Chapter Text
The first time is when they’re headed back to the room, both of them bloody and limping, leaning their weights on one another after finding each other in the woods. Wednesday has thrown Enid’s arm around her shoulder to help her walk, glaring daggers sharp enough to silence anyone who felt brave enough to open their mouths about it. Others mull around them, slowly making their way back alongside.
And this is where the problem begins. It’s dark and whilst she’s usually sharp on her feet, Wednesday has had one hell of a night. The warmth of Enid’s arm around her is a heavy comfort to soothe her aching shoulder and it just makes Wednesday think of bed and sleep and arms never letting go of her again.
Her footsteps are clumsy and she slips on a particularly deviously placed rock, nearly tumbled to ground with Enid’s added weight on top of her. Enid, despite her injuries, reacts quickly and steadies her with a hand braced against Wednesday’s stomach to stop the fall. Normally there would be no issue with this. Wednesday might have even refrained from a smart remark given the situation.
However, Wednesday had indeed been stabbed mere hours before. In the stomach. Right where Enid’s hand was placed, pressing against.
The pain is an unexpected jolt to the system and Wednesday barely refrains from swearing as she lets out a long, slow groan that only Enid can hear. The other girl freezes and snaps her hand away like it had been burnt.
‘Shit, sorry, I’m sorry.’ Hurried apologies give way to narrowed eyes, tone halfway to accusation. ‘…You told me you weren’t hurt outside of your shoulder.’
‘I…forgot about it.’ Wednesday couldn’t even defend herself with a lie. She genuinely had almost forgotten about the stab wound, so focused she had been on staying upright and getting Enid help. The other girl, as it is, can barely stand but still manages to turn Wednesday to face her. ‘Getting shot by an arrow tends to take your mind away from being stabbed beforehand.’ Phantom pains echo from her stomach after the fresh pressure on it and Wednesday would die again before she admits that she nearly folds in on herself over it. ‘It’s much more preferable too, funnily enough.’
‘Stabbed?’ Enid hissed and Wednesday doesn’t notice how Enid shifts some of her weight off her. ‘You were stabbed?’
Wednesday thinks it’s not a good time to mention the fact she’d been medically dead for a good few minutes right now. For her own safety.
‘What, like it’s a big deal?’ Wednesday glanced over Enid pointedly, covered nearly head to toe in blood (And goodness, when the panic retreats, that is an image she is going to savour). ‘Have you seen yourself, Sinclair?’
It feels like a reward that this pulls a growl from Enid in reply, eyes turning just the faintest tinge of yellow. Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline in her system giving her such silly thoughts of how pretty she looks with that wolfish look to her eyes.
‘Don’t you snark me, Addams.’ And truly, Wednesday thinks that growl is her guiltiest pleasure to date and that maybe Goody did something real fucking strange to bring her back that this is even entering her head. Maybe blood loss was making her delirious. ‘You’ve been carrying me around while you’ve got a stab wound? After having an arrow put in your shoulder? Seriously?’
Those around them are slowing down to look at the pair curiously. Somewhere behind Enid, Bianca snorts her amusement and mouths good luck to Wednesday. Those stares weigh her down like chains and tonight…well, she just doesn’t quite have it in her to do this in front of others.
God forbid they start thinking she actually likes any of them.
‘Enid-‘
‘Did you check it? Make sure it’s not bleeding?’ And suddenly there’s a hand at the hem of Wednesday’s shirt, sharp claws just barely scratching at her bare skin to try check the wound before Wednesday grabs her wrist firmly. Enid’s eyes are wide and for once, Wednesday can’t read her at all.
‘Enid-‘
‘What about cleaning it? What if it’s infected? What if-‘
‘Enid.’ Wednesday’s tone brooks no more interruptions, seems to snap the other girl out of whatever spiral she was going down. ‘I am fine. I will be fine. It would be absolutely shameful if I were to die of something as mundane as blood loss.’ Enid’s eyes trace down to where Wednesday is holding her wrist and blinks in surprise, as if she hadn’t realised what she was doing. She pulls her arm back slightly and Enid’s hand slides neatly to fit into Wednesdays. Her claws retract. ‘I am more than happy to show you they are fine, in our room, with you cleaned up and bandaged.’ And then more quietly with a tone one who was having their nails pinched from their fingers might use; ‘I’ll need your help to stitch them up.’
A swallow and a silent nod is Wednesday’s answer. Silently, Enid’s arm is put over her shoulders again and they move in companionable silence.
Wednesday only wishes her stupid monkey brain would stay as quiet while they walked. The patch of skin grazed by Enid’s claws tingle, bolts of electricity tickling along her stomach in a manner that makes Wednesday want to skin herself alive. That feral look in Enid’s eyes as she realised Wednesday was more hurt than she’d realised made her throat tight in a way she despised, made her stomach roll and rise and dip in a manner that made disembowelment a…pleasing prospect.
But this act would not please Enid. Disembowlment would, sadly, have to wait.
Why exactly she cares what pleases or displeases Enid is not something Wednesday will spend long contemplating. A good nights rest would rid of such foolish thoughts. However, this only raises the image of a good nights rest with Enid, arms tight around the waist of the other girl, warm, safe, comfortable and –
And Wednesday has never been so glad to see their dorm room door, pulled out of her own little rabbit hole as the pair stumbled through the door with hisses and growls together. She thinks Enid would despise blood on her covers and so guides them to sit on Wednesday’s own bed whilst Thing scuttles away to close and lock the door behind them.
Wednesday kneels between the girls legs, takes Enid by the chin gently, tilting her head this way and that to find the source of her cuts as she spoke to Thing. She does her best to ignore the way Enid sighs into her touch, closes her eyes and punches a fistful of spiders into her belly.
‘We need a towel. Something to disinfect the wounds with. Stitches.’ The hand scuttled about efficiently as she spoke and Wednesday paused for a second to look down at her free hand, stretching it out to see it shaking. A singular tut of disapproval escapes. ‘I’ll need your help with stitches. My…my hand isn’t steady.’
Blood loss really was a bitch when it was your own blood being lost.
That shaking hand is covered by another and dully, Wednesday thinks that she can learn to live with the clash of pink nails against her pale skin. She looks up to Enid and allows herself this one moment to swallow thickly, take one big deep breath in at the tender look being given to her.
‘Thank you.’ That mild hysteria directed at Wednesday before is gone but there’s still this…hungry look to Enid’s eyes. Wednesday can’t help but think of a hawk circling its prey on the ground, a fox hunting a rabbit and wonders briefly why she hasn’t got a knife against the other girls throat for making her think these things.
‘This is going to hurt.’ Wednesday warns the other girl instead as Thing finishes bringing her things to them. The hand scuttles up and taps Enid’s own fingers in encouragement.
Enid nods, braces her hands on the edges of Wednesday’s bed and the psychic doesn’t need a vision to tell her she’ll need a new mattress if those hands remain there. That just wouldn’t do. Wednesday grabs a pillow and moves one of Enid’s hands to grab it, the other directed to rest atop her good shoulder.
‘I’d much rather you scratch up my back than destroy my bed,’ she mutters in response to Enid’s questioning look.
Wednesday isn’t quite too sure why Enid’s cheeks alight like bonfires at this (colour, colour, colour, everything about her is so damned vivid) but feels this is a good time to begin cleaning her wounds. First the blood and grime is washed away from her face and neck; if Wednesday does this slowly, methodically, gently even, it is absolutely for the sake of thoroughness and not to reduce her patients suffering. And her patient is a pliable one, tilting her face in accordance with Wednesday’s softly muttered instructions, her eyes never leaving Wednesday’s face as she worked.
The feeling of being like prey crept up into her insides again and Wednesday briefly considers starting a fist fight to push it back down again.
‘My shoulder.’ Enid’s voice is a whisper despite them being alone, as if afraid to break the silence that had fell on them. Wednesday pauses with the washcloth at her neck having removed most of the grime, tilts her head up with a questioning noise and there’s that flash of yellow again, some deep down instinct rearing its head. End is lowering that hand a little more forcefully than she needs to.
‘He got my shoulder. I-I can feel how deep it is.’ Enid’s mouth works a little, opening and closing before words come again. Wednesday can be patient too, though. ‘I-my face-my face will heal. Shoulder will need stitches.’
Wednesday only nods and goes to move from her knees to the bed when Enid catches her hands again. It takes some effort for Wednesday not to snatch it back; one knee rested on the bed, it wouldn’t take much to put space between them again.
‘You-I-‘ Once again, it seems to take Enid a few seconds to find words again. Her voice is raw, rough and dry when she does manage to speak again. ‘I need to see it. Your stab wound.’
Wednesday only raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ll look after it later. It won’t kill me.’ Again, she adds silently on to the end of that sentence.
Enid, however, is insistent it seems and shakes her head in a manner that reminds Wednesday of a dog shaking itself dry. ‘Wednesday I-I just need to see it, okay?’
It baffles her, truly. Enid doesn’t even like blood. There’s a part that’s screaming at her to ask why, why she was so insistent on seeing Wednesday with a hole in her stomach, why she was so insistent on seeing her in pain and vulnerable and-
And Wednesday just sighs and is baffled even more as she ducks her head under that wolfish gaze and lifts her shirt with her free hand just enough to show Enid the wound. She’s too tired. Too tired to fight, too tired to keep her distance, too goddamned tired to keep her walls up and act like she’s inhuman.
Zoned out as she is, Wednesday jumps a little as a cold washcloth dabs at the outside of the small wound.
‘Sorry,’ Enid hisses. ‘I just-you’re hurt.’ There’s a growl underlining that last word and Enid’s hold on Wednesday’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly. ‘Just…let me clean it a little. I’ll look after it later.’ The dabbing continues though, gentle and cleansing as dried blood is washed away.
‘I gave back just as good as I got.’ Wednesday isn’t too sure why she’s offering Enid these words in a quiet, soft voice; she doesn’t want to examine the way her stomach flips and shivers skitter up her spine at Enid’s satisfied growl of good. She really doesn’t want to examine why she isn’t right hooking Enid for saying she’d look after her.
She doesn’t like this – being open and exposed like this. She can’t stand she trusts Enid enough that she willingly sits there, hand entrapped in a wolfish grip, wounded stomach bared. Can’t stand the hisses that escape her as Enid works and her stupid tender flesh betrays her. How inconvenient to have nerve endings.
And there’s something she’s missing, something that’s still wrong. Enid doesn’t growl in some sort of possessive anger, Enid doesn’t command her, Enid doesn’t just tell her to hike up her bloody shirt without an explanation, she doesn’t-
‘Done.’ And the word is popped out the mouth sweetly, like candy, Wednesday’s hand relinquished back into her control and the washcloth dropped between them again. The yellow irises have faded away a little once more and the air hangs heavy.
There is something she is missing and Wednesday absolutely despises the fog that is blocking her brain.
‘Thing.’ The hand perks to attention at Wednesday’s voice, who slowly and carefully drags the pink coat off Enid’s shoulder to see the deep gash Tyler had left. She has the sudden urge to vomit, until every microscopic trace of his touch is ejected from her body. ‘Get up here and help me.’
Thing is an excellent surgeon and just as good as her own hand at neatly stitching the gash together – a neat criss-cross of lines pulling the damaged skin together as Wednesday cleaned with one hand and guided Thing with another. And if her hands linger just a second too long before bringing the pink coat up again to cover the wound, it’s frankly absolutely no ones business as Wednesday finally permits herself to relax as she sighs the word ‘done’ out. She sags back against the wall, arms resting on her knee and for just a second thinks she is allowed to rest her head back and close her eyes.
Everything is just too much, Wednesday thinks as Enid silently stands up and changes out of the bloody coat. Her body is in pain, blood loss has a hazy fog descending on her brain, her mind is screaming at her to kick Enid off her bed and build every boundary she’s smashed through in the space of a few hours back up in brick and mortar.
It is an extreme effort, to say the least, to not flinch at Enid’s hand on her arm.
‘Weds.’ Wednesday can’t say she’s ever heard a word said with such affection before and maybe her body was betraying her a little in how it stiffened up when she opened her eyes to see Enid now. The fondness in her eyes, the gentleness of her touch, like Wednesday Addams was something to be handled with care and delicacy.
‘What.’ Deadpan voice, stiff body. Like hell a few wounds would turn Wednesday Adddams into a nice person.
‘We need to clean your wounds before you sleep.’ Those warm eyes imploring her might just Wednesday Addams into a slightly softer person though. The thought makes her briefly consider the pros and cons to throwing herself from their balcony. ‘I’m sorry but-you said it yourself and I…I don’t know how to do this. Not properly, like you do.’
There’s a small groan that escapes her as Wednesday sits herself up properly; she doesn’t quite think she’s ever made so much pathetic noise about being hurt before. There’s a sympathetic look in Enid’s eyes at the noise that makes the thought sting a little less than it normally would. She is, as usual correct. Wednesday’s father would never let her live it down if she died during the night from an infection because she was too stubborn to see to herself.
‘Get a washcloth.’ Her own words sound hollow to her ears, like another is speaking them. ‘A clean one, not the one I used. Thing will tell you when to stop with the antiseptic. Clean the outside of the wound as best you can. Press hard against the main part of it.’ Enid swallowed a little thickly at this as Wednesday lifted her shirt above the wound, tied it around her back so it wouldn’t fall while she spoke.
‘I’ve never stitched anything before. How am I meant to do that?’ There’s a bit of fear tinging Enid’s voice.
Thing propped himself up on the bed and waved at her a little too jovially.
‘Thing can do that. You just need to keep the needle from getting tangled up behind him.’ Another nod and Wednesday’s next words come from a place of weakness that she thinks she will truly fucking regret when she wakes up. ‘I am…unbelievably overstimulated right now. Please just…be quick. Every touch feels like-like knives under my fingernails, prying them off.’ She swallows.
There’s that flash of yellow in Enid’s irises again but she nods again and rises to fetch the washcloth. Beside Wednesday, Thing taps away. Wednesday finds it in her to narrow her eyes at his insinuation.
‘I am not going soft.’ More tapping and briefly, Wednesday wonders if the hand could survive with one less finger than it currently possessed. She pointedly ignored his amusement that she was letting Enid touch her so much if she was so overstimulated. ‘We are not having this conversation right now.’
Thing collapses on her bedsheets in what looks like a huff before standing up on his fingers as Enid approached, kneeled herself on the bed. Her eyes didn’t move from the wound slowly dripping blood whilst Thing rolled the antiseptic over to her, tapped her on the wrist when enough had been applied.
There is a pause where the washcloth hovers over Wednesday’s stomach and Enid’s eyes flick up to meet dark moons.
‘I don’t want to hurt you or…or make it worse.’ The admission is small and tiny and Wednesday might have missed it if the night wasn’t so quiet. Enid’s eyes flick down to the wound again and Wednesday finds it absolutely fascinating how her tongue smooths over her bottom lip nervously, a fang briefly jutting out under the weight of it.
‘I trust you.’ And Wednesday finds herself blinking in surprise at her own honesty, spilled from her own lips into the moonlight like a prayer. ‘I think you’re the only one I trust enough to do this right now.’
It makes Wednesday want to crawl away and hide and never come out again – this was not who she was meant to be. But it seemingly emboldens Enid, going off the warm glow on her cheeks and determined look fixed in her gaze.
The pain of the antiseptic is refreshing like an ice bath dunked over Wednesday’s head – it makes her gasp and her stomach tenses under Enid’s touch. The girl is quick and thorough in following Wednesday’s instructions, cleaning the outside of her wound with utter care before pressing the washcloth firmly against it. And if, as she does this, Enid offers her free hand and Wednesday grips it like it’s the sole lifeboat in a vast ocean, neither of them will mention it beyond the confines of the room.
Every flinch and wince drawn from Wednesday is accompanied by the smallest growl from Enid, who runs her thumb over the back of Wednesday’s hand as she works.
Stupid, stupid girl that she is, Wednesday can’t help herself.
‘What-‘ A snarl as Thing begins to sew her up, using Wednesday’s good hand as a platform while Enid stops the thread from tangling together. Enid growls again. ‘What is that about.’
The same thing that drove Wednesday to even look into these stupid fucking murders in the first place drove her to phrase this as a statement, not a question. She simply must know.
Enid blinks in confusion although colour rises to her cheeks. Wednesday finds she is growing rather fond of the look. Disgusting.
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’
‘Every time I make a noise from-from this inconvenience-‘ Wednesday’s shaky hand gestures to her wounds. ‘You growl. You won’t stop looking at them.’ The flush just keeps growing and Wednesday, it seems, can’t shut up as Thing works. ‘You’ve normally fainted four times over by now from the blood alone.’
‘Ah.’ Enid’s eyes are everywhere except for Wednesday. Thing’s stitching technique must be fantastic given the intensity she is suddenly staring at the hand with. Begrudgingly, Wednesday had to admit he was rather good at this. ‘That.’
There was a period of heavy silence. Whilst Wednesday might not be a people person, it seemed she was an Enid person – knew better than to prompt and push or else the girl would start sputtering her way into a distraction. It had to hang heavy if she wanted an answer.
It was broken when Thing had finished, given the pair a thumbs up after admiring his handiwork. Enid was already unbuttoning the top of Wednesday’s shirt to get access to the shoulder when she leaned forward to let the shirt drop over the newly stitched wound. Wednesday hissed again as it peeled from the dried blood and Enid began to repeat the process of cleaning the wound.
‘I’m still like…half wolf.’ Enid bares her teeth to show the fangs that are still there without meeting Wednesday’s eyes. Wednesday has the insane urge to tilt and bare her neck and wonders if she could kill an already dead Goody Addams for messing with her brain. ‘Coming out of the transformation can be…slower for some than others. Especially the first times.’
This wound must be smaller as Thing is already perched on Wednesday’s shoulder, ready to stitch. Enid’s eyes are very firmly fixed on the thread the hand uses to sew the skin back together.
‘Werewolves are…protective. Territorial even. Especially when it comes to their pa-‘ She seems to cut herself short with a frown. ‘-When it comes to people they care about.’ The frown is replaced with a snort of amusement. ‘You’d probably be absolutely delighted to hear that all that side of me can think about is hunting Tyler down and tearing him in two for touching you while I can still pick up his scent.’
Wednesday privately hopes newly turned werewolves can’t hear heartbeats as hers kicks up worryingly fast at this. She’s not quite sure why.
‘That is a lovely thought,’ she admits out loud in a dreamy voice, the image of the Hyde being torn apart soothing her a bit. ‘I can almost hear his screams.’
Enid makes a face at this and backs up as Thing gives them a thumbs up again to signal he was finished. ‘Sometimes I think it’s you that should have been the werewolf, not me.’
Examining Thing’s and Enid’s immaculate handiwork absentmindedly, Wednesday could not disagree more. There was something very fitting to her that Enid should transform into a pink-maned beast of instinct with no filter on her every now and then, even if most of the time she was the polite, chatty socialite everyone else saw.
‘Well,’ Wednesday begins because the silence is just a little too much for her like everything else is right now. ‘Pugsley would certainly approve of your work.’ And truly, her wounds do look and feel better. Cleaned up, stitched together, it seems only her pride is still dripping away like rain down a pipe.
Enid brightens. ‘I take it that means I-we-‘ and she pauses here to offer Thing a fistbump and no, Wednesday is not watching the exchange fondly, she’s just tired. ‘-did a good job then?’
‘You didn’t do a bad job.’ Wednesday deadpans. Enid smiles, sunny and wide. ‘I didn’t say you did a great job either, don’t get too excited.’
The smile remains even as Enid’s eyes roll. The werewolf offers Wednesday a hand up, firm on her good shoulder as she stands and yes, yes Wednesday concludes she is suffering delirium induced from blood loss and a short-term case of death when her hand reaches up on its own accord to trace the clotted cut atop Enid’s head lightly.
‘Shame.’ Wednesday finds her voice acting without her permission as Enid freezes under her touch. ‘It’d make such a lovely scar.’
And for a timeless second, her eyes drop to warm eyes and softer lips and Wednesday Addams has the most disgustingly teenage impulse she’s ever had to fight in her life before the voice of reason pipes up.
‘Y-You should really go and-uh-er-‘ Wednesday’s hand retracts like she’s been burnt. What the fuck was she doing? ‘-uh-get changed. Yeah. It. It can’t be healthy to sleep in those bloody clothes. Not sanitary.’
‘Good idea,’ Wednesday mutters and no she does not run away to the bathroom with her pajamas in hand. She retreats tactically to assess the situation.
Thing disagrees, jumping atop the toilet with his knuckles facing away towards the wall – his version of giving her privacy as she changes.
‘I did not run away,’ she hisses quietly to the hand, and finds herself hoping once again that Enid has not developed a keen sense of hearing from her time as a werewolf. ‘I have never, once, ran away in my life, thank you very much.’
Thing informs her that her tactical retreat appeared very much, in form, to be that of someone running away.
Wednesday deigns to not reply to her silly childish hand friend and instead finishes awkwardly pulling her top over her head and exits the bathroom. If she makes Thing have to rush a little to get out too before she shuts the door, well, accidents happen and she can ignore him giving her a two finger salute from the floor.
‘Ah.’ Her comeuppance is immediate it seems, as she surveys the state of her bed. Blood covers most of her black sheets and whilst Wednesday isn’t adverse to blood in the slightest (that image of Enid nearly dripping in blood hours before pops into her head like a hammer taking itself to ice), she has no desire to pass the fuck out in a pool of her own blood again.
‘Weds.’ Enid’s voice is heavy and soft behind her and Wednesday turns to see her in bed already, holding the cover up and barely covering a yawn. ‘Just...get in here already. It can wait til tomorrow.’
It takes Wednesday all of three glances – one to Enid, one to her bed, and one to warm, cosy, lovely Enid again – before she makes up her mind with a grumble. Enid drapes the cover over the pair of them as she lies down, back towards Enid so that there was no pressure on her freshly stitched stomach.
‘Never had you pegged as a little spoon type of girl,’ Enid snorted.
‘I will shave off your hair and wear your skin like a coat if you don’t go to sleep Sinclair.’ Another snort at this and Wednesday can’t help but feel Enid is not respecting her frankly outstanding proclivity for violence.
It says a lot however, she thinks as a heavy arm falls over her waist with a sigh, that Wednesday doesn’t feel the need to threaten Enid with grievous bodily harm should she mention their sleeping arrangement for the night to anyone else. She already knows she wouldn’t. Her own hand covers Enid’s beneath the covers, interlinks their fingers with a gentle squeeze.
And with that, Wednesday falls into the most peaceful, dreamless sleep she’s had in years.