shoulder blades.

She twists to match Wednesday, and spots two classmates one row back snickering together at their lab desk. One is a Faceless, and the other is a dark-haired vampire with beady eyes and a prominent forehead, named Fane. Enid tends to avoid him, based solely on stories from Yoko.

Fane glances at Wednesday, laughing, and lifts his hands up.

“What? You like dead things, right?”

Wednesday’s gaze is venomous. “I will immobilize you on this table and dissect you next.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I will.”

“Ms. Addams,” their teacher calls from her desk at the front, “Is everything okay?”

Wednesday turns to look at her, nods once.

“It’s more than okay, right?” Fane murmurs, so that only those at the desks around him can hear. He grins and threateningly holds up more pieces of his pig. “Want more? You’re into necrophilia, right? You probably love it.”

Anger flares in Enid’s chest. Before she can contain them, her claws come out, and she seizes the top of her stool to keep herself seated.

“Shut up,” she bites.

Fane’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. “Whoa, Sinclair.”

“Leave her alone,” Enid insists. She can feel Wednesday’s gaze on the side of her face.

“Or what?”

“Bro, she’s a goddamn werewolf,” Bianca laughs from the next table over, pointing her scalpel at Fane. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think she’s going to wolf out in the middle of class.”

Bianca furrows her brows, tilts her head. “You think she needs to transform to drop your ass? Did you even go here last year?”

Enid scrapes up some bravado and waves her fingers, claws still fully extended, in Fane’s direction. He rolls his eyes and slumps in his stool, nudges the Faceless next to him to focus on their pig.

Enid shoots a grateful look at Bianca, who just shakes her head in commiseration at their classmate’s behavior.

When Enid turns back around, there’s a slight quirk in the corner of Wednesday’s mouth. Not quite a smile but something that Enid interprets as amusement, maybe even pride.

Enid’s face heats up and she lifts a finger and twirls it in the air. “Turn around.”

Wednesday’s brow twitches.

“Just – I’ll get the guts off your back,” Enid explains. Then, more gently, “Turn around.”

Wednesday blinks once and then obeys, slowly. Enid carefully peels the splattered material off the back of her sweater. Wednesday’s shoulders are tense under her hands, her posture perfect, and Enid moves methodically, careful not to invade her personal space. She rubs at some of the residue on the sweater with a paper towel from their lab table, and Wednesday’s head turns to the right.

Enid catches the corner of her eye. “Too much?”

“No,” Wednesday murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

“We’ll need to wash this for sure.”

Wednesday’s head tips forward. “I am quite proficient in removing blood and bodily fluid stains from clothing.”

Enid smiles. “I know you are.”

She gets as much residue off of Wednesday’s sweater as possible, then brightly announces, “All done!” and dumps the handful of pig guts on the table.

Wednesday faces forward again and glares at them. She scoops up a piece and, before Enid knows what’s happening, tosses it at Fane behind her.

“I have located your small intestine,” she says, and her voice is bored, but Enid is sure she isn’t imagining the twinkle in her brown eyes.

Wednesday then turns and meets Fane’s glare. “Let me know if you are in need of any additional assistance locating organs. And don’t be ashamed – many people struggle their first time.”

==========

III.

There’s a screening of Jaws on a Saturday night at the theater in Jericho, and a group of outcasts decide to go as a sort of field trip. Wednesday seems to enjoy the movie, almost smiles at every shark attack, the blood staining the water, the screams. She’s not grinning by any means, but when Enid glances at her out of the corner of her eye, she sees a little dimple in Wednesday’s cheek which is usually hidden away.

Enid can’t get enough of it, and is much happier to surreptitiously watch Wednesday’s face than the gore on screen.

Afterwards, they’re all standing in the lobby of the movie theater while half the group heads to the restroom and the other half decides what to do next. Enid is talking with Yoko, who’s regaling her with stories comparing vampires with sharks, supported by anecdotal family history.  

Wednesday looks out of place leaning against the wall in the movie theater, her dark coat contrasting with the wildly colorful carpet, nose slightly scrunched in distaste at the smell of popcorn and cleaning agents.

Enid gets caught up in Yoko’s story – her great-grandfather wrestled a shark, apparently – and doesn’t notice the group of loud, stumbling, college-age guys who come falling through the theater doors.

It must be Enid’s werewolf hearing that picks up on the, “Hey, you’re cute,” behind her, and she pivots to see a floppy-haired guy with a pearly white smile, a whole foot taller than Wednesday, leaning against the wall next to her.

“Like a little gothic doll,” he continues, his head lolling to the side like he can’t control it. He laughs to himself.

Wednesday pushes off the wall, arms crossed in front of her. “I dismembered and decapitated all of my dolls testing various methods of torture as a child.”

The guy’s laugh trails off, mouth slightly open.

“Impalement was my favorite, although the use of rats has always intrigued me as well.”

The guy nods to himself, and then smiles like he’s accepted some kind of challenge. “Well you’re a little freak, huh,” he says. He attempts to sidle closer, and Wednesday takes another step back. “Do you wanna go on a walk with me?”

“No. Your inebriation and general appearance is repulsive.”

Enid moves towards them, winding through the clusters of Nevermore students.

“I’ll sober up real quick,” the guy persists.

Wednesday drops her arms and clasps her hands in front of her. “Leave me alone, or I will find new uses for my electric shock baton, and maybe also a new subject for impalement.”

“Hey,” Enid plants herself next to Wednesday, but then the guy gets out, “Little psychopathic –,” and there’s a flurry of motion which ends with the guy pinned face down on the floor with Wednesday’s knee in his back.

There’s a small uproar around them, mostly Nevermore students. Enid recognizes a long, drawn-out “Damn!” from Ajax.

Wednesday looks up at Enid, a slight flush to her normally pale cheeks. “He was attempting to court me,” she says, by way of explanation.

The guy laughs, his cheek against the disgusting theater carpet. “Court you? I was attempting to –,”

Enid steps on his fingers.

Wednesday seems to realize the entire movie theater lobby is watching her, and her eyes flicker around almost uncertainly before she stands back up, allowing the guy to scrabble unsteadily away. He mutters something about the devil incarnate and escaping a future serial killer, and then trips on Xavier’s outstretched leg.

Enid steps in front of Wednesday to shield her from their small audience, and Wednesday bumps lightly into the wall when she takes a step back.

“Are you okay?” Enid whispers, eyes wide, searching Wednesday’s face. Her dark bangs are a bit mussed and the collar of her coat is standing half-up. Enid reaches up to fix it, pauses when Wednesday recoils slightly such that her head hits the wall behind her, and then flattens the collar once Wednesday gives her a small nod.

“Yes. I am fine,” she answers, her voice notably less clipped and controlled than normal.

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure I do not wish to partake in a disgusting display of emotion in this rancid cinema,” Wednesday mutters, straightening up. “Let us depart before the man who was attempting to court me comes – ,”

“That’s not – he wasn’t attempting to court you, Wednesday.”

Wednesday’s eyes meet Enid’s again briefly, and then drop to her black boots. “No, of course not. Why should somebody wish to undertake such a futile endeavor.”

Enid considers her for a moment, has a quick mental debate, then ventures. “Why futile?”

“Attempting to win my affections would be quite fruitless, as I have none to give.”

Well, Enid knows Wednesday well enough to know that’s not true. Her heart clenches and she consciously reminds her hands to stay by her sides lest she reach forward and pull the smaller girl into a hug.

“It’s okay to feel things, you know. You do have affection to give, in your own way.” Enid tilts her head, smiles slightly. “Wednesday-branded affection, if you will. There’s nothing like it.”

Wednesday’s gaze is somewhere at the level of Enid’s neck, unreadable as ever.

When Wednesday says nothing, Enid continues more seriously, “And I’m sure plenty of people would wish to undertake such an endeavor. But that guy wasn’t. He was just being an asshole.”

“That part is quite obvious,” Wednesday agrees. Her brown eyes lift up again and search Enid’s face. “I must admit…I am not very familiar with…that element of social interaction.”

The hesitancy is a direct contrast to Wednesday’s typically self-assured, bulldozer-of-confidence speech pattern, and Enid smothers any reaction to it.

“I’ll help you,” she says simply, face warming. What exactly she means by that, she has no idea.

Wednesday blinks, nods shortly.

After a moment she pushes off the wall, muses, “That man’s takedown was quite effortless,” and Enid can only agree.

==========

IV.

It’s around Christmastime when Wednesday is compelled into another mandatory musical performance at the gazebo in Jericho in the name of outreach, and Enid is more than happy to attend, along with many of their Nevermore classmates. What Enid doesn’t anticipate is that the Jericho townspeople very obviously remember how the last performance ended – explosion, fire, Wednesday reveling in the grotesque drama of it all – and the citizens are making it very clear that Nevermore’s presence is not appreciated.

Wednesday’s playing “Fade to Black” by Metallica because “they can coerce me into participating, but I will not let them force me to play one of those dreadful jingle bell melodies,” and she’s only a few seconds into it when the crowd starts booing and yelling.

Enid sits tensely on the temporary metal bleachers, lips pressed together uncomfortably.

Soon, the crowd actually starts throwing things – empty cups, a caramel apple, half-eaten candy canes, somebody’s purple mittens. Wednesday focuses on her cello, but Enid sees a quirk in her mouth that tells Enid she’s amused by the demonstration of disgust.

She even seems to play more passionately.

Enid watches the new mayor, the sheriff, and the interim Nevermore principal huddled off to the side, likely discussing what should be done to interrupt this display of oafishness from the townspeople. Then, a mostly-full cardboard cup of cocoa actually hits Wednesday in the shoulder, and her hand is knocked off the cello.

The music stops. Wednesday looks up, her expression fierce. There’s cocoa splashed all over her neck and blazer.

Enid stands then too, instinctually, like she’s been pulled from her seat. She wonders how hot that cocoa was, why people are so cruel. Wednesday is so stoic that she might not acknowledge her own skin painfully blistering off. She was hit right where that arrow impaled her last year too, some kind of demented symbolism.

“Sit down, fleabag!” A woman yells from higher in the bleachers.

Enid spins on her heel, stunned. “Ex – excuse me?”

There’s a middle-aged woman with a blonde bob standing midway up the bleachers. “I said sit, girl. It’s a simple command.”

“Even my dog can do it,” someone else jeers.

And then another, “Some dogs are smarter than others.”

Enid’s heart races. She doesn’t even question how they know she’s a werewolf. Her chest feels tight and the backs of her eyes start to burn. She buries her Christmas-colored nails in the pockets of her fuzzy pink coat.

She takes a step back, ready to walk away, but bumps into a small figure, and then Wednesday’s hand is on the small of her back for the briefest of seconds to prevent Enid from bowling her over.

Enid will never get over how quickly and stealthily Wednesday manages to move, like a panther in the jungle. Size-wise, maybe a house cat. Enid knows better than to ever voice this observation.

Wednesday addresses the volatile crowd as a whole, her voice raised, her intense gaze fixed on the blonde bob who had targeted Enid.

“Do you all wish to perish in a blaze similar to that which destroyed the statue of your revolting founder last year?”

The jeers only come louder.

Enid stands slightly behind Wednesday, and then is joined by other Nevermore students all standing and filing or climbing down from the bleachers. Xavier and Ajax on her right, Eugene and Bianca and Yoko on her left, a small sea of stripy purple. Enid relaxes slightly, feeling safer despite the escalating situation.

“It is better to be unborn than untaught, for ignorance is the root of misfortune,” Wednesday continues.

Enid is transfixed. Wednesday’s posture is perfect as ever, seemingly unbothered by the hot chocolate coating the left shoulder of her blazer and pushing up into the hairline on her neck.

“Lycanthropes are as intelligent as any human, in either form.” Wednesday asserts, and Enid’s heart flutters.

Wednesday takes a step forward to ensure she’s heard amidst the din, eyes still on the blonde woman from earlier. “You, however, have the intelligence of an ostrich, and would better serve this world by being unborn.”

There’s an angry roar from the crowd, supportive whoops from the Nevermore students, and then the sheriff and the police force appear between the two groups, gesturing and buffering and trying to disperse them.

Wednesday takes a step back when an officer surges right into her personal space, and Enid mirrors her action from earlier with a hand briefly on the small of her back to prevent her from running into anybody.

Wednesday whirls around, eyes wide, and seems to relax slightly when her eyes find Enid’s. 

“Thank you,” Enid whispers, not able to control the waver in her voice.

Wednesday regards her, unblinking but almost…soft, with a flicker of something like concern in her eyes. Quietly she says, “This population of humans is a disgrace and should be scourged from the Earth.”

She turns and takes a few strides away, then pauses and stares back expectantly when she realizes Enid is still rooted to the ground.

Enid’s lips pull up into a smile and she follows dutifully.

==========

V.

Exactly one year after Crackstone was defeated and a small group of students was traumatized beyond their years, a small memorial is held in the renovated courtyard. There’s a short stage with a microphone stand for anybody who wishes to speak, along with a picture of Principal Weems and candles of all sizes to be lit.

Enid recalls a similar setup when she was handed the Poe Cup trophy last year, sans the photo and the candles and the morose atmosphere.

It’s the anniversary of a lot of things, Enid muses to herself. One year since she wolfed out for the first time. One year since Wednesday was stabbed, shot with an arrow, and bludgeoned in the head. One year since Enid realized there was somebody in this world she was willing to risk her life for.

The student body is gathered in the courtyard at lunchtime, milling about, murmuring. Bianca had given a short tribute speech about Principal Weems, but the microphone had been untouched since then.

Enid knows better than to ask Wednesday if she’d like to say anything.

Xavier does not.

“You should go up there,” he says, jerking his chin towards the stage. “Weems liked you.”

Wednesday has been uncharacteristically subdued the whole day. Enid had expected biting ridicule for such a sentimental event, but Wednesday had let herself be shepherded to the courtyard along with everybody else, the picture of neutrality.

Trauma will do that, Enid supposes, and wishes there was more she could do to help.

Wednesday stares at the picture on the stage. “I do not think –,”

“Wednesday Addams is the last person who should be up there,” says a voice from behind them, and Enid lets out a muted groan, an eye roll, because it’s Fane again.

She and Xavier turn around to find Fane’s beady black eyes dancing on Wednesday’s back.

“Seriously,” he says, glancing at Xavier. “What are you thinking? The chick’s a fucking corpse. Weems at least deserves someone with a heart to speak at her memorial.”

Wednesday stiffens but doesn’t turn around.

“Man, come on –,” Xavier starts.

“You know it’s true,” the vampire goads, staring at the back of Wednesday’s head. “She’s a psychopath. Why is she even here when she’s the reason Weems is dead?”

Enid hears a hitch in Wednesday’s breathing. Her eyes flicker over to the smaller girl’s profile and note her jaw clenching and unclenching.

She looks back at Fane. “That’s not true.”

“It is though.”

Xavier squares his shoulders. “You need to get out of here.”

“Why?” Fane shrugs easily. “She has no feelings. You’re defending an emotionless doll.”

Enid’s claws come out. “Shut up,” she utters.

Fane pays her no attention, now rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Do you remember…how much destruction there was after that night? Like, this whole place –,” he gestures vaguely around them, “ – literally burned down and had to be rebuilt. And the injuries? The pain? All those fucking therapy sessions we had to have? You think she cares?”

Wednesday turns around then, nostrils flaring. 

Beady eyes lock onto hers. “You don’t give a shit about anyone, do you?”

Wednesday just stares. There’s a look in her eyes Enid can’t identify. It’s turbulent, like there’s a war being waged in her head and Wednesday is losing. And then she blinks once, twice, and her gaze drops off to the side.

Her voice is constrained, almost hoarse, when she says to him, “Next time…I will simply let you die.”

She walks off then, stiffly and quickly, and Enid makes sure to body-check Fane, drags her claws across his arm, in her haste to follow. She hears a hiss of pain behind her.

Wednesday disappears through a heavy wooden door into the school. Enid hurries after her, spies her at the end of the empty hallway, and calls, “Wednesday!”

Enid’s not sure if she’s imagining it, but Wednesday seems to speed up.

“Wednesday, wait!”

Enid considers letting Wednesday win this race, but that unidentifiable look in her eyes from just moments before is stuck in Enid’s brain. There was a vulnerability Enid had never seen before, and she needs to make sure Wednesday is alright.

She breaks into a run.

Wednesday’s head turns slightly. Not enough to actually see behind her, but enough to obviously sense Enid galloping down the hall at her heels. Wednesday seems to accept the fact that Enid is a werewolf and is faster than her and is not above pouncing on her like she’s a gazelle, and she turns sharply into an empty classroom. 

When Enid teeters through the door, panting slightly, Wednesday’s already at the other end of the classroom. She’s in the corner by the chalkboard, facing the window, and she has the heels of both palms pressed against her forehead right above her eyes, breathing deeply.

Enid’s momentarily speechless, stuck in the doorway, like she’s intruding on something private.

Wednesday’s hands drop after a moment.

“Hey,” Enid exhales, cautious. She tucks her own pastel hair behind her ears and catches her breath, collects herself.

When Wednesday doesn’t respond, she continues, “I just…wanted to make sure you’re okay. I know you hate it, but…” Enid swallows, redirects. “Fane was all wrong.”

There’s a satisfying picture in her mind of her wolf-form swatting him easily through the air such that he buffets off the trees like a pinball.

“I’m fine,” Wednesday says shortly. Her voice is gravelly and rough.

Enid slowly winds her way around desks, pauses when she’s about six feet behind Wednesday. “You don’t sound fine,” she murmurs.

Wednesday whirls around then, and Enid is absolutely shaken at the wetness in her brown eyes.

“I said I am fine, Enid,” Wednesday argues, voice wavering. “Please, save your pity for a creature more deserving.”

Enid observes her for a beat. There’s a lump in her own throat. “It’s not pity.”

Wednesday’s jaw is working, her fists clenched and her black nails pressing into her palms. Enid wants to tell her to just let go, but waits instead. She’s learned patience from Wednesday. She struggles to apply it to literally every other aspect of her life, but right now Wednesday’s on the edge of something and Enid won’t be the one to push her over.

Wednesday blinks, and it sends tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Wednesday…” Enid whispers.

Wednesday releases a frustrated noise, swipes angrily at her own face.

Enid steps forward until there’s barely a foot between them. Wednesday tries to turn around, but Enid gently catches a wrist and then ducks until she finds glistening brown eyes. Wednesday’s impenetrable façade has fallen, and the vulnerability there is stunning.

Enid is entranced for a moment, then encourages, “Come here.”

She takes one more small step forward and folds Wednesday into her arms.

Wednesday’s rigid, and Enid hesitates, but then the smaller girl crumbles a little bit and tips her face into Enid’s shoulder. It’s like she’s shrinking, and Enid tightens her hold. Wednesday cries silently, but Enid feels the rise and fall of her shoulders, her staccato breathing. She feels Wednesday’s arms wrap around her, hands gripping at the back of her blazer.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Enid soothes. She has to blink away her own tears.

Wednesday smells like ginger, and Enid lets her cheek settle against the side of Wednesday’s head.

They stand like that for a few minutes, with Wednesday seemingly struggling to regain any semblance of control. Eventually, she stills, with her mouth and nose still pressed against Enid’s shoulder, and Enid will not be the one to let her go first.

Wednesday unattaches her hands from Enid’s blazer and takes a half step backwards. She scrubs at her face shamefully, refusing to meet Enid’s eyes. Enid lets her own hands fall to her sides.

“I apologize for that…display,” Wednesday mutters, her voice still watery and uneven.

Enid frowns, shakes her head. “Don’t apologize.”

“I do not know what came over me.”

“I think I do.”

“Some kind of curse,” Wednesday mumbles to herself.

Enid just watches her, fingers twitching and ready to reach out if needed.

Wednesday glances up then. She’s still remarkably unguarded, seems so small. She swallows thickly and looks away. “Last year…Xavier asked me if I care about anyone or anything at all.”

That little shit, Enid thinks.

Even Enid’s heightened hearing barely catches it when Wednesday breathes out, “I do care.”

But she does catch it, and there are fresh tears pooling in Wednesday’s eyes, and Enid’s heart breaks a little bit.

“I know you do,” Enid murmurs. “Of course you do.”

Slowly, she reaches a hand up, prepared for it to be slapped away. Wednesday is unmoving aside from a slight tremble, and then Enid is wiping away the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks.

Wednesday’s skin is surprisingly warm to the touch, soft. Her bangs are mussed, exposing the scar at her temple where Laurel Gates had hit her with a shovel, and Enid reaches up to fix that too. Wednesday flinches only slightly, and then nods in response to Enid’s silent question.

She fixes Wednesday’s hair and feels brown eyes studying her face. When she meets Wednesday’s gaze again, there’s an understanding there. It’s comfortable, safe, like Wednesday knows she’d unwittingly cracked herself wide open, but it’s okay because it’s Enid.

There’s something else too. A fondness, maybe, or something more. Or maybe Enid’s just imagining it.

“It’s okay to cry,” Enid offers simply.

Almost automatically, Wednesday rebuts, “I don’t do tears.”

“Well, tears do you,” Enid quips, and then wants to claw her own tongue out.

Wednesday’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Do you feel better?” Enid asks.

Wednesday’s voice sounds a shade more normal when she answers, “I will feel better once I have that vampire drawn and quartered. I will feed his limbs to the rats.”

Enid smiles, relieved. She takes her own deep breath and attempts to turn and head for the classroom door, assuming they’ll head back to lunch now, but a hand seizes the lapel of her blazer before she can twist fully around. She almost falls over, mostly due to the surprise.

Brown eyes meet hers again, and Wednesday’s mouth opens, closes, opens.

Again, Enid waits patiently, only a little bit flustered, her lips tipped up at the corners.

“Thank you, Enid.” Wednesday finally manages. “I…appreciate you.”

Enid opens her mouth, but then Wednesday continues, “Your compassion and emotional intelligence is captivating.”

Enid feels her own cheeks warm, hears her blood rushing in her ears. She feels like she’s been charmed by a porcupine. It’s the most meaningful thing Wednesday’s ever said to her, and she’s certain she’ll spend some time deciphering the exact meaning later on.

She presses her lips together to contain her smile and says, “I appreciate you too, Wednesday.”

Wednesday’s mouth quirks, and that dimple comes out, and Enid is so focused on it that the quick, barely-there kiss Wednesday presses to her cheek almost floors her. Certainly, if she weren’t next to a desk, she would be flat-out on the ground.

Her hand lifts and hovers somewhere between her face and her shoulder, processing.

Wednesday’s at the door, looking back expectantly, and her mouth is expressionless again, but there’s definitely a flash of amusement in her eyes.

Enid remembers how to make her legs move. “Oh, I’m – I’m coming,” she stutters.

And then she clumsily crosses the room – manages to refrain from skipping but bumps into two desks – and falls into step at Wednesday’s shoulder.

Neither of them speaks as they head towards the courtyard, but it’s comfortable, and maybe it’s Enid’s werewolf senses that tell her there’s been a shift in their relationship. If Wednesday’s shoulder is bumping against Enid’s more frequently, if their hands are brushing together more than before, Enid doesn’t mention it.

She’s present, and she’s safe, and she cannot stop smiling, and she will not mess this up.

Because Wednesday Addams has feelings, and Enid will handle them with the care they so rightly deserve.