Chapter 13Notes:
Today we unlock new (to this story) characters! I bet you can guess who they are. You wanted them, you got them.
From here on out, this story is literally just the Addams-ification of Enid Sinclair. Enid Addams has a nice ring to it, don't you think?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday wakes in the middle of the night again, but this time, she is acutely aware of why. Enid is wiggling next to her, and when Wednesday lifts her head to get a better look and assess the situation, in case she needs to reach for the knife she stuffed under the mattress, she finds Enid's eyelids rapidly fluttering like they're fighting the urge to snap open, and her chest is heaving—not that Wednesday was staring or anything.
Waking Enid doesn't seem like a bad idea in theory, but Wednesday would hate to be thrown across the room if Enid wakes up in a fit of fear. Although she can take the pain, it's far too early to cause a ruckus. She ultimately decides against it and instead delicately worms her way closer to Enid under the covers. Sometime in the middle of the night, Enid's leg that was locked around Wednesday's hips had slipped off. Wednesday feels worryingly insecure about how naked she feels without that pressure sinking into her skin.
An arm coils itself around Wednesday's slender waist and draws her in close by the small of her back. That familiar pressure begins to melt into her flesh. The weight of Enid's hand alone is enough to make Wednesday's eyelids droop, but what has her reeling is Enid's nose burying into the hair at the crown of Wednesday's head. Wednesday can actively hear the way Enid's human snout huffs her scent like paint, and then Enid is quiet, her entire face hidden by black hair and her arm practically dragging Wednesday closer to her.
"You're still here," Enid whispers into the obsidian hair. "You didn't leave."
"Why would I leave?" Wednesday sleepily asks, pushing her nose into the hollow of Enid's throat so she can feel the vibration every time she speaks. "You wanted me to stay, so I stayed."
She feels Enid swallow and her chest fall against her own. Enid's palm caresses the skin just above the waistband of Wednesday's cotton shorts. Wednesday immediately relaxes further, pressing her lips to the juncture of Enid's neck and shoulder. Enid smells of soft body wash and a hint of lotion, both of which Wednesday had made sure to pack away when she was collecting Enid's belongings before Capri could get to them. She would be lying if she said that she didn't inhale the fruity yet soft scent of the body wash in a vain attempt at feeling Enid's presence one more time, just in case she never had the opportunity again.
"I had a dream that you left me to die," Enid whispers. "When Tyler attacked me. You left me to die."
Wednesday wiggles out of the embrace, withdrawing enough to get a good look at the grieving expression on Enid's face. Shadows flicker and the warm glow of the nightlight bathes Enid in a gentle, familiar light that reminds Wednesday of safety and home. The way the yellow mixes with the cerulean is ethereal in the still of the night, and Wednesday finds that maybe she can romanticize everything about her life if she just tries a little.
"I would never leave you to die, Enid," she says firmly but tentatively, bringing a hand up to cup Enid's cheek, where Tyler had once scarred her. A sliver of remorse strikes Wednesday's heart. "That would never happen in my lifetime. I'd never let anything of the sort happen to you. Especially at the hands or claws of someone as worthless as Tyler. He's not worth the pathetic cell he was trapped in."
"You mean that?" Enid asks timidly, tilting her head against the pillow.
"Of course I mean that," Wednesday replies with conviction, reprising her position against Enid's throat so she can hear everything up close and personal. "I would crawl on my knees through fire and glass for you, Enid."
The vibration of a whimper makes Wednesday lift her chin so she can get a better view of Enid, even in the somber darkness enveloping them. Enid's eyes are glassy and wet, and silver tears slide down her cheeks. Wednesday smooths a hand over her cheekbone and wipes away the salt with the pad of her thumb. Her heart feels fluttery and nervous, like it's twitching with excitement.
"Sorry," Enid mumbles on the end of a sniffle. "It's just…I don't know. I know my mom, and I knew she was gonna do something like that, but to actually hear her say that she doesn't want me anymore…it hurt a lot. And I guess I get sort of jealous when I see you and your mom together, because even though you have your differences and you're a little brat with her because you're a mean teenager, she loves you a lot and would do anything for you."
"Envious, you mean," Wednesday politely corrects. "Envy and jealousy are different. Envy means to want something another has, while jealousy is more of a third party emotion."
Enid softly chuckles at her properness despite the weight on their shoulders. "Okay, then I'm envious."
"If it's any consolation, my mother adores you," Wednesday says. "As does my father. They do not swoon for just anyone. They have taken a liking to you. You saved my life more than once, and they are eternally grateful. For that, they've offered you copious amounts of love and allowed you into our home with no stipulations or expectations of anything."
"How can you speak so poetically when you just woke up and I'm crying over my mom who doesn't want me?" Enid asks with a laugh as she sniffs. "It's too early to be Shakespeare."
"I'm only being candid," Wednesday replies, wiggling in a little closer so Enid can hold her tighter to herself, and Enid does just that. "When I sent them home with most of your belongings, they didn't have any qualms about being seen with your…pastels. And it's important to note that they would not be caught dead with pastels otherwise."
Enid is quiet for a minute, simply holding Wednesday close and practically crushing her to death in an embrace. Her hand finds its way under Wednesday's shirt again, where it had once been, and her thumb rubs circles into the skin. She presses her lips to her hair and lets them linger where the braids part.
"I love you," she murmurs to Wednesday. "A lot."
Wednesday's heart does that happy-nervous-thrilled fluttering thing again, and she scowls into Enid's chest but doesn't make her resentment for it known.
"It couldn't be possible for you to love me more than I love you," Wednesday says, her breathing a little ragged and her chest swelling with something unfamiliar. "I wish I had been right about romance being dead, but perhaps it was just dead for me and a boy. Or anyone who is not you."
A laugh bubbles out of Enid and tickles Wednesday's cheek where it lays stuck to her throat.
"Are you saying that you are Enid-sexual?" Enid asks.
A shiver travels down Wednesday's spine as a tired smirk stretches across her face. She can practically feel the metaphorical wagging of Enid's tail as they're intertwining even more, merely a pile of limbs and warm flesh melded together. Black meets sunshine gold and baby pink as their noses brush against one another. Enid's body is soft and pliable under Wednesday's hands as they drag trails up and down her skin that's prickling with goosebumps under the chill of the night.
"Something of the sort," Wednesday says, desperately searching for anywhere else to look but into Enid's eyes, even if she can only barely make out the blue-green hue buried beneath shadows and the ghostly flickering of the nightlight that's slowly beginning to dwindle. "I wanted to be right about romance being dead. I never wanted to end up like my parents. Their romantic gestures are unbearable to bear witness to. It's quite embarrassing."
"I think it's sweet," Enid counterpoints with a shrug. "My parents have been married for 20 years, but they don't act like it. Sometimes my dad chooses to sleep on the couch to avoid my mom's bitching and moaning. At least your parents sleep in the same bed."
"Not always." Wednesday brushes a piece of pink hair from Enid's face. "Some nights, when my mother is stressed, she sleeps on the bed of nails down in our playroom."
"…Playroom?" Enid asks quietly. "I almost don't wanna know."
"A lot of our weaponry is down there," Wednesday says. "To play with. Of course, Pugsley and I weren't allowed inside until we were school age, just in case we got into something too dangerous for little hands, but now, that is where I keep most of my defenses. I take inventory every time I come home."
"You haven't gone down there since we've been here," Enid points out. "Unless you snuck away when I wasn't looking."
It had crossed Wednesday's mind once or twice, but privately, she wanted to bring Enid to the playroom to give her a glimpse into what an Addams really does in their spare time. She wonders if it would be too much for Enid, if it might scare her away, but she has to put aside the doubt for a moment and try to be somewhat rational about it. If Enid were truly so frightened by her family's antics and eccentric hobbies, she would have fled by now.
"I would like you to see it for yourself," she tells Enid, searching her face for any sign of uncertainty or rejection. "If you'd like to."
"Are there, like, bombs and stuff down there?" Enid asks meekly, raising a concerned eyebrow.
"Dynamite caps that Uncle Fester has given me over the years," she replies. "However, everything is safe. If you don't touch it without experience." She squeezes Enid's hip. "I will be there. Nothing will happen. You're worried for nothing."
"Okay," Enid politely agrees, and she genuinely smiles. "Show me tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow," Wednesday replies, stifling a big yawn that comes from the heart.
"Yeah, yeah," Enid softly giggles as she smooths a hand over a bony shoulder blade. "In the morning."
Wednesday practically purrs with delight at the idea of Enid indulging in a shared love of weaponry and violence. She snuggles further into her, bringing her knees up so she's curled into a ball and they're pressed against Enid's abdomen. Enid stretches out so she can tuck Wednesday under an arm, still keeping a hand planted on her back in case Wednesday has any ideas about trying to escape her.
They're both silent for the longest time, too spent and exhausted, emotionally and physically, to even muster any yawns or sighs of sleepiness. They simply hold one another, limbs tangled and bodies flush against one another. Wednesday decides that, although she's been a back sleeper her entire life, she can get used to sleeping on her side with Enid holding her, as long as the stipulation is that she immediately returns to her back when Enid releases her.
"Wednesday?" Enid suddenly asks, shifting uncomfortably under the blankets.
"Hm?" Wednesday hums.
"I'm going to call Yoko in the morning," she quietly replies, noticeably pulling Wednesday in closer. "She went back home with her dad earlier than we were supposed to. I miss her. Divina and Kent went home, too. I should call them, too. Or at least Divina."
Wednesday nods patiently. "I don't doubt that they miss you as much as you miss them. You couldn't go one weekend without having a girls' night with them. Divina was often glued to your side when Yoko wasn't."
"I mean, I have you and Thing," Enid says, sighing. "But you don't like sleepovers—unless it's literally just sleeping in the same bed—and as much as I love Thing, he's a boy."
"He's a severed hand," Wednesday comments. "My parents applied pronouns to him because of the gender of the person he came from. But he is still a severed hand."
"A sassy severed hand." Enid takes a deep inhale of Wednesday's head. "Mm."
"Why are you sniffing me like I'm a can of paint?" Wednesday inquires. "I'm not necessarily complaining, but I'm beginning to think that you are more dog than you let on."
"You smell good. Your natural scent. It's imbedded in your hair," Enid says sheepishly, and Wednesday can feel her blushing. "I never thought I'd enjoy the smell of dust and dead flowers, but I do."
"I never thought I'd enjoy a lot of the things I've done this week, but I do," Wednesday concurs, shoulders sagging with what feels like defeat. "I've simply given into the emotions I have for you. They're stronger than what I'm able to fend off."
"You're doomed, Wednesday Addams," Enid teases with a sleepy smile.
Wednesday holds her breath for a moment, and then she sighs. "Perhaps I am. Although I'm not complaining about it. There is something about doom that intrigues me. I appreciate having to succumb to a fate out of my control."
"You're strange," Enid says, kissing above a relaxed eyebrow. "But I love you to death."
Wednesday smirks devilishly, her dark eyes gleaming under the yellow radiance.
"That can be arranged, Enid."
—
Enid procrastinates and delays calling Yoko until after she's had breakfast with the Addamses, and once Enid has decided she's full after picking at her food like a bird, Wednesday brings her upstairs to Enid's bedroom. Enid sits at the edge of her bed and picks up her cellphone, while Wednesday moves to sit in the chair in the corner of the room, from where she can watch Enid without smothering her, with a book in her hand.
"What am I gonna tell her?"
It takes Wednesday five seconds to realize that Enid is talking to her. She lifts her head and tears her attention away from her book. Enid is sitting there, looking positively frazzled, phone clutched in one hand while the other nervously wipes sweat on her pink leggings.
"You tell her the truth," Wednesday says. "You don't have to give her all the gritty details if you don't want to. But you have to understand and accept that calling and reconnecting with her is going to require some extent of honesty and transparency. She is bound to ask questions and demand answers. You have been missing for almost two weeks, Enid. She's going to think that it's your ghost calling."
Enid flinches. "Yeah, I know. I just don't know what to say. I miss her so much. I want to talk to her. I just don't know what I'm gonna say."
"Let it happen organically," Wednesday advises with caution. "You are calling a friend who deserves to know that you are alive. She's likely to be so overwhelmed with sickening joy, that she might not even dive into the details and intricacies."
"Fine," Enid sighs, staring at her phone. "Here I go."
Wednesday resumes reading, although passively. She hardly makes sense of the printed words, listening to Enid make a FaceTime call, and then she hears a gasp from the other end of the line.
"Enid!" Yoko's voice cries out. "It's really you! I thought you came back to haunt me!"
"It's me," Enid quietly replies. "I'm alive."
"Divina! Divina, come over here! It's Enid! It's really her!"
Wednesday's eyes flicker to Enid for a split second. Enid is holding her phone up so Yoko can see her. Wednesday can hear the sound of Divina gasping in surprise, and then she and Yoko are talking over each other, blubbering sweet nothings at Enid, who only blinks back with wet eyes.
"What happened to you? Where did you go? Wait, where are you now?" Yoko blurts.
"It's a long story," Enid says, trying to absorb some comfort from Wednesday's longing stare from across the room.
"Give us the condensed version," Divina says. "We all left Nevermore two weeks ago. We haven't seen you since."
"I wolfed out under the full moon when I wasn't supposed to, because the whole alpha thing, and I ran off into the wilderness and spent a few days hiding from predators on the U.S.-Canadian border," she says with an innocent shrug, picking invisible lint off her leggings. "Wednesday brought me back to my human form. Which is a totally longer story that I don't wanna get into right now. But I'm human and safe and alive."
"So where are you now?" Yoko asks. "That backdrop behind you is not your room at home. It's so…depressing. It gives sick Victorian child in the winter."
"Much like Wednesday Addams," Divina comments, sounding suspicious. "Enid? Where are you?"
The next time Wednesday looks up because Enid is too quiet, Enid is blinking owlishly at her phone and stuttering.
"Wednesday's house," Enid eventually says.
"What?!" Yoko shouts. "That scary thing let you into her house?!"
Enid frowns. "She's not a scary person. She's just shy. And her family is really nice to me. I know they all look scary, especially Lurch, but they're the softest people I've ever met. Much softer than my mom, who's abandoned me, by the way."
Both Yoko and Divina have seemed to hesitate. The room is quiet; no excited screeching or demanding questions.
"She disowned you?" Divina asks sweetly.
"Yeah." Enid screws up her face. "And I haven't heard from my dad directly, but I know he's just following her lead. The Sinclair pack is matriarchal. He's her bitch."
"Jesus Christ," Divina says, probably in lieu of a swear. "That's so fucked up on so many levels. We're sorry, Enid. What can we do?"
"Yeah, I'll shank that bitch," Yoko threatens. "Who the fuck does she think she is? I could make a rug out of her pelt!"
Wednesday doesn't know if she should interject to appreciate Yoko's violent method of revenge, but she does know that it's right up her alley. It excites her beyond belief to imagine Esther Sinclair as nothing but a shaggy rug under her feet as she sips her morning coffee or plays her cello. Now she has a new daydream to add to her collection.
"I love that you guys love me enough to defend me and go to prison for animal cruelty, but I really don't wanna talk about that right now," Enid roughly says. "Please. I just wanted you both to know that I'm alive and human and safe."
Yoko sighs and the phone crackles.
"Fine. We're happy to have you back," she says to Enid. "But can we talk about how you're staying with Wednesday Addams? Like, in her home? What's it like there? Depressing? Scary? Does she have a torture chamber in the basement?"
"It's actually not that scary. The decor is kinda…gothic, but it's a nice place," Enid replies, running a hand over the gray duvet under her. "And her family is really nice to me. They're good people." Her eyes meet Wednesday's, playfully, and then immediately return to the screen. "As for a torture chamber…she calls it a playroom. I'm gonna go see it today. She keeps all her weapons there."
"That sounds weirdly sexual," Divina comments, laughing. "Tell her she needs to rename that."
Abandoning her book in the chair, Wednesday strides over to Enid and leans over her shoulder. She can see all of Yoko and half of Divina on the screen, and Yoko, who is sans sunglasses for once, immediately raises her eyebrows at her.
"Speak of the devil," Yoko says.
"And she shall appear," Wednesday completes. "My playroom is not sexual at all. It's fun."
"Fun," Yoko parrots. "That's such an Addams way to describe a fucking torture chamber."
"No one is tortured there." Wednesday pauses, her stomach churning when a certain thought crosses her mind. "My parents prefer to torture each other in their bedroom. The walls are soundproof."
Divina cringes. "Overshare much?"
"I was making a point," Wednesday quips.
"You'd better be taking excellent care of my best friend," Yoko tells Wednesday. Her eyes are flecked with gold; a hallmark of vampires when they're in dim lighting. "I don't trust you further than I can throw you, but I have to. Enid is still alive, so that must mean you have a nice bone somewhere inside you."
"She is well taken care of," Wednesday defends, subtly sliding her hand under Enid's sweater that she—her father—purchased yesterday. Her fingers dance along her skin, and Enid's breath hitches. "You don't need to worry about her needs being met. She has everything; her belongings, a warm bed, clothes, water, food, and a leash in case she has any ideas about escaping me again."
Enid makes a strangled noise.
"Anyway," she quickly breathes out, a fiery red blush creeping up her neck. "I just wanted you to know I'm okay. I'm really, really tired right now—being a wolf is super hard and now I think my period is coming—so I'm gonna take a quick nap, but I'll call you later so we can catch up. Okay?"
Yoko's disgust is palpable, but Divina is giggling behind her hand, leaning out of frame.
"Fine, but we're having a very in-depth chat later," Yoko says. "We love you."
"I love you, too. Bye!" Enid quickly says, immediately ending the call at the end of her sentence. She tosses her phone aside like it burned her, tilting her head back so she can look up at Wednesday, who's still leaned over her shoulder. "A LEASH, Wednesday?! A LEASH?!"
Wednesday innocently shrugs. "The circumstances surrounding your wolfing out include eloping and a general feral behavior that cannot be controlled by human hands alone. I need reinforcements in the event that something uncontrollable occurs on the next full moon. I'm prepared for anything."
"But a LEASH?!"
"It's pink and…" Wednesday swallows with repulsion. "Glittery."
"So that's where you snuck off to when I got distracted by that lady pushing her cat in a stroller yesterday," Enid huffs. "No wonder you wouldn't tell me what was in the bag."
"You didn't need to know," Wednesday says. "All you need to know is that I am prepared."
"You're not putting me on a leash, even in my werewolf form," Enid laments, folding her arms. "Absolutely not."
"We'll just have to see about that," Wednesday replies, her inflection somewhat teasing.
End scowls, and Wednesday's insides excitedly flutter until she thinks she's going to vomit up her breakfast.
"You're somehow the best and the worst girlfriend ever, Wednesday," Enid goads, her scowl melting into a smile. "And I love you."
"I love you, too," Wednesday says.
Enid gasps. "You said it back. Plainly. Without saying that it's mutual. You said you love me back."
"So I did." Wednesday's lips form into a smirk. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Shut up and take me to the playroom," Enid demands, jumping off the bed. She looks dead in Wednesday's eyes and grins quite devilishly. "I wanna play. Addams style."
Notes:
I know how I want this story to end, but it's not over yet. For now, just enjoy Enid slowly evolving into an Addams.
I can't believe that the past 12 chapters take place over the course of just a few days. Insane.
Chapter 14Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Addams family playroom is practically buried beneath the house. It takes a long, winding staircase a mile long to get there, and when Wednesday and Enid finally approach a large wooden door that's dead bolted shut, Enid braces herself against the nearest wall and takes a breath.
"Why the hell is this house so goddamn big?" she dramatically pants. "I feel like we just walked all the way down into the depths of hell."
Wednesday unlocks the dead bolt. "As I said, our family was meant to be much larger. The estate itself is vast because of our generational wealth. You get used to it after awhile."
"You need an elevator and a tram for this place," Enid says as she pushes herself off the wall. She steps closer to the door and surveys it, her stare both apprehensive and critical. "You promise I'm not gonna get blown up in there?"
"You are being dramatic, Enid," Wednesday says, hand on the brass doorknob. "I would never allow anything to happen to you. Everything inside this room is secured and safe, unless you're a clumsy child." She pauses to glance over Enid. "Besides, you were the one who wanted to play. You can browse while I take inventory of my weapons. I don't trust Pugsley not to touch them when I'm not looking."
Wednesday pushes the door open with a loud squeal of the hinges. She steps in first, beckoning at Enid to follow her lead. Enid hesitates at the threshold, her eyes widening and chin lifting, which Wednesday had expected of her.
The room is larger than the family room, the walls are decorated with all types of knives and axes and various sharp objects hanging from hooks and rods, and in one corner stands a literal bed of silver nails. Wednesday hovers nearby, idly watching Enid's expressions in case she might faint at the sight alone.
"You weren't kidding," Enid marvels, twirling in a full circle to admire the entire menagerie. "There's so much stuff in here."
"An Addams always treats their weapons with the utmost care," Wednesday says as she walks to a black trunk, similar to that of the one she brings with her to Nevermore. "You are free to roam while I take inventory. Just use caution and do not touch anything that you think might explode in your face. I have no interest in visiting the hospital today."
Wednesday drops to her knees and opens her trunk, taking a deep inhale of the metal and old wood. She individually removes her weapons, studying them as if she's never seen them before and stroking the blades with a certain fondness. She counts six hatchets and three brass knuckles before she hears the familiar sound of Enid's gasp. She quickly drops the knife she was holding, turning around on her knees.
"Enid?" she frets, prepared to fetch the first aid kit stashed under the bed of nails. "Did you injure yourself?"
Enid emerges from around a large gargoyle statue, carrying a two-foot doll, with black braids and an equally black dress, in her hands. She thrusts it out at Wednesday, who stands up and takes it from her.
"It looks like you!" Enid exclaims. "And it feels like a real baby! That's so creepy!"
"She is meant to look like me," Wednesday replies, cradling the doll to her chest. "My mother made her to replicate me when I was two. She and my father had been…attempting to conceive again for a few months, and she had begun to fear that she would only have one child, so she made this life-sized replica of me to always remember what it was like to have a baby. She got pregnant with Pugsley not long after completing her, though. Now she sits down here, collecting dust, because fortunately my mother overcame the grief that accompanies infertility. She appreciates having a memento of who I once was, and some nights when she's feeling particularly nostalgic, she will come down here and hold her on the bed of nails, but she doesn't use it as a crutch anymore."
"You like dolls," Enid surmises, her gaze playful as she observes Wednesday, who's lovingly caressing the doll's head. "Don't you?"
Wednesday's hand stills on the doll's cheek, her eyes immediately flicking up to Enid. She walks behind the gargoyle and sets the doll down on her shelf before awkwardly slinking back to Enid. She thinks back to the doll that she had gifted Enid. It now sits somewhere in Enid's closet, among all the other horribly girly things.
"I do not," she defends as she returns to Enid's side. "I gave you that doll as a souvenir, not because I was projecting my adoration for dolls onto you."
"Please, Wednesday," Enid snorts. "You had such a soft look in your eyes when you handed me that doll. She was well dressed and taken care of."
"I found her that way. That had absolutely nothing to do with me," she insists, face going sour as she folds her arms.
"She smelled way too much like you to not have been tampered by you," Enid comments, her smile ethereal. "She literally smelled like you hugged her to sleep. The smell of dead flowers and ink was radiating off her."
The thought of Enid being able to sniff her out so easily sends a pleasant chill down Wednesday's spine. Her instinct is to deny everything and tell Enid that the possibility of her choosing to sleep with a doll is a ridiculous assumption, but she's found difficulty in lying to Enid, even about something as trivial as this. Lying and fibbing is a second nature to her, because it's the only way she knows how to avoid accountability and punishment for her mistakes, but it's impossible to look into those cerulean eyes and lie.
"Fine," she finally says, indignant. "Perhaps I did properly groom her and sleep with her in my bed for a night. But only because she reeked of that disgusting basement and the only way I could scrub the smell off was to wash her and smother her in my scent."
Enid's smile could melt the candle smoldering in a nearby candelabra mounted on the wall. Her cheeks are painted a beautiful pink that expands down to the hollow of her throat where Wednesday likes to press her lips when they're alone.
"You're such a softie," Enid teases. "Admit it. You saw that doll and thought of me."
"I thought that was fairly obvious," Wednesday grumbles, petulantly turning away to sulk like a child. "I am not soft."
"But you are," Enid counterpoints, stepping closer to Wednesday. "I saw that tiny smile on your face when you handed her to me. You looked so proud. And although I thought it was a little creepy, I was so happy because you thought of me while we were apart. It meant the world to me. I think that counts for something."
Wednesday knows it counts for something. It counts for a lot, really. She can recall the hopeful tightening of her chest when she nabbed the doll and took off running with it. To her, it looked so much like Enid, and if she had returned to Nevermore to find a different kind of Enid—perhaps a punk rock Enid or Anime Enid—, at least she would have the doll to remind her of who she once had been. Fortunately, Enid was still Enid—except a little louder and much furrier—when she returned, and the doll ended up a gift to make up for lost time, but some days, Wednesday wonders what she would have done had Enid been someone too new, too altered, too unreal.
"Are you done dragging me through such emotional torture?" she asks, turning on her heel. "I thought you wanted to play, Addams style."
An excited gleam shines in Enid's eyes. "I do! But I thought you needed to take inventory."
"I can finish that later," Wednesday replies, finally relaxing now that the uncomfortable topic of conversation has been dropped. "What would you like to do?"
Twirling in a circle, Enid ponders her options. There is an abundance of everything in here, and all of it looks daunting, so Wednesday doesn't expect her to choose anything, but then Enid bounces over to a target fastened to the wall and curiously eyes the silver throwing knives laid out on a shelf just below it.
"I saw your dad do this," she says to Wednesday, absentmindedly twirling a knife between her fingers. "It doesn't look so bad."
Wednesday blinks once at her. "Are you positive you want to give it a try? It takes a lot of practice."
"Well, I'll never know if I don't try," Enid says, throwing an absurd look over her shoulder. "It can't be that hard."
"Arrogant, are we?" Wednesday remarks, perching herself on the bed of nails. "Fine. I'll spectate from here. Go on. Show me what my father has taught you."
Enid seems to clam up just then, taunted by Wednesday's words of encouragement. She grips the knife's handle, stroking the metal under her thumb, and then she glares at the target like it's an opponent. Her eyes zero in on the red bullseye painted in the dead center of the board as she fixes the knife between her index and thumb, pinching it. She tosses it forward, pointedly, like a paper plane, and it's airborne for half a second before clanking on the floor.
"Well, that sucked," Enid mutters as she swipes the knife off the floor. "That was just a warmup. It didn't count."
"Of course it didn't," Wednesday coyly says. "Failures never count."
"You're my girlfriend," Enid reminds with a little huff. "You're supposed to encourage me, not tease me because I don't know how to do something."
"What encouragement would you like from me?" Wednesday asks with a tilt of her head. "Shaming often works wonders."
"Not for me," Enid says, defiantly shaking her head. "If you're such a pro, why don't you get over here and show me what to do? Since you're so smart and you know every fucking thing."
Wednesday would be lying if she said that Enid's lighthearted swearing didn't do something to her. She quickly vacates the bed of nails, bouncing over to Enid with an eager pep in her step.
"Must I do everything?" Wednesday mutters.
"I don't see you complaining," Enid snarks back, her mouth curved into a smile. "I'm a hands-on learner. That's the only way I know how to do stuff."
"Of course you're hands-on," Wednesday remarks as she plucks the knife from Enid's hand. "You simply cannot resist physical contact for more than a few minutes. You might wither away and die if you don't feel my touch."
Maybe they're both horrible at flirting and teasing, or maybe this kind of thing is age appropriate for them, but Enid is holding back laughter and Wednesday is fantasizing about killing herself because she's sounding too much like her parents and that is very much against her moral code.
"Let me demonstrate, and then I will assist you," Wednesday proposes. "Watch."
She holds the knife in her grip, but not too snugly. She lays her index finger along the top of the handle and points it to the ceiling, steadying it above her shoulder. She squints at the bullseye, and as soon as she's comfortable with Enid's critiquing stare burning a hole into her head, she propels the knife forward. It hits the bullseye, dead center, and then she turns around and drops a new knife into Enid's palm.
"Your turn," she tells Enid. "Use precision. Gauge your target."
"But I'm a helpless damsel in distress," Enid sarcastically says. "What ever will I do if you don't help me?"
"You're a brat," Wednesday mutters as she stands behind Enid and takes the knife from her. She repositions it in Enid's hand so Enid is gripping it the same way she was, with her index stabilizing the top of the blade. "Hold it this way, and then raise it just above your shoulder."
Enid obeys and raises the knife. Wednesday grabs hold of her wrist and holds it steady, positioned exactly where it needs to be. Enid's skin is so warm against hers, but she welcomes it with open arms.
"Gauge your target," Wednesday instructs. "Throw it."
Enid's wrist slips from Wednesday's as she throws the knife—well, it's a little more like she flings it, but it still counts, because it hits just under the bullseye. Wednesday doesn't outwardly express how impressed she is with Enid's amateur skill set, not wanting to stroke her ego,
"Practice makes perfect," Wednesday says. "We will continue to practice together until you get it right."
"Well, it's going to be a little hard for me not to get so distracted by my cute instructor," Enid says, wiggling her eyebrows.
Wednesday sneers. "Brat."
"Takes one to know one."
"Touché."
—
That evening, sometime past dinner and after Enid has smoked a cigar with Gomez, which has become more of a regular activity as of late, Wednesday lures Enid to a quiet hallway in the house, under a scary alcove with black crown molding, and tries to control herself when she notices that her girlfriend smells smoky and burnt.
"I'm only now realizing that you've not properly seen my bedroom," Wednesday says. "Would you like to see it?"
Enid blushes furiously at the offer, as if it's inappropriate of Wednesday to suggest it.
"Yeah," she decides, taking a breath. "I wanna see how you really live when you're alone in your own space."
"Similarly to my living quarters at Nevermore, only less…pink," she notes, subtly slipping her hand into Enid's. "I don't allow everyone into my space. Pugsley is hardly allowed to step foot into my bedroom. But mostly because he breaks everything he touches."
"Well, I'm a clumsy wolf, but I promise not to break anything," Enid assures. "I haven't broken anything yet."
"I have difficulty trusting most, but I have trust in you to not damage any of my precious belongings," Wednesday says with certainty. "I'm only offering you a glimpse into my private space because I feel it's necessary now that we have both decided to court."
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Enid reminds sweetly, and Wednesday could melt into a puddle at her feet right now. "I'll still love you even if you choose not to show me private stuff."
In truth, Wednesday has grappled with this decision since she brought Enid home, when they first passed her bedroom on their way to Enid's. On one hand, she revels in her privacy and solitude and appreciates having certain things all to herself, but on the other, Enid has done so much to earn her trust and a badge of honor, and while this may contradict many principles that Wednesday has laid out for herself over the years, Enid has a gravitational pull to her that Wednesday cannot properly escape. It's like she's been vacuumed into a black hole
"I want to," Wednesday replies, already guiding Enid by the hand to the main staircase. "You deserve as much."
Enid's metaphorical tail wags the entire way up the steps. Wednesday is thrilled to provide Enid with that emotional attachment, relishing in the sight of Enid happily skipping up the stairs with her hand held firmly in Wednesday's.
Upstairs, the house is quiet. The steady beat of music thrums under their feet, sounding faraway, while Wednesday's parents slow dance in the family room below them. Wednesday pushes open the door to her bedroom, inviting Enid to enter a space that looks even more gothic than the rest of the estate. Enid marvels at the lack of real decor, noting the depressing accents fixed on the walls and the full bookshelf built into one side of the room and, most obviously, a simple desk with Wednesday's beloved typewriter sitting on it. Her fingertips glide over a painted octopus on the footbed, and she smiles.
"It's so sad and makes me feel like I'm going through grief," Enid says to Wednesday. "I love it. It's so you."
"Thank you," Wednesday politely replies. "Sometimes I will sit alone in here for some quiet time. Solitude suits me."
"You haven't been having any alone time since I got here," Enid regrettably says, a pained expression on her face. "I didn't mean to steal all your private time. I know it's been a lot to have me here, disrupting your routine and all that."
"Enid, if I were bothered by the lack of solitude, I would have said so," Wednesday replies. "However, now that you've settled in, I think it's time that we establish some sort of routine. Routine is crucial for me, and while I've managed to forgo it for the past couple of weeks, I would like to return to it, but while accommodating your needs, of course."
"You're actually the sweetest," Enid says. "You know that?"
"Sweet like antifreeze," Wednesday roughly remarks. "How should we go about this? I would like to include you in the decision making."
"Well, you need your writing time, and I need my crafting and blogging time," Enid says, twirling a piece of her hair around her finger. "I haven't opened my laptop since I've been back. I want to start my blog again, but I know everyone from Nevermore is gonna ask questions when they see I've posted again. I'm sure word traveled fast about…what happened."
"Let them ask," Wednesday suggests. "But don't answer. No one is entitled to know the story. You know the truth, and that is what matters. Let people talk. They talk about me all the time. I don't bat an eye. In fact, I find it endearing to know that I'm despised by society."
"But I live my truth, and I try not to hide," Enid sighs, absentmindedly running a hand over Wednesday's dark gray and pitch black quilt. "Maybe I'll just post something like nothing ever happened and ignore the comments. I miss my hobbies. They're the only thing that made me feel even a little bit normal when I was dealing with the alpha thing."
Wednesday nods once. "Understandable."
Enid's face lights up as she gasps. Wednesday can practically see the lightbulb illuminating in her brain.
"What if I bring my laptop in here and sit by you and write my blog while you write your novel?" Enid asks hopefully. "I promise I won't say a word. Unless my breathing will bother you. Then never mind."
For once, Wednesday is excited. She's been yearning for her typewriter since finding Enid, and she has been selfishly considering abandoning Enid in her bed in favor of some late night musing and writing, but perhaps compromise is possible.
"I think I might tolerate that," she tells Enid. She checks her watch; half past eight. "It's getting late. Why don't you get your laptop and meet me back here?"
Enid excitedly jumps up and down and runs out of the room. Wednesday sighs contentedly and sinks into her desk chair, rolling up her sleeves and staring longingly at the silver keys of her typewriter.
"Finally," she says to herself as she slides a fresh piece of paper into the roller. "Peace at last."
The quiet lasts for all of thirty seconds before Enid is barreling back into the room with her laptop and its ridiculously long charger dragging behind her. Enid immediately sets up camp on the floor by the nearest available outlet, which is in the corner of the room, a good distance from Wednesday but close enough to feel her presence.
Enid starts clicking and typing, and Wednesday hears her soft giggles every so often while she herself is focusing on a new character arc for her novel. If anyone would have told Wednesday just last year that Enid Sinclair would be sitting on the floor of her bedroom, she would have pulled a face and probably vomited, but now, with Enid's warm and inviting soul unraveling the coil wound taut inside of Wednesday, she can safely admit that she's whole.
They sit in comfortable silence for awhile, never once saying a word to each other but only pleased to be in each other's company. Wednesday easily loses track of time, and before either of them know it, a soft knock on the door startles Enid out of her metaphorical fur. The hinges cry out, and Morticia pokes her head into the room with that maternal smile on her face. She's holding a cocktail in one hand, just like she was in the photo of her and baby Wednesday.
"Mother," Wednesday greets, turning in her chair. "It's not a school night."
"I wasn't going to tell you to go to bed," Morticia says. "May I come in?"
Wednesday gives her an absurd glance. "You're already halfway in."
Morticia takes that as an invitation, slinking entirely into the room. She smiles fondly at Enid and reaches down to affectionately pat her head. Wednesday doesn't miss the blush exploding down Enid's neck.
"Wednesday, I know that things have been a bit…chaotic for both you and Enid for the past few days, and while I appreciate that you have taken it in stride and not let the overwhelm kill you, I must remind you that your Uncle Fester's birthday is this Thursday," Morticia says, seemingly apprehensive when she looks at her daughter. "He's turning…well, we don't actually know. Too many falsified birth certificates."
"I didn't forget. His gift is stashed under my bed," Wednesday dismissively replies. "Don't accidentally bump into it. It might detonate."
Morticia pauses. "It's not about his gift. We're having a soirée for him on Saturday. The entire family will be in attendance that evening."
Wednesday stiffens and quickly looks up at her mother.
"Why did you fail to tell me this until just now?" she snaps. "That's only a few days from now, and I am not mentally prepared to handle the exuberance that comes with family gatherings. The music, the chatter, the laughter; it's all one big production that could be taken outside."
"I'm sorry, dear, but your father and I have been preoccupied with the planning, and we knew you and Enid have gone through an ordeal and did not want to burden you so quickly," Morticia sighs. "But think positively about this. You can formally introduce Enid to our relatives. They'll be delighted to meet her."
"Why would I ever want to put her through that amount of torture?" Wednesday asks, glaring into her mother's hardened soul. "I can torture her much easier and quieter in other ways."
Morticia frowns. "The plans have been made and the date has been set, Wednesday. Everyone has already sent in their RSVP. And before you make assumptions or decisions on Enid's behalf, why don't we ask her how she feels? She's a sentient being."
Wednesday immediately looks to Enid, her aura screaming at her to disagree with this whole idea and make a scene about it, but of course, Enid is grinning madly and staring up at Morticia with absolute glee in her eyes.
"A party?!" she exclaims excitedly. "Sign me up!"
Wednesday slams her head into her typewriter. Unfortunately, it doesn't knock her out.
Notes:
Get ready for some Addams family antics.
Chapter 15Notes:
Big stuff happening this chapter. Wednesday being autistic, Addams shenanigans, and Morticia dropping a bomb on Wednesday at the end.
I'm conflicted about the ending of this chapter. I actually sat for an hour and grappled. But it's written now. And I only did it for the drama. But see end notes (after reading) to get a glimpse into my thought process.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On the rainy morning of Uncle Fester's birthday soirée, Wednesday wakes before Enid, in the silence of Enid's bedroom, startled awake by a happy nightmare that included a happily ever after. She's drowsy for a minute, eyes trying to adjust to the gray sunlight bleeding through the black sheer curtains, and then she presses her nose to the juncture of Enid's neck and shoulder. She inhales the warmth and gives the exposed skin a featherlight kiss, taking inventory of the goosebumps.
Enid gradually stirs awake, purring groggily at the sensation of Wednesday's lips mouthing at her flesh. Her eyelids flutter open and her hands start pawing around in search of something to grab onto. Finally, they find Wednesday's hips and drag her in close.
"Morning," Enid yawns. She lifts her head off the pillow, her mane of gold in a wild halo around her face. She gets an amused, sleepy look on her face. "When did you koala yourself around me?"
Puzzled, Wednesday looks down. Somehow, some way, she managed to wrap her legs around Enid's waist in the middle of the night, clinging desperately to her. If she were a little more coherent and awake, she might feel mortified, but she can hardly manage a raise of her eyebrows.
"I can't feel my right leg," Wednesday comments. "No wonder."
Enid helps Wednesday slide her right leg out from under her, maneuvering her like she's a doll. Wednesday brings her left leg down to lay straight, suddenly going stiff against Enid, who's now raking her fingers through the black hair hanging over Wednesday's eyes.
"It's Saturday," Wednesday plainly comments, her big eyes impossibly round yet not looking Enid directly in the eye. "Uncle Fester's soirée."
"Are you excited?" Enid asks, hopeful.
Wednesday pauses. Fear is starting to invade her chest. It's a familiar feeling; one she always has whenever a large family gathering is looming over her head like a threat. The day always begins with a stomachache and ends with a headache.
"I wouldn't say I'm excited," Wednesday replies. "My insides are twisting. I have a stomachache."
Enid frowns and pushes a hand under the hem of Wednesday's shirt. Her fingertips expertly rub circles into the muscle, and then she's gathering Wednesday into her arms a little more so she can easily hold her to her chest. Wednesday immediately tucks her face into Enid's neck, sighing heavily and feeling like she's melting.
"You don't have a fever," Enid says. "We both ate the same thing last night, and I feel fine."
Wednesday refrains from mentioning the terror gripping her heart. Whatever is churning her intestines to butter has absolutely nothing to do with the mystery goop that Lurch served last night, but it does have everything to do with the fact that, in just twelve short hours, her home will be filled with music and booming laughter and children shrieking at the top of their little lungs.
The same way that the crippling worry grips her heart, Wednesday grips Enid tighter. Enid's porcelain skin is soft and smells sickly sweet from the fruity soap she showers with, but for Wednesday, it's the equivalent to safety and home. Most days, before Enid, Wednesday would rather die than to feel the warm embrace of another, but now, the craving for Enid's arms around her is immeasurable.
Enid's thumb suddenly sweeps over a dark, taut eyebrow. The movement startles Wednesday, who lifts her head to look properly at the girl holding her. Enid smiles sleepily, but her eyes are excited and so blue. Wednesday envies how Enid can find pleasure in almost everything; even things that require too much emotional exertion.
"It's almost breakfast time," Enid says. "We should get up."
"I'm not interested in food right now," Wednesday replies, dropping her head back onto Enid's shoulder. "My insides are twisted into balloon animals."
"Do you want me to rub your stomach?" Enid sweetly offers, and before Wednesday can appropriately nod or beg for the relief that her other half's touch brings, Enid's hand is already sliding under her shirt. "Where do you need me to rub?"
"Everything is twisted," Wednesday mutters. "You can select where."
Enid drags Wednesday closer and pushes the heel of her palm into the flesh above Wednesday's bellybutton. Wednesday's breath catches in her throat and she involuntarily wraps a hand around Enid's arm. Enid's smile is warm as she's massaging little circles into Wednesday's abdomen, observing every little crease and pout in her facial muscles, and Wednesday knows for a fact that Enid is watching her.
"Does that feel good?" Enid almost purrs, hand working diligently over Wednesday's ribs like she's playing the xylophone on them. "Tell me if it hurts. Maybe you have appendicitis."
"I had my appendix removed when I was eight," she says, sucking in a much needed breath. "I prodded at the wound for weeks afterwards. It was sore, in a positive way."
"Of course you did, my little weirdo," Enid affectionately coos. She brushes her free hand between the black braids, caressing affectionately. "I love when you say odd, masochistic things."
Wednesday drags out a sigh, her eyes fluttering closed. Her body spasmodically and gradually shuffles in closer, and all of a sudden she's slinging a leg over both of Enid's. Enid presses her lips to her forehead and exhales as she's pulling away.
"Feeling any better?" Enid asks, nodding down at her hand that's now traveled dangerously close to the curve of Wednesday's bare breast. She's clearly minding it, though, and controlling where she fondles.
"Still twisted," Wednesday bemoans. "It's an unusual sensation. I've noticed it only happens before a large gathering. I felt something similar the morning before my parents' last anniversary soirée, and before Pugsley's birthday dinner. It's a sense of…dread. Overwhelm."
"Baby…" Enid's voice is quiet, but a giggle ricochets from her throat, causing Wednesday to withdraw from her and scowl. "You have anxiety. Social anxiety."
"Anxiety is for weak people who need an excuse to be shut-ins," Wednesday huffs, resuming her position with her nose crushed into Enid's clavicle. "I'm not one of those people."
"It is not for weak people, and yes, you are one of those people," Enid giggles. "It's also because of the autism. Crowds can be overwhelming and overstimulating. You get overstimulated around people. It's too noisy and you hate the way they breathe. I don't think that you're coldhearted; I think that socializing is too mentally and emotionally draining for you. And that's okay."
Wednesday's eyes narrow, angry. Enid is not meant to be able to read her so easily; no one is meant to be able to do that, really. Wednesday has worked tirelessly to remain guarded and untouchable, but suddenly her formidable disguise is transparent to someone who maybe shouldn't be laying in bed with her and most definitely shouldn't be rubbing the worry out of her stomach, but it all feels right, like finding the right puzzle piece after hours of trying to squeeze the wrong one in.
"You know me too well," Wednesday finally says. "That's unfair."
Enid snorts. "Why's that unfair?"
"Because," Wednesday sighs and bites back what could certainly be a compulsory moan when Enid presses into a strangely sore spot, "it's not equal. You can see through me, but I've yet to see through you."
"That's because I'm pretty straightforward, without the straight part," Enid giggles at her own joke. "I live in my truth, no matter what. My deepest secrets and stupid thoughts are posted on my blog for everyone to see. What you see is who I am. You don't have to do a whole character study on me to know who I am."
"I don't understand how you are able to read me so easily," Wednesday says. "I've spent so long doing what's necessary to avoid being read. I'm not meant to be transparent. And here you are…understanding me."
"Is it a bad thing that I understand you?" Enid asks, and Wednesday can just feel her raising her eyebrows. "It should be a good thing that I understand you. If I didn't understand you, I wouldn't be trying to massage the anxiety out of you right now. But I saw the way you tensed up when your mom announced the party, and I could literally smell your fear when she left the room. You looked like you were gonna die. And you don't have to be embarrassed about it. Lots of people have anxiety. You aren't the first. There's nothing wrong with you."
"I don't want to attend the soirée," Wednesday quickly says, pushing aside whatever Enid is chattering about. "I would much rather stay up here, where it's quiet."
"You know your parents won't go for that," Enid pitifully says, now pressing down even harder. "I'll be with you the whole time, I promise. I won't leave your side if you don't want me to."
"Perhaps I could simply greet them and feign period cramps like I did for my father's birthday last year," Wednesday thinks aloud, trying to focus on anything but the tingling feeling spreading through her body when Enid's fingertips massage below her bellybutton. "It worked up until my mother pulled me aside and commented on the fact that my period had ended just a week before then. She threatened to take me to the doctor if I didn't stop faking it."
Enid's chest vibrates with a laugh. "And then what happened?"
"I told her I was experiencing mittelschmerz—pain during ovulation, and that I was feeling nauseous and tired and extremely bloated," Wednesday says. "She picked up the phone to dial her gynecologist, and I folded."
"Like a lawn chair," Enid adds. "Well, now I know to threaten you with the vagina doctor when you start acting wild."
"It won't work," Wednesday huffs. "You and I are both still minors for another ten and eleven months, respectively. Therefore, you cannot force me. And once we're of legal age, you still cannot force me. I see doctors only when it's necessary. I'm not afraid of such threats."
"I do have the cutest girlfriend in the entire world," Enid says, rolling onto her back and pulling Wednesday on top of her so their abdomens are brushing against each other with every little breath. "Has social anxiety and a fear of the vagina doctor."
"Would you stop calling it that?" Wednesday gripes, wanting to be cross with Enid, but the way she burrows her face in Enid's shoulder belies her frown. "And I do not have a fear of it."
"Okay, but I still have the cutest girlfriend in the entire world."
A hand pushes up Wednesday's shirt, exposing her back to the frigid draft wafting in from the thin glass windows, and then it's rubbing along her shoulder blades. Wednesday curses herself when a tiny mewl leaves her throat.
"Did the Wednesday Addams just whine?" Enid asks. "Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?"
"I did not whine," Wednesday mutters, throwing a leg around Enid so she's properly straddling her waist. "You're hearing things."
"Whatever you say."
Too tired to squabble any more, Wednesday makes herself at home on Enid, draped over her like a blanket, while Enid's hands continue to work the stress out of her. It's so relaxing, Wednesday might even consider genuinely sleeping in for once in her life, but then she's plagued by the image of her living room filled with people and the sound of children screaming and babies crying, and all of the effort Enid has put into calming her flies out the window.
"Enid," she says, worried. "I have period cramps."
"You're not on your period," Enid replies.
"I'm experiencing mittelschmerz." She blinks. "It's terrible."
"It's also not your ovulation time."
Wednesday sneers. "Then I think I am pregnant."
"Yeah, whatever, virgin," Enid snarks, but Wednesday knows she's grinning. "And I don't mean that as an insult. Just stating a fact."
"Well, I am expecting, and it's yours."
"I'm not the father."
"You're right." Wednesday pauses. "You're the mother."
"Wednesday Addams, is this your way of saying you want to have kids one day?" Enid asks cheekily. "Are you proposing children?"
"Absolutely not," Wednesday says, her gag reflex kicking in. "That would be awful."
"Too overstimulating?" Enid surmises. "All the crying and sticky hands?"
"Yes," Wednesday plaintively agrees. She stops to think for a moment. "And that would also require frequent visits to the obstetrician/gynecologist."
"I knew you were scared of the vagina doctor."
"Enid," she grumbles. "Shut up and continue massaging."
"Okay," Enid says, already fulfilling her duty. "Anything you want, princess."
It's spoiled of her, but Wednesday considers having anxiety more often.
—
Twelve hours later, the party is in full swing. Every square foot of the Addams estate is occupied by one of at least sixty Addamses, all of which who have miraculously dropped everything to be in attendance tonight.
"I see not even one of them could have come down with tuberculosis prior to attending," Wednesday bitterly mutters, wedged up against a wall in the dining room. "They're all here, Enid."
Enid stands next to her, wearing a frilly pink but not too ugly dress that Wednesday—her father—purchased for her at the boutique a few days ago. It's a perfect fit; knee-length and shortsleeved with just the right amount of poof in the skirt. To Wednesday, it looks a little juvenile, but it was the only dress that Enid was willing to even try on, and after an hour of trying to convince her that something more mature would be more flattering on her, Wednesday caved into Enid's insistence that the other options were just too elderly for her liking.
"It's not that bad," Enid tries to reason, subtly sweeping her palm over Wednesday's clothed arm. She smiles. "So your mom doesn't force you to wear a dress for stuff like this? She lets you steal out of Pugsley's closet?"
Glancing down at what might as well be a suit, because it's more masculine than feminine, Wednesday shrugs. "She doesn't police my clothing, unlike some unfit parents. And the only thing that makes our uniforms at all feminine is the frumpy skirt. Clothes are clothes. They're meant to cover you and protect you from the weather."
It's true in part; the other part is the fact that Wednesday was on the cusp of a meltdown before nightfall, and the idea of any of her nice black dresses squeezing around her form made her insides twist again. Enid didn't have the time to stop painting her face with makeup and massage Wednesday's insides back into proper order, so she plucked the smallest suit she could find out of Pugsley's closet and hoped it fits well enough to keep questions at bay. Fortunately, the only flaw is the fact that the pants are a tad too large in the waist, which is something she remedied by sticking a safety pin through the extra fabric.
"I think you're beautiful," Enid compliments, moving a hair out of Wednesday's face. "But I can totally see the safety pin sticking out."
"I'm not changing," she mutters, grabbing a glass of wine off a tray as Lurch is walking past. She sniffs the rim. "This is my least favorite. But I'm desperate."
Enid watches, half impressed and half mortified, as Wednesday downs the entire glass in four big gulps that are visible in her throat. Wednesday then sets the empty glass on a nearby credenza and takes a deep breath.
"Better?" Enid asks, hopeful, because Wednesday absolutely will drink her weight in wine if that's what it takes.
"Marginally," Wednesday hiccups, the wine bubbling back up, and Enid giggles at the way her face puckers.
"You really are cute," Enid says. "I see why Fester and Grandmama spoil you to death. I would if I could."
"I'm not cute." Wednesday crosses her arms, pouting. "You're making ridiculous accusations."
Quick as lightning, Uncle Fester appears in front of Wednesday. He's wearing an absurd birthday outfit; a mismatched gray and black suit, an odd fedora that doesn't seem to fit him, and a long black trench coat. Wednesday notes the black feather sticking out of the hat.
"Uncle Fester," she greets, unable to tear her eyes away from the eyesore sitting on her uncle's head. "Why are you dressed like a pimp?"
Enid chokes on the glass of sparkling cider Lurch gave her, coughing and hacking. Wednesday ignores her, staring blindly at Uncle Fester's hat.
"This is my best outfit!" he exclaims, and then he throws a look over his shoulder before leaning into Wednesday's ear. "And, your cousin Lucinda brought her new nanny she hired when she had the baby a few months ago. She's a fine, fine lady, Wednesday. Her name is Dementia. Isn't that the most beautiful name?"
"Lovely," Wednesday deadpans. "You're trying to pimp out the nanny."
"I'm gonna go turn on the old Addams charm," Fester says with a wink, turning around and gliding over to an equally bald woman cautiously sipping wine in the corner of the family room.
Morticia comes around the corner, shuffling in her tight black dress. Gomez is on her arm, an unlit cigar in his hand. They spot Wednesday and Enid loitering, and Gomez lights up upon seeing Enid tinkering with a black streamer hanging overhead.
"Enid!" Gomez loudly says as he releases his wife's arm. "It's about time to have a cigar, isn't it? The sun is down."
Enid blinks at him. "Right now? Isn't it considered rude to leave a party without saying anything?"
Gomez waves a hand at her. "No, my little wolf. You're going to join me and the rest of the smokers outside. We'll chat and discuss our weaponry collection."
"But I don't have a weaponry collection," Enid says, dejected.
"Not yet." Gomez winks at her, and then he's taking her hand. "Come along."
"Father," Wednesday snaps. "If she does not want to go, don't force her."
"It's fine," Enid promises, smiling. Her voice softens. "I'll be back, okay?"
Heart pounding, Wednesday can only nod. She wants to selfishly pull Enid back and demand that she remain glued to her side until their deaths, but by the time she's found her ability to speak, Enid is being ushered out a backdoor by her father, and with a cold gust of wind, they're both gone into the night.
Morticia ghosts a hand over a black plait. "Wednesday, darling, you're looking sick again. Have you been taking your medication?"
"Of course," she replies and takes a defensive step back. "I can't die on Enid until we're both of age and she can reap the benefits of my sizable life insurance policy. She doesn't even know that she's sitting on a million dollars just by keeping me alive."
"You'd have to be married first in order for her to become your sole beneficiary, darling," Morticia chuckles.
The silence stretching between them is uncomfortable and long, and then Morticia clears her throat. Wednesday lifts her head, perplexed.
"Is there something you wanted to tell me, Mother?" Wednesday asks, trying to maintain some form of chivalry before she goes off the deep end. "Or are you attempting to shoehorn your way into my love life?"
"Did you introduce Enid to everyone?" her mother asks.
"The party has only just begun, Mother," Wednesday gripes at her. "Allow me some time to relax and breathe before you have me parade her around like a trophy."
"I'm only asking because your cousin Marty asked me, and I quote, 'Who is the little white girl in the pink dress?'" Morticia chuckles, clearly tickled by the wording. She puts her wine glass down next to Wednesday's empty one, only hers is still full and smudged with red lipstick. "I'm going to be honest, Wednesday, and I need you to understand. I know that you and Enid are bonded for life the way your father and I are bonded for life. It's best that you take advantage of her presence here. Allow her to bond with our family and get to know them the way you know them. She's not going anywhere, Wednesday. She's here, for good."
Wednesday's head tilts. She tries, in vain, to read her mother's face. Morticia is warm and maternal but doesn't offer any real consolation. She's certainly not transparent, rather just mysterious and peculiar in the way she holds herself. The weight of her words is heavy and carries a large burden. There is something familiar lingering behind the dark glass of her eyes, too; something that raises red flags in Wednesday's mind. Wednesday knows that look all too well. Her mother has been keeping secrets, and while Wednesday can appreciate that when it comes to the romantic and sexual desires of her parents, she's beginning to feel defensive, like she's purposely being kept in the dark. It's like that time in third grade when Wednesday noticed that the other girls were whispering to each other in class, only to find out that it was her they were whispering about.
"And how do you know this much, Mother?" Wednesday asks. "You are hiding something from me. I can smell the guilt from over here. You reek of skeletons."
Morticia's shoulders visibly droop as she sighs. She looks over her shoulder, minding the crowds of people in the other room. A little girl in a black dress and matching stockings pushes her way between her and Wednesday, giggling as she runs off with a gray balloon in her hand, and then the corner of the dining room is quiet enough to get comfortable.
"I know your powers have diminished due to your exertion and abuse of them, but mine are just fine," Morticia says earnestly. "I was bringing the laundry down for Lurch yesterday. I picked up a heap one of Enid's sweaters and a pair of your pants bundled together, and it triggered a vision."
The little hairs on the back of Wednesday's neck stand at attention. Her entire body feels prickly, and that twisted feeling bubbles up inside her again.
"What did you see?" Wednesday asks, slinking further to her mother, her eyes never leaving Morticia's.
"Perhaps it's best left unsaid," Morticia sighs. "Just know that Enid isn't going anywhere. Let her be known to the family."
"No, you've riled me up, and it's unfair of you to be so facetious and then rescind your teasing words when I'm standing in front of you and demanding an answer," Wednesday snarls. "Finish what you've started. An Addams doesn't quit."
"Wednesday—"
"Would you like to duel?" Wednesday proposes, her jaw tight. "We can make this a spectacle for everyone to watch. Even Enid. And when she asks why we're pointing swords at each other, you can tell her that you're battling me to keep a secret that you've already half-spilled and that also involves her."
Morticia genuinely considers the offer, her gaze faraway and wistful for a moment, and then she sighs.
"As much as I enjoy a mother-daughter duel, let's not make this a production," she tells Wednesday. "When I touched your clothing, I had a vision. You and Enid, older, maybe in your late twenties, dancing together in the empty family room. I found it endearing, of course, and I went about my day."
Wednesday imagines choking her mother, because that's too anticlimactic to be so dramatic about. Although there is unbridled relief inside of Wednesday, knowing that she and Enid are bound for at least another ten years, something seems to be missing.
"That's all?" Wednesday asks with a hardened stare. "Tell me the truth. There has to be more that you're refraining from telling me. I don't appreciate that. You don't need to coddle me. I'm not an infant."
"My memory is sharper than my blade, and sometimes it runs freely even when I don't intend it to," Morticia says. "The more I sat and ruminated on it, the more details I took in. Notably, the sparkling silver on each of your ring fingers."
Wednesday's heart pounds and her hands are wet. She looks at her mother with a cloudy expression of concern and fear.
"So we are to be wed," she concludes, and when she says it aloud, it's like she's manifesting it. It's almost as if a ring materializes on her finger. She rubs it against her pants. "I am not surprised by that."
"I wasn't, either, I must admit," Morticia softly agrees. "But there was one little detail I was certainly surprised about."
Silent, Wednesday urges her mother on with a nod. Morticia smiles, so warmly and matriarchal. She puts a tentative finger under Wednesday's chin and lifts it so she can properly look her daughter in the eye.
"In the background, there was the Addams cradle, and inside, there was the tiniest, most beautiful baby I've ever seen since you and your brother were that little. The little one had eyes the color of the sea and hair black as night and skin as porcelain as your pallor and the color of Enid's complexion. I touched the baby, and it smiled. That smile…I see it every day when Enid joins us for meals and activities."
Wednesday braces herself against a wall, the floor crumbling beneath her. She stares at a faded patch of wood in the floor for the longest time, breathing ragged and head spinning in a kaleidoscope. She can taste colors and see smells, and everything seems to be falling apart around her.
Finally, she looks up, gasping for a breath, and notices her mother's face full of yearning. Morticia seems to be reveling in her daughter's plight.
"Is it a boy or girl?" Wednesday asks.
Morticia chuckles. "It's an Addams."
Notes:
I've been writing wenclair for almost 2 years and not once have I written any sort of futuristic fate for them. Marriage is sometimes implied but never actually written, and I've always leaned on the side of these two being childfree cat ladies living in a gothic home with their careers and hobbies, married and happy without children. I still lean on that side (self-indulgent, you'll never get a baby from me because respectfully NO), so this was very iffy for me to conjure up. I really didn't want to. But it added to the drama, and this story will not continue into their adult years beyond, maybe, an epilogue, so it'll never fully manifest into such. It's actually almost over.
I'm on the fence, but I'm pushing myself off of it because we need to move forward.
Beyond that, this chapter was absolutely ridiculous to write, between the off-the-wall comments and Morticia ragebaiting Wednesday. It did make me laugh.
Up next: domestic wenclair and an autistic meltdown.