Chapter 16Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday spends the next fifteen minutes of her life in the kitchen, metaphorically underfoot of Lurch, who silently moves around her circular pacing. He's cooking up something that requires arsenic and beef tallow, staring into the largest cooking pot he owns, while Wednesday mumbles to herself as she's making laps around the kitchen island.
"I cannot be a mother," Wednesday mumbles, a finger on her lips. "Children scream, they cry, they soil themselves and need an adult to clean them up, they're too needy. My mother—she's pulling my leg. She's trying to get a rise out of me, ruin my life, watch me fall apart at the seams. Why else would she drop this bomb on me?" She stops to think, coming around the island to stand at Lurch's side, and points at the boiling pot of whatever on the stove. "Lurch? Are you able to make that explode?"
"It's dinner, Miss Addams," he grunts.
"Yes, but can it explode?" Wednesday asks, looking seriously at him. "You'd do it for me, wouldn't you?"
Lurch puts his large hand on Wednesday's head. She's grown a lot in stature over the years, but she still always feels tiny in comparison to him. Looking up at him requires a lot of strain on her neck, but she makes eye contact with him, and he gives her a crooked smile.
"What's wrong, Miss Addams?" he asks, his voice rough yet kind. "You seem…worried."
"Perhaps," Wednesday concurs. She fidgets with a knife on the counter, running her finger along the silver blade, and then glances back up at the big monster happily cooking away in his apron. "Lurch? If I tell you something, you must promise not to repeat it to anyone. Especially to Enid. Can you promise me that?"
"Yes, Miss Addams," he says, focused more on whatever is screaming and wailing in the pot than on her, and although she shouldn't feel offended by his nonchalant attitude, it stings a little.
They haven't had a kitchen talk since long before she ever went to Nevermore. She was only at knee-height to him back then, and now she's graduated to the middle of his bicep, so maybe she's wrong for assuming that private discussions with him are no longer an option, but she's desperate for company, and Lurch has always been the kind of company to keep things quiet. He only knows so many words, his vocabulary limited to about a third of the average person's, and that's only thanks to her mother and father teaching him throughout the years so they could properly communicate with him.
"Lurch?" she murmurs. "Would you look at me?"
He turns to the side, putting down his wooden spoon, and then he slides his hands under her arms and lifts her up onto a clean spot on the counter; the same spot he always sat her in when she would accompany him in the kitchen as a little girl. He gives her a knife to play with, waving at her to proceed while he chops up some vegetables.
"My mother told me that she had a vision recently," she says, twisting the knife in her hands. "She saw me and Enid. We were older. Maybe ten years from now. Married. That wasn't the worrying part. I can accept marriage. She said she saw…a baby that she describes to have looked like a hybrid of both me and Enid."
"You will be…a mother?" Lurch asks, keeping his voice to a minimum. "Like your mother?"
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath. "No. Never like my mother." Lurch gives her his deadpan stare, and for a second, Wednesday wonders if she's been imitating him this entire time rather than just being herself. "I don't know what to do, Lurch. I refuse to carry Enid's—or anyone else's—demon spawn inside my body. That thing seemed to have some of my characteristics. But it also had Enid's. It had to grow inside one of us, and while I'd prefer it to be neither, to never exist, I can't help but to want to vomit when I think of my body changing and adapting to the needs of a soul-sucking parasite for nine months only to have to force it out of my birth canal so everyone around me can view me as an incubator and ignore my efforts when the ugly thing is finally here. Everyone just wants to see and hold babies. They don't want to acknowledge the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into creating one. They pay a visit and pretend to be interested in you, and once they're done coddling your ugly creation and yearning for what they can't have, they leave and send a holiday card later."
"You are afraid of…pregnancy," Lurch surmises, and it's clear as day.
Wednesday's head perks up. "You know that word?"
Lurch nods. "Your mother complained about being pregnant with you, all the time. You kicked her ribs a lot. And she had heart…heart…"
"Heartburn." Wednesday fidgets with her braid. "Well, someone had to pay for this hair."
"Maybe…it's Enid," Lurch grunts, dropping the vegetables into the pot. "Not you. Enid."
"But that means I would have to…watch," Wednesday shudders. "I don't want to watch the love of my life go through a painful ordeal. My father is a strong man for being able to do it twice. I could never. Of course, I could also never take that burden off of her. It's selfish of me, but my legs squeeze closed whenever I think about childbirth. I enjoy bloody things, but I only enjoy bloody things that don't include vernix and a placenta. Did you know that some species of animal consume their own placenta after birth?"
Lurch stirs the pot, idly blinking at the contents. "Delicious."
Wednesday's face sours. She isn't sure what she had been expecting when she decided to use Lurch as a personal journal for all of her fears and thoughts, but it certainly wasn't that. Still, she prefers this to confiding in Enid about the fact that one day, one of them is going to be split in two or violently ripped open by a tiny human that will then depend on them for survival for years to come. Enid might just have a stroke on the spot, and Wednesday doesn't want to sign a death certificate tonight.
"What am I meant to do, Lurch?" Wednesday asks, staring at herself in the silver plating of the knife. Her eyes are tired and she has a concerned crease in her forehead. "Visions are glimpses into the past or future. Things that are already set in stone. Like someone has made up their mind for you."
Lurch's otherwise absent gaze becomes pitiful as he reaches over and pats her cold cheek with his calloused palm. He grunts a little, earning her attention that she tears away from the weapon twirling between her fidgety fingers.
"I hope you have a good nanny, Miss Addams," he plainly says, still cradling her face with an odd gentleness for a monster like him. "I will make the bottle the way I made yours. It is good for the baby. You are smart. You want a smart baby, right, Miss Addams?"
"How dare you succumb to this delusion," Wednesday mutters, pouting angrily like a child. She looks up at him under her dark eyelashes. "If I'm forced into motherhood by fate alone, then yes, I would like a smart child. A genius, perhaps. I refuse to raise an idiot."
Lurch's half-smile is goofy and almost gets a good chuckle out of Wednesday. He releases her face and returns to his task, leaving Wednesday ruminating for a minute while the sound of a bubbling boil fills the room. She doesn't know if it's the food or her blood though.
"I'm going to find Enid," she announces and hops off the counter. "She should be done smoking by now."
"Miss Addams," Lurch says as she's striding out the door. "My knife."
Wednesday looks at the knife clutched in her hand. "I was only going to play with it for awhile," she innocently says with a shrug. Lurch stares at her disapprovingly, and then she huffs and drops it on the counter. "I never get to have any fun around here."
Lurch winks at her. Wednesday has to accept it from him.
"Thank you, Lurch. You aren't a man of many words, but you are a great listener," she compliments. "I feel a bit better now. But I'm still not pushing a human out of my body."
She exits the kitchen, feeling only a little lighter as she weaves in and out of crowds of people, and then she finds Enid standing at the end of the stairs, noticeably barefoot, talking to one of Morticia's long lost aunts, the name of whom Wednesday cannot recall right now. Judging by Enid's cheeky grin and the giggles leaving her, the conversation seems to be going well, which is all Wednesday can hope for.
Enid looks beautiful in the macabre lighting, illuminated by candelabras and firelight. Her beauty is like a punch to Wednesday's gut, a twist of the knife, a stab. Wednesday is almost drowned by the music thumping around her, watching Enid interact so easily with another Addams, like she was created for this family and the Sinclairs were only surrogates until she could get here. Everything Enid has done here, every family member that has met her, every evening spent in the gazebo with Wednesday's father; it all fits so well.
It's pathetic, really, how simply Wednesday folds when she's watching Enid interact with her family. She admires the ethereal aura surrounding Enid, drowned in pink and black, backlit by a halo of glitter that's been manufactured by Wednesday's brain, because Enid shimmers everywhere she goes. She's so perfect, Wednesday almost forgets where she is. The music and chatter fade away, the lights dim, the floor feels like putty beneath her.
Someone brushes up against Wednesday with a pathetic "excuse me," and then it's all over. Children are whining, the music is crescendoing, her shoes are suddenly too tight, and the lights are just so bright. Perfumes and colognes billow in the air around her, suffocating her lungs, and her head throbs with a fuzzy feeling that often precedes, what she understands to be, a meltdown.
Before she knows it, Enid is excusing herself from what's-her-name, descending the last few steps of the staircase. She appears at Wednesday's side in a matter of seconds, her hand immediately resting on Wednesday's forearm. Her touch is featherlight and warm, fingertips sinking into Wednesday's skin in tiny squeezes.
"Babe?" Enid's voice is faraway, a mere echo in the back of Wednesday's mind. "Are you with me?"
"Enid," Wednesday gasps, eyes flickering up to meet Enid's. "Take me upstairs. Please."
And because Wednesday is spoiled rotten to the core, Enid asks no questions as she's wrapping a firm arm around her waist and bringing her up the staircase. The weight of the party's stares as she's being whisked away is hardly concerning for Wednesday. She's too overwhelmed by the music and laughter to worry about whatever they might be thinking of her.
The walls close in when they reach the top of the landing, and Enid catches Wednesday before she can take a full tumble down. Enid keeps her close to her body, snuggling her in close with a firm hand pressed to her back to stabilize her. Wednesday is woozy, despite only having one drink before her mother dropped a baby bombshell on her, and her head is pounding.
"Your room or mine?" Enid asks, because she knows that giving Wednesday an option when she's in an otherwise uncontrollable state of mind is important, and Wednesday loves that about her.
"Mine," she immediately responds. "Please."
Everyone is still downstairs, none of them coming up to interrupt Wednesday's pleading for quiet, and before Wednesday knows it, Enid is sliding her arms under her own and lifting her like she weighs nothing. Wednesday koalas herself around Enid the same way she was curled up with her this morning, letting herself be carried the rest of the way to her bedroom. Enid is strong, holding her like she's a precious doll, carrying her all the way down the hallway without so much as a falter in her step.
Finally, the hinges squeal and Wednesday is drowned in the yellow light of her bedroom. The door clicks closed and before she knows it, Wednesday is being gently deposited on the edge of her bed. Enid goes to pull away, but Wednesday tugs her back, stubbornly winding her arms around her neck, so she crouches down so she's at Wednesday's level, and Wednesday has never been more grateful to have someone who understands her silent cues.
"Someone is clingy," Enid says, but it's not teasing; more like stating the obvious. "I think the party's over for you."
The party was over the moment my mother opened her big mouth about her vision, Wednesday thinks.
"You can rejoin everyone if you'd like," Wednesday mumbles against the skin where a pool of her drool has collected in the juncture of Enid's neck and shoulder. She's been involuntarily mouthing again, and she's coming to realize that it's a nervous habit; something to calm her down when the world is spinning too fast. "Sorry. I seem to have salivated on your dress."
"I don't care about that," Enid sighs, wrapping an arm around Wednesday's back and drawing her in. "I just need to know you're okay. That's all I'm worried about."
She feels okay now, but that, too, is fleeting, just like everything else in her life. The only sense of permanence she has is when Enid holds her in her arms and shields her from the nastiness of the world. Sometimes Wednesday likes a little nasty, but she doesn't appreciate nasty in the form of crying babies and the agony of being a bystander while her wife pushes the equivalent of a football out of her birth canal.
"I feel dirty," she admits to Enid, resting her head on the bone of Enid's shoulder. She rubs her cheek on the hard knob that makes up Enid's clavicle, enjoying the tactile stimulation. "So many people. So many germs. So many smells that are not of either of us."
"You're overstimulated," Enid says, squeezing just under her rib cage. "Do you want to get out of these clothes?"
Wordless, Wednesday nods. Enid stands up and hovers over Wednesday like a pastel pink shadow. In the light, she looks like a fairy, dusted in gold and vintage amber. Enid smiles at her, tugging at the blazer that's been making Wednesday's skin turn to static. Her arms feel like the television screen when she turns the knob to channel 4; snowy, vacant, a plain white void with a gentle hiss in the background.
"Do you need help?" Enid asks sweetly, ever so thrilled to be of assistance to Wednesday's needs. "I can turn around or step out while you change."
While she's never stripped down to her birthday suit in the presence of anyone else—even as a little child, she was adamant that she could change herself without her mother or father's insistent hovering—the thought of Enid leaving her for even a moment's time is terrifying. Typically Wednesday is reserved enough to prioritize her own modesty, and maybe a year ago, the option of changing her clothes in front of anyone else would be off the table, but she also has to consider the fact that, if her mother is telling the truth about whatever she saw, she and Enid are meant to do far more than just this. She doesn't want to initiate anything too prematurely, but god, these clothes are itchy and there's a goddamned tag carving a raw patch into her neck.
"Help me out of this," she demands, but her tone is soft and faraway.
Happy to oblige, Enid helps Wednesday slip out of her—Pugsley's—gray and black pinstripe blazer that sags a little too much in the shoulders, leaving her in a simple black button down that's reminiscent of the white one she's meant to wear under her uniform. Wednesday knows, if Enid were to be candid, she would say it's too much black for one outfit, but she also knows that Enid loves her enough to allow her room for self expression.
"And the shirt?" Enid asks with caution.
It's a vague question with heavy implication behind it, but Wednesday, even in her muddled state, understands. She nods and unbuttons the blouse, fingers shaky, and makes it to the last four before her fumbling has her grumbling swear words. The button doesn't slip through the hole, and she curses, and then like clockwork, Enid's hands are brushing hers away, gentle yet insistent. The shirt comes off like a banana peel, and it's only now that Wednesday realizes she's broken out into a cold sweat.
"You're clammy," Enid notes as she's helping Wednesday the rest of the way out of her shirt. "And colder than usual."
"It happens when I'm particularly stressed or exposed to overwhelming environments," she exhales. "Tonight has met both of those criteria."
"You don't have to go back down there," Enid tells her—not because Wednesday can't make that decision on her own, but because she's trying to be supportive, which Wednesday appreciates. "I'll stay up here with you."
"You…" Wednesday takes a deep breath and opens her eyes, unaware that she had slammed them shut to avoid watching Enid witness her in a new, bare light. "You can rejoin them if you'd like."
"You're my priority," Enid says, and her hands are settling on the exposed flesh of Wednesday's waist. "Let me help you, okay? I just want to help."
Enid's voice is so warm, Wednesday almost forgets that she's left only in her black bra and pinstriped pants. A chill travels up her spine, and then she's acknowledging that she's halfway naked in front of her partner. Insecurity overcomes her. She wraps her arms around her midsection, shielding herself from Enid.
"Don't do that," Enid tells her, prying Wednesday's arms away from her belly. "I know you're shy and private, but I won't judge you."
"You don't have to do this," Wednesday mutters.
"Partners do things like this for each other," Enid assures, her hands coming up to gently squeeze little circles into the skin, and it's like touching a live wire. "Don't be shy around me." It's a demand, but it's so gentle, and Wednesday finds herself floundering for words.
"I've never allowed anyone else to view me in such a…vulnerable light," she whispers, staring with intent at Enid's hands caressing the place where her scar would be had Goody not entirely healed her. "Perhaps I don't exactly know how to be vulnerable without having a complex about it."
"I mean, I would never force you into doing something that doesn't feel right or safe, but you can trust me," Enid promises, brushing messy hair away from Wednesday's face. "I'm not a bully or an abusive girlfriend. I won't make fun or humiliate you. I love you a lot, and I know what it's like for someone you love to make fun of you. I wouldn't do that to you. Ever."
After a painful moment of silence, Wednesday takes another sharp breath. She locks eyes with Enid, finding her to be smiling so sweetly. She's an angel wrapped in gold, a gift that somehow materialized in Wednesday's hands. Wednesday knows how incredibly lucky she is to have Enid, how fortunate she is that Enid is all hers.
Under the sickeningly sweet smile of Enid's, Wednesday feels like a naked mole rat. She's in her matching undergarments, in the quiet of her bedroom, with Enid Sinclair standing there in a fluffy pink dress that resembles a cosplay of Glinda the Good. If someone would have told her that one day she would be stripping—not in any nefarious way, but it still counts—for her roommate, she would have spat in their face for crudely insulting her character.
"Help me with my pants," Wednesday says in an authoritative tone, but her voice fades towards the end, belying her formidable presence.
Enid is all too eager to help. She lets Wednesday unbutton them first, but once the black embellishment has come loose, she takes control and reaches out for the waistband. She pauses, clearly giving Wednesday another chance to revoke consent, just in case this is too much, but all Wednesday can do is dumbly nod. The pants quickly end up in a heap on the floor, even if the price tag that was once attached to them might've been more than a mortgage payment.
"Pajamas or…?" Enid asks, eyes focusing on Wednesday's face and absolutely nowhere else.
Wednesday rubs nonexistent dirt off her elbow. "I would like to have a shower, really. I feel…people on me."
Standing up, Enid collects the clothes off the floor and drapes them over Wednesday's desk chair to be dealt with later. She moves a piece of Wednesday's hair away so she can see her eyes.
"I can wait here while you shower," Enid proposes. "I don't wanna leave you."
"Then don't," Wednesday immediately says, probably too boldly, but it's already too late. She's already made an implication, and there's no going back from it. "Maybe you could…join me."
She's met with silence and quickly starts to revise her statement or rescind it altogether, but then Enid sits next to her and puts a hand on her cold knee to still the quiver.
"I told you not to be shy around me," Enid tells her. "Relax."
"I should not have suggested that," she replies, too ashamed to look at Enid, so she stares at the hand on her knee and watches as it strokes up and down the contusion she sustained while she was grave-digging with Pugsley the other night. "It was wrong of me. I did not mean it in any sort of sexual way."
"I know you didn't," Enid reassures. "I didn't take it that way."
"How did you take it?" Wednesday inquires.
"You don't want me to leave you or to be alone, and you mean it literally," Enid says with a shrug. "I think it's cute. And I won't leave you if you really don't want me to. If you're really okay with me seeing you like this—or with showering together—I'm fine with it. Okay?"
Wednesday nods, even if she thinks she might vomit. If she does vomit, though, at least she's only moments away from showering with Enid.
"Okay."
Notes:
We're creeping up on the end 🥹
I'm not entirely sure if next chapter will include them showering together. Not because I don't want to write it (I've written a shower scene with them before), but because I'm not sure if it would read like filler content or not. But if you'd be interested, tell me so. Keep in mind it's not sexual. I'm keeping my T rating.
Until next time 🖤
Chapter 17Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Within ten minutes, Wednesday and Enid are standing in Wednesday and Pugsley's shared bathroom. Enid marvels at how grungy—in a positive way, of course—the decor is, and is probably most flummoxed by how large Wednesday's old fashioned clawfoot bathtub is. A black bath curtain is pushed to one side, revealing the sleek porcelain, and there is a black freestanding shower head suspended above the basin.
They haven't said a word since Enid asked Wednesday which pajamas she wanted to wear. Now, they sit in comfortable silence, Wednesday still feeling like an atrocious naked mole rat in just her undergarments, only now that the door is shut and the world seems to have melted away from around them, she feels less exposed to the elements. Enid doesn't acknowledge the fact that she's in her bra and panties, nor does she comment on the type of undies she prefers to wear. She's nonjudgmental, pretending as if Wednesday is still fully clothed.
"There might be Pugsley dirt around the drain," Wednesday says, fidgeting with her stack of clean pajamas, which sits directly next to Enid's in a stark contrast of baby pink and depressed black, on the countertop. She's noticeably not looking in Enid's direction, too busy pulling a thread from her pajama pants. "Sharing a bathroom with him might have been the worst decision my parents ever made for me. He's filthy and doesn't clean after himself."
"You've obviously never had to share a bathroom with a male wolf before," Enid comments. "Human men shave their beards and leave hair in the sink, but it's ten times worse when said men are also maintaining a werewolf coat. Fur everywhere."
Still Wednesday plucking loose strings off her pajamas, Wednesday speaks to Enid in a quiet, apprehensive kind of way. "Will I have to anticipate grooming your coat during full moons? Are you capable of licking yourself?"
"About the full moon thing," Enid sighs as she lowers herself on the toilet lid. She's more in Wednesday's line of sight, so Wednesday shuffles again so she doesn't have to look her in the face. She's too embarrassed, but Enid doesn't need to know that. "I don't fully understand how this is gonna go for me. From what I read and can comprehend, as long as I have you, you'll be able to change me back every full moon, by just touching me. But if we were to be apart…I don't know what would happen to me. I'm unprotected in my wolf form. The others can still smell me. Capri didn't fully elaborate. She made me do studying, and it just stressed me out even more."
Wednesday immediately turns around to face Enid, her shyness suddenly ebbing away. Enid's eyes are worried yet soft around the edges. She smiles sadly at Wednesday, rubbing a nervous hand on the skirt of her dress.
"You're implying that I will leave you," Wednesday says, sounding almost offended. "I thought I was clear in my sentiment that this is your home now. If your mother is choosing to abandon you and your father is following her lead because he is a spineless man, my family is more than happy to have you here with us. We might run into some problems when it comes time to return to Nevermore, because this country loves their legal documents more than what is morally right and wrong, but my father is a formidable lawyer with direct ties to several judicial personas across the country. He can pull strings to ensure that your parents cannot interfere with your schooling. They've abandoned you and left you without a home; they do not get a say in where you go to school."
"Even if that's true, Nevermore costs money," Enid says, wincing painfully. "A lot of money."
"Money that my family has stashed away for several lifetimes in case any one of us were to be reincarnated," Wednesday reminds, partly because she's being honest, partly because she doesn't understand why Enid repeatedly brings up the issue of monetary value when such things don't exist within these four walls. "You're beating a dead horse."
Enid chuckles. "I love when you remind me of how big of a spoiled brat you really are. It's cute. Of course I knew you'd had to have some kind of money if you're able to go to Nevermore and wear all the expensive clothes you have, but I never would have thought that you're such a daddy's girl. He spoils you rotten."
Wednesday crosses her arms and glowers. "I am not spoiled. I am wealthy."
"You're spoiled and I love it," Enid giggles. "I can only imagine how badly they spoiled you as a kid. I bet you just looked at your dad and he folded for his little princess of darkness. Do you have a pony?"
"A pony," Wednesday sneers in disgust. "What do I look like to you? Do I look like someone who would want a pony?"
"Rich little girls have a pony," Enid says, teasingly grinning. Her smile stretches wider when Wednesday petulantly huffs. "I'm just kidding. Come here."
Wednesday shuffles closer, almost too hesitant. Enid reaches out and grabs her hands, reeling her in and placing her hands on Wednesday's bare waist, half an inch above the hem of her underwear. Wednesday refrains from gasping, but the air sits in the back of her throat.
"I promise I don't mind showering with you," Enid tells her, voice gentle. "As long as that's still what you want."
"That is what I want," Wednesday affirms with a meek nod. "I smell of people and bacterial residue. I would like to wash it away."
Enid's thumbs rub circles into Wednesday's flesh. "You have to take this off to shower. You don't have to be shy; I promise I think you're the most beautiful thing on this planet."
Now Wednesday understands the concept of blushing. For her, it isn't visually pink, but it's definitely hot and buried beneath the surface of her skin. Enid makes her feel like a ridiculous school girl experiencing her very first love—and maybe, that's accurate for Wednesday, because if anyone were to ask, Tyler doesn't count. The first one never counts. She was merely experimenting. Enid is the real thing.
"I have never been nude in front of anyone but my parents when I was forced to rely on them to change my diapers and bathe me. The first three years of my life were a blur, so perhaps I don't remember too much of even that," Wednesday says. "I don't understand how to…be naked in the presence of another. If I'm being candid, I never entertained the idea of being naked in front of someone else. I never thought that I would succumb to the sweet saccharine torture that is romance and intimacy. I vowed to remain a virgin if that's what it took to preserve my solitude. Not for religious reasons, like most, but because I've never been fond of the idea of gluing myself to another person and having sex as a side effect of that. A relationship requires some level of nudity and the loss of dignity."
Enid tilts her head, acting sweet but her eyebrows are teasingly raised. "But now…"
Wednesday gives a little huff like an angry toddler.
"But now I might accept the idea for what it is," she admits, her head hanging low. Her big, dark eyes meet Enid's. "You've destroyed me in every comprehensible way, Enid Sinclair."
"You love it," Enid says, giving her another squeeze. "And I'm not asking you for sex. Showering together doesn't need to be sexual. We can do that when—if—you're ready. You know I wouldn't force you to do that or expect it. You're, like, the least sexual person I know. At first I thought you were totally asexual and aromantic."
"I'm still traumatized by the fact that my mother writes smutty novels," she mutters, licking her lips. They sting, so dry and cracked. "She and my father should be studied. Their need to make love so much is only second to that of rabbits."
"It's natural," Enid replies. "That could be us one day."
"Don't corrupt me more than you already have," Wednesday grumbles, trying to smooth out the goosebumps with her palms. "One day I might pry open my legs for you, but today is not the day."
It's Enid's turn to blush, but hers is easily visible. A red hot magenta creeps its way up from her chest to her throat. Still, her grip on Wednesday never falters.
"You're so weird," Enid compliments.
"Thank you," Wednesday readily replies, taking a breath to stabilize herself. "I suppose I need to get naked. So do you."
"We'll do it at the same time?" Enid suggests, dropping her hands so she can tug at her dress. "Unzip me? And then we'll both get naked together."
All too eager to be of assistance, Wednesday motions for Enid to turn around, and she does, brushing aside her hair so Wednesday can pull the zipper down. It's now that Wednesday realizes that Enid has forgone a bra. She's met with porcelain skin decorated with tiny freckles and birthmarks, and she stares in awe for a moment before Enid is standing up completely. The pink fabric pools around her chest but doesn't reveal anything. Not yet, anyway.
"Count of three," Enid says as her fingers loop under the straps of the dress. "One, two, three."
The dress lands in a heap around Enid's ankles, and the skimpiest pair of pink panties follow, and joining those are Wednesday's bra and underwear. Their eyes meet, never moving lower than the bridge of each other's nose.
"We have to look sometime, you know," Enid breaks the silence, smiling comfortingly. "We'll look at the same time."
Wednesday's heart is pounding and her palms are wet. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought that, one day in her late teens, she would be standing naked in front of her partner who happens to be another girl. In fact, she didn't plan on living past the age of sixteen, because what really happens after that? If she had been forced to grow up, she had plans of becoming a lonely cat lady. None of this was on the agenda.
But nevertheless, she nods. "Fine."
"Three," Enid says, and it throws Wednesday for a momentary loop, but then she realizes what Enid is doing, and so her eyes immediately flick down and back up. "See? That wasn't weird or bad…right?"
"Of course not," Wednesday replies honestly. "You and I have the same parts. I've seen one of those before. It won't bite me."
Enid snorts. "No, it won't. And FYI, I don't think yours will bite me either."
"Now that's out of the way," Wednesday says, segueing the conversation by striding over to the bathtub. She turns the taps and starts the shower. "I would like to wash the people off me."
"Your wish is my command, princess," Enid agrees as she approaches the tub. She tests the water on her wrist and visibly winces. "Jesus, that's so cold."
Still short-circuiting over Enid's term of endearment, Wednesday blinks at her.
"Would you like it to be warmer?" she asks.
"If you don't mind," Enid says. "I want you to be comfortable, but holy shit, that's freezing."
Compromise is, unfortunately, part of being in a relationship, as Wednesday has recently learned and has to accept. She twists the knobs until the water is lukewarm, and her chest swells with pride when Enid smiles in relief. She's done something to make her partner happy, and that's all she cares about.
"Werewolves first," Wednesday says, motioning for Enid to step into the tub.
"No," Enid says, prompting Wednesday to tilt her head. "Your braids. You're going to shower with them in? Are you not planning to wash your hair?"
Wednesday swallows a lump in her throat. It's one thing to let Enid see her naked body, but it's another to let her see her hair down. Even in their shared dorm, Wednesday always does her hair in private, and Enid has never seen it in any other state. Her hair is her precious thing, the one controllable thing left in her life. She could rightfully say that she fears Enid bearing witness to her without her braids.
But of course, relationships are full of compromise, and if her mother isn't just toying with her emotions and her vocalized fear of pregnancy, one day Enid will have to see her with her hair down, and she decides that it can't be a dealbreaker.
"I'll take them out," she tells Enid, voice meek and soft in contrast to her rough exterior. "But please…do not touch it until I tell you so."
"Boundaries," Enid comments, nodding. "I swear."
With fumbling fingers, Wednesday pulls the silk ribbons loose from the ends of her hair. Like a dam breaking, everything unravels into two parts flowing down either shoulder. She works her fingers through the black silk until it's all freed from the coil. When she looks up at Enid, she finds her with her mouth open and her eyes wide. There's a stare of yearning and desperation in those blue eyes, but Enid refrains from touching it.
"You have the prettiest hair," Enid says. "It's so long."
"I prefer the braids to keep it somewhat manageable," Wednesday replies, shrugging. "Otherwise I would be walking around giving people the illusion that I've just been electrocuted. I've been electrocuted with my braids in before; much easier to brush after being fried."
"You're funny in a weird way," Enid giggles. Wednesday is silent, prompting her to gasp. "Oh, you were serious about that."
"Pugsley and I love our games, but sometimes they get out of hand," Wednesday says. "I never would have thought that a four-year-old would have been capable of electrocuting me. It's no wonder our parents warned me not to let him in the playroom unsupervised. Although, in my defense, I didn't think he was tall enough to reach the lever."
"The lore in this family is insane," Enid murmurs to herself. She shakes her head. "You ready to shower? My nips are not very happy with how cold it is in here."
It's unintentional, but Wednesday's eyes flit towards Enid's chest to confirm that statement. Maybe this relationship thing is getting easier, because Enid doesn't blush this time and Wednesday doesn't feel as shy about peeping.
"Werewolves first," Wednesday repeats, holding the shower curtain.
Enid complies, moving to stand under the spray of the shower head. Wednesday steps in after her and pulls the curtain closed around them. Suddenly the entire world around them melts away into oblivion. Here, Wednesday feels as though nothing can touch them; not monsters or people. They're safe. She's safe. Despite the fact that she's naked as the day she was born, she's safe.
It's an adjustment to warm up to the temperature of the water. Wednesday prefers frigid, but lukewarm will have to do just fine for the time being. The stream pelts against her back, lathering her in an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable warmth that reminds her fondly of when Enid holds her close at night.
Neither one of them moves at all for the longest time, both simply listening to the sound of the water hitting the porcelain under their feet and reveling in the silence that grows between them. Words aren't spoken and breaths are held until their lungs give out, and then Wednesday unravels like a spool of thread. She shuffles forward and tentatively rests her forehead on Enid's shoulder, her body wound tight like a clock. She's unsure of what to do with her hands; where they're meant to go or touch. Enid seems to understand the confusion, because she grabs Wednesday's left hand in hers and squeezes it.
"You want to be held?" Enid asks for confirmation, which Wednesday appreciates.
"Maybe," is all she mutters, letting her eyes slip closed long enough to get comfortable where she is.
Arms wind around her slender waist and draw her in close. Enid is cautious about not touching Wednesday's hair with her hands, but Wednesday allows her to rest her chin on the top of her head. Before Wednesday can accurately register what she's doing, she's drawing both water and skin into her mouth as she mouths away at Enid's collarbone.
Enid giggles. "That tickles."
Wednesday purses her lips and lifts her head. "I apologize. I don't quite understand why I do that whenever I'm close to your skin."
"Autism, probably," Enid supplies. "Sensory seeking. Using my skin. Maybe you were a cannibal in your past life."
"It would be just my luck to live twice," Wednesday mutters as she reprises her position against Enid's shoulder. "Hold still."
She inhales the smell of Enid's skin like it's a drug. A residual layer of smoke coats the flesh, wafting a wave of nostalgia and security over Wednesday. Enid smells just like any Addams should; miserable, depressing, melancholy. She smells like Gomez and his cigars, which in turn smells like a winter Saturday morning after breakfast when Wednesday would pretend to draw and quarter Pugsley in the snow while their father looked on with a cigar in his mouth and a twinkle of mirth in his eye.
If no one would ask questions about their absence and the human body weren't so needy, Wednesday could stay this way forever. It's easy enough to get lost in the moment, but Wednesday could certainly live in it. The cascade of water flowing down her back and Enid's loving embrace surrounding her is enough to have her eyelids fluttering as she presses her cool cheek against a warm bone.
"Do you need help washing your hair, or do you just want me to hold you right now?" Enid asks, being arguably too considerate. When Wednesday fails to properly respond with words and instead squeezes Enid's waist, Enid nods. "Nonverbal. Got it. I'll hold you until you tell me otherwise."
Wednesday is quiet, but her gratitude manifests in the form of a squeeze to Enid's hip. Enid reciprocates the action, providing Wednesday with little massages here and there, starting between her shoulders and working her way down to the small of her back. The appreciative hum that vibrates against Enid's chest is a gentle purr, almost silent enough to go unnoticed, but she notices, and she smiles into Wednesday's hair.
Enid makes good on her word. She doesn't do anything except hold Wednesday to her body, letting the water drown them in a steady stream. Wednesday mouths at the skin around Enid's collarbone, careful not to leave what could be considered a hickey, pressing her face into her clavicle once she's had her fill of that. The tip of her nose scrunches as Enid carefully drags a hand up and down her back.
"I like this," Enid says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It's quiet. Just me and you. Nobody is gonna bother us."
Somehow, Wednesday finds her words, but she doesn't lift her head. The thought of moving is too exhausting.
"I will never share you, Enid," she declares. "I don't like to share."
Enid's chest thrums with a laugh. "Well, I'm monogamous. So I don't plan on sharing you either. You have me all to yourself."
"But one day—" Wednesday begins, but she immediately stills upon the realization that Enid doesn't know about her mother's vision, and she plans to keep it that way in hopes it was only a fluke. She separates herself from Enid, looking up at her with softness in her eyes. "Never mind. Could you wash my hair?"
For a moment, Enid looks puzzled and seems to want to ask questions, but ultimately, she knows better than that, so she grabs an expensive bottle of shampoo off the shower caddy hanging from the shower head and lathers up Wednesday's hair with it, working the soap through the strands of hair that slip though her fingers. While Enid is dutifully serving her, Wednesday observes, breath held in the back of her throat. Enid's hands are gentle and calculated, moving at a slow and steady pace. Wednesday audibly sighs as her eyelids flutter.
Once her hair has been slathered in a healthy coat of suds, Wednesday tilts her head back under the spray and allows her muscles to unfurl as the water, with the assistance of Enid's devoted fingers, rinses the foam out and down her back. Fingertips massage her scalp in circular patterns, paying special attention to the sore spots where her braids pull. She doesn't mean to, but she lets out a tiny whine. Her eyes snap open, suddenly coming to.
"Woah," Enid says, bracing her waist as Wednesday lurches forward. "Careful."
"You didn't hear that," she immediately says.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," Enid assures, brushing some suds away before they can trickle down into Wednesday's eyes. "It's okay. You're comfortable. Be vulnerable. Could you just let me love you the way you're meant to be?"
Wednesday searches Enid's face for a minute, looking for any sign that she's being facetious, but she finds nothing but kindness behind her blue eyes. The hand settling down on her hip brings her back to reality, allowing her to understand where she is. She should feel awkward and misplaced, but instead she feels warm and safe here. It's just the two of them here, alone in the sanctity of the bathroom, surrounded by the mist collecting around them.
"Fine," Wednesday agrees, her voice almost going unheard under the sound of the water swirling around the drain. "You can love me as you wish."
Enid draws Wednesday into her body and rinses the last bit of shampoo from her hair, letting Wednesday tuck herself safely into the crook of her neck. Wednesday nestled in close, reveling in the security of being held like she's made of glass. If it were anyone else, she would insist that she's not fragile and doesn't need to be coddled like an infant, but perhaps she could get used to Enid's way of showering her with love. Enid's right; she doesn't need to be embarrassed. This is normal. Being held and loved by her partner is normal.
She thinks she could learn to enjoy this a lot more often, even if special attention is not something she's typically willing to accept. Still, it's nice to be doted on every now and again, and Enid has nothing better to do than to obsequiously tend to her.
As Enid is massaging conditioner into her hair, Wednesday privately succumbs to a brief snooze on her shoulder, and just when she's gotten comfortable enough to relax, an intrusive thought crosses her mind. Her fear of pregnancy and childbirth might be the catalyst for her lack of desire to have children, but she'll be damned if she ever has to share her wife with a wretched, screaming child. She wants Enid for herself, not for Enid to split her attention two ways. And perhaps it's selfish of her, but she can't possibly be truly selfish towards something that doesn't even exist and probably only exists in her mother's mind.
"I'm never sharing Enid," she mumbles aloud, slurring against Enid's shoulder.
"You're so spoiled," Enid replies, pouring cool water over Wednesday's hair with a plastic rinsing cup. "I know I'm not making it any better."
"I don't like to share," Wednesday says, indignant.
"Who says you have to share?" Enid asks.
Wednesday is quiet for the longest time, and then she sighs.
"No one," she says. "Just know that I refuse to share your attention."
"Possessive," Enid giggles.
"I thought I was spoiled."
Wednesday feels Enid shrug as she's grabbing a washcloth and lathering it up in unscented soap. "Well, I guess you can be both."
Returning to mouthing at Enid, Wednesday sighs contentedly and lets the rest of the world funnel down the drain alongside the stress of the evening.
Notes:
I absolutely love the idea of Wednesday being spoiled and not wanting to share Enid. She's so weird. And a brat.
Chapter 18Notes:
Long time no post. I'm stretched to the max right now between the holidays and working and taking care of my mom, so I haven't had real time to sit down and write, but I was able to squeeze this in for you.
I call this chapter "Bombshells and Eavesdropping."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday floats in between a realm of consciousness and slumber. She doesn't quite recall ever falling asleep, but she does recall showering with Enid not long ago. She's dressed in her soft pajamas, and she knows this only because she recognizes the material safely cocooning her. Strangely, she's not on her back, but on her side, and one arm is lazily thrown over what might be Enid's slender waist. She can feel the rise-and-fall of Enid's belly as she steadily breathes, and then it clenches like she might be laughing, but Wednesday doesn't dare open her eyes to see for certain.
She doesn't know what woke her exactly, but the first thing she notices upon her hearing returning is the sound of voices drifting above her head. There's two of them, both whispering lowly as if they're afraid of startling a sleeping baby, and they're both feminine and familiar. She listens intently, straining her ears to properly make out the words being exchanged while a warm, stable hand is absentmindedly stroking up and down her back.
"Oh my, Enid," the unmistakable voice of Morticia says, sounding whimsically nostalgic at the end of a soft chuckle. "There's my little ghoul. Gomez and I were wondering where she disappeared to. She's all partied out, I see."
"She really couldn't hang, Mrs. Addams," Enid replies, noticeably keeping her volume to a minimum. "I think it was too loud for her. She got very overstimulated by the people and music."
The mattress dips a little. Wednesday can only imagine her mother perching herself on the edge, sitting stiffly in her skin-tight dress, gazing lovingly down at her. She doesn't have to open her eyes to know that her mother has invited herself to take a seat; she can sense her overwhelmingly maternal, smothering presence wafting over her. Strangely enough, it feels like a warm blanket being draped over her and for once, she doesn't reject the prospect of a warm blanket.
"That often happens during family parties," Morticia says to Enid. "When she was small, she would disappear from the parties and left me and her father scrambling to find her afterwards. Scared us half to death the first time. One second she was there, the next she wasn't. We thought she had been taken. We eventually found her curled up in the crawlspace with her hands over her ears. When we asked her why she was hiding and covering her ears, she said that people make her brain hurt and putting her hands on her ears makes the voices stop."
"That sounds like her," Enid giggles. "She's autistic."
"Well, people making her brain hurt is part of the autism," Morticia says. "The voices in her head; that was the beginning of her visions. Sometimes that's the first sign of being a psychic. Any doctor would claim schizophrenia, but for an outcast born of other seers, it's to be expected once the toddler stage has waned. The voices in my head were always unintelligible yet so familiar when I was little. Like a memory not of my own, but of an ancestor. And then there were the headaches, which Wednesday also suffered but treated with caffeine as she grew up."
"That's like how baby werewolves have a specific cry," Enid says. Her belly tightens again as she giggles. "They sound like a regular baby, but the pitch is super high like a howl and other werewolves can hear it much louder than anyone else. It'll make your ears bleed if they cry too long. It's a primal thing. In the wild, wolves need to protect their young, so they rely on their high-pitched whines to tell them if something is coming. Werewolves are different, though. A baby werewolf's cries are stronger during full moons. Even though they can't shift yet, their baby hair on their skin is darker and a little thicker and their nails are sharper. When my big brother was a baby, my parents didn't know that would happen, and my dad thought he was gonna have to shave his newborn's back. It went back to normal a couple days later."
A melancholic silence falls over the room. Wednesday's ears perk up, intently straining to hear the pin drop, but all she gets is more radio silence. It's eerie, and she can imagine her mother and Enid having a staring contest. Her mother would win, of course, but she knows Enid would try to beat her.
"You have a brother, Enid?" Morticia asks quietly, sounding absolutely puzzled. "You've never spoken of him. Forgive me for being harsh, darling, but has he passed on?"
Enid's entire body recoils under Wednesday's snoozing arm. For a moment, Wednesday considers springing up like a jack-in-the-box and demanding the same answer out of Enid, but instead, she rests and listens although her heart violently drums in her chest.
"He's four years older than me. He immediately moved out of the house when he turned eighteen, the year my parents shipped me off to Nevermore so I could be Weems's problem," Enid meekly says, and Wednesday can feel her shoulders shrug. "He couldn't stand being around my parents. Well, my mom. Nothing was ever good enough for her. He wolfed out early, and she still pushed him to do more. She was already setting him up on dates with female wolves in hopes he would rush to continue the bloodline by the time he was done with college. He couldn't take the pressure of being our mother's child. He left as soon as he could."
"Were you two close?" Morticia inquires.
"When I was little, yeah, but when he went through puberty and wolfed out, he sort of neglected our relationship because my mom was always pushing him to be better as a male wolf," Enid replies, her voice falling an octave or two at the end. "I was nine when he wolfed out for the first time. He kind of forgot I was there once he became a full wolf. My mom made him go to camps to, like, build bonds with other pack members, which was kind of her sneaky way of pushing her way into other packs' spaces and proving that the Sinclairs are stronger than most. He was gone every summer for at least three or four weeks. And then my mom started pushing for him to date. By the time he was fifteen, he was going on dates every other week in hopes of my mom finding a future puppy machine, plus the camps, plus he volunteered as a camp counselor for a couple summers. Well, my mom made him do that, but still. I rarely saw him. Right before he left, he was dating a wolf he met at school for about six months, but they didn't really fit and didn't plan to stay together, but my mom kept pushing and pushing for him to stay with her, and he finally cracked. He wolfed out on a full moon and tried to attack her. My dad had to get between them to stop him from killing her. He was gone two months later. He didn't even have much to take with him. Barely told me goodbye. We weren't close in the end."
A sorrowful, mournful ache settles deep in Wednesday's chest. Her hand curls around the fabric of Enid's shirt, gripping it tightly as if Enid will melt away from her. If Enid notices the sudden shift in movement, she doesn't say anything about it. She simply brings her hand up to cup the back of Wednesday's head, her thumb stroking absentmindedly down the damp part in her hair.
"I'm sorry, Enid," Morticia says, sounding genuine. "Are you in contact with him?"
"Not at all," Enid sighs quietly, Wednesday sinking with the deflation in her chest. "He deleted all his socials and changed his number so my mom couldn't get any intel on him. It was like he was erased from earth. Even dead people have a digital footprint. He doesn't. I've tried to search him up on Instagram and TikTok, but I can't find him. He probably doesn't want anything to do with me. Maybe he thinks I'm too much like my mom."
"That's not a fair judgement to make," says Morticia. "You are nothing like her. The way you care for my daughter speaks volumes louder than your howl."
"My worst fear is becoming her," Enid continues. She sounds concerned, voice tight with the strain of holding back tears. "That's why I don't want to have kids. I'll become her."
Wednesday heavily exhales with relief. Her mother was wrong about her vision, and while that's concerning for a profoundly experienced psychic, Wednesday isn't going to question it.
"No, Enid," Morticia maternally murmurs. "The fact that you don't want to become her is enough proof that you will not become her."
"But mothers and daughters are supposed to be alike," Enid tries to reason. "You and Wednesday are more alike than she likes to admit. But it's true. One day I'll wake up and be the worst mother on earth, and I don't want that to happen."
Morticia softly chuckles. "Enid, your heart and soul are too pure and unadulterated for this world. That could never happen."
"But one day when I was five, I woke up and suddenly my mom wasn't nice anymore. She was mean and judgmental and hated me for being clumsy and eccentric," she explains. "How can you explain that?"
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, darling, but your mother was always mean and judgmental," Morticia says, very calculated but also warm. "You simply gained consciousness that day. Young children often don't see things for what they are. They're too emotionally and mentally immature to see the forest for the trees. For the longest time, Pugsley thought that whenever he rewatched something on TV, the actors had to reenact everything over again like it was a Broadway show."
Enid snorts. "Maybe she was always mean. I just didn't see it because I was a stupid little kid."
"You were not stupid," Morticia assures. "You only saw things at face value because that is what little children do. You saw her for who she was at an early age. Most don't gain that emotional insight until their teenage years. You were fortunate. Wednesday should feel lucky that she has someone as emotionally intelligent as you."
"Maybe."
"No. Positively."
It's silent again for a minute, and then the mattress lifts an inch as the springs squeal in protest. Wednesday can feel the domineering presence of her mother standing over her. The scent of her perfume wafts over Wednesday, so bittersweet and woodsy. It reminds her of home, of being smothered in affection that she might outwardly reject and inwardly accept.
"You are a smart, bright, beautiful young woman, Enid," Morticia says, her love seeping between the cracks of every syllable. "Your mother's behavior has no bearing on you as a person. I trust you with my daughter, and I can't say that very often. Wednesday is to be cared for—not coddled, but simply cared for—and until now, I've not trusted anyone beyond an Addams with that task."
"I'm honored, Mrs. Addams," Enid humbly replies. "I promise to take care of her."
"Oh, I know," Morticia chuckles. "I've never seen her sleep on her side that way. Must be similar to a cat sleeping with their belly exposed; she trusts you."
"I trust her too." She tugs Wednesday closer, still stroking the black hair with her fingers, treating it kindly like it's made of glass. "You…don't mind that we're doing this. Right?"
Morticia seems curious. "Doing what?"
"You know…" Enid's voice fades into an uncomfortable quietness. "We're cuddling right now. In her bed. In your house. And you're not flipping out on me for it."
Wednesday thinks that the silence that follows is her mother refraining from cackling maniacally to avoid waking her. Instead a soft breath of exasperation leaves her mother.
"I've told you, Enid," Morticia emphasizes. "You are caring for my daughter. As long as she is treated well and she, in turn, is treating you well, I am content. I don't mind the affection between you two. It's normal and natural for kids your age to do these kinds of things with each other. Gomez and I were the same way, years ago."
"And you still are," Enid giggles.
"Precisely."
Wednesday begins to doze off, deciding that the conversation has concluded and her mother will vacate her bedroom so she can properly cuddle Enid without shame creeping into her bones, but then Enid takes a big breath.
"Thank you, Mrs. Addams."
"What for?"
"Well, for one, giving birth to the best person I've ever met, and for two, treating me so nicely when you aren't obligated to," Enid says. "It means a lot to me. It doesn't take away all the hurt from my mom and the loss of my brother, but it helps me deal with it."
"Enid, I am obligated," Morticia corrects. "I have an obligation to every Addams."
"Yeah, but I still feel—wait. What did you say?"
Morticia laughs quietly as the door clicks open. "You heard me loud and clear, darling. Get some sleep now. I'll wake you two for breakfast in the morning."
The door opens and closes. Enid's chest deflates again as she heavily sighs. Wednesday feels Enid lean herself backwards into the pillows, throwing her arm around Wednesday's waist and pressing her nose into her hair. Her human snout sniffs once, then twice, and then Enid retracts and strokes her hair over the bridge of Wednesday's nose.
"I know you're awake," Enid says aloud, making no attempt to keep quiet. "She's gone. You can stop faking it now."
Still, Wednesday refuses to move or open her eyes. She keeps her eyelids screwed shut, her nose crinkling as Enid continues stroking it, and breathes evenly.
"Wednesday," Enid tries again. She nudges Wednesday's shoulder, and suddenly Wednesday's eyes are open and staring at the ceiling of her bedroom. "I knew it."
"You woke me up," Wednesday says as she jams a fist into her eye, pretending to flick away the green crust. "Is it morning? Has everyone left?"
"Wednesday, please." Enid frowns. "You heard it all, didn't you?"
Wednesday pauses a moment, glancing at the door. She looks back at Enid, who stares longingly at her. If she weren't so discombobulated, she would throw her arms around Enid and assure her that it's going to be okay, but she's also not the affectionate type, so maybe that's off the table altogether.
"When were you going to tell me about your brother?" she asks immediately. "I was made to believe that you are an only child."
Enid shrugs, plucking invisible lint off the quilt. "Never-cember of 3065. Maybe."
"Why did you hide it from me?" Wednesday inquires. She tries to be firm, but she falls short, too enamored by the frustrated blush on Enid's face. "I expect you to be honest with me."
"I didn't hide anything," Enid defends, although her voice is low, almost ashamed. "I'm dead to him. He abandoned me because my mom sucks and chased him away with all her crazy rules and regulations. He did what he had to do. He probably changed his name and everything. Nicholas Sinclair is dead to the world, so that means he has to be dead to me. I didn't tell you because he no longer exists. It doesn't matter anymore."
The pained expression on Enid's face twists the knife already buried deep in Wednesday's bleeding heart. She doesn't know what to do to fix this, but if she could rebuild a replica of Nicholas Sinclair and stuff him under the Yule tree for Enid to find on the morning of the winter solstice, she would. She would do anything to smooth the stress lines and erase the pink frown.
"It does matter, Enid," Wednesday replies. "It's upsetting you to think about it."
"Which is why I don't wanna talk about it anymore," Enid huffs, flopping back into the pillows. "It's over. He left three years ago and he's never coming back for me. I hope he lives the life he always wanted, even if it's without his little sister."
"I cannot tell if you mean that genuinely or if you're being facetious," Wednesday remarks.
"I mean that genuinely," Enid says, but her scowl belies her, and Wednesday knows that the truth is eating her alive. "He left me behind."
"He had no choice," she tries to reason. "You were underage. He couldn't let you go with him. It would have caused legal trouble that he couldn't afford to get out of."
Enid folds her arms. "But why did he have to cut contact? He could have given me his new number before he wiped his socials off the internet. He could have tried harder to stay in contact with me if he really wanted to. There is no excuse for that with all the technology we have now. It's not fair."
Wednesday nods. "I understand, Enid."
"No you don't. You have Pugsley. He would never abandon you. You would never abandon him."
Wednesday exhales softly, reaching a tentative hand out for Enid to take, and she accepts. "You're right. Perhaps I don't understand what it's like to lose your sibling. However, I do understand what it's like to lose someone close to you, and the sorrow is indescribable. If I could do something to fix this, I would, but my powers only extend so far. I cannot summon him back to you."
"I know," Enid evenly says.
Because she's terrible at social cues, Wednesday sits there like the next instructions are going to materialize before her. She takes in all of Enid, from her damp hair to her fuzzy pink socks, and waits patiently for a sign; anything, really.
And then, finally, Enid looks her way, her face softened into a small smile. Her eyes are a little bluer and full of life again. She grins at Wednesday and brings her hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles.
"Your mom called me an Addams!"
Wednesday blinks at her, puzzled. "What else would she call you?"
"Uh…Enid Sinclair? The name on my birth certificate?" Enid plaintively replies. "Duh."
Shaking her head, Wednesday leans into Enid and plants a firm yet fleeting kiss to her cheek.
"Enid Addams," she declares. "You're an Addams."
Enid pulls Wednesday on top of her so she's straddling her waist, hands firmly on her hips ti steady her. She brushes the messy hair from her eyes and strokes down her nose, taking inventory of every little freckle.
"I'd be more than happy to be an Addams."
It's unofficial, and they're too young to sign their lives away in the presence of the law, but Wednesday considers this to be a proposal, and oddly enough, she's perfectly okay with that idea.
Notes:
The way this story will conclude is likely not what you're expecting. But you'll find out very soon ;)