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“Don't move.”
Enid’s giggles only grew louder as she replayed the video on her phone.
“Sorry, love,” She turned her head slightly, leaving a quick kiss at Wednesday's knee and earned a sigh from her.
Not to lie, Wednesday may or may not had a little tiny itch to pull on these purple strands.
Her headache of a girlfriend was sitting on the floor, right between her legs, clearly testing her patience for ten minutes straight by now.
Instead of spending time reorganizing the small mess in her closet– that wasn’t even her doing but rather the result of someone who always ‘needed some black accents’ in her outfits –she willingly gave up her Sunday evening to indulge Enid’s impulsive urges. Not that it was a complaint, of course. Wednesday would never genuinely complain about something that brought her precious girl happiness. Well, almost never. Besides, who was she to pass up the opportunity to fuss over those charming disgustingly pink locks?
And so, Wednesday Addams now worked with meticulous care, weaving the fifth small braid into Enid’s short, brightly colored hair.
Enid expected to wake up with beach waves as she told her; therefore without letting her hair dry after the shower, she shoved a handful of small hair ties and simple white brush– instead of her usual unbearably yellow one –into Wednesday’s hands, then settled comfortably on the pillow, in front one of the beds, to scroll through Instagram while her hair was braided with calculated precision.
“You do realize, tomorrow you’ll look like a poodle that stuck its paw in an outlet?” Wednesday asked, unimpressed.
“Don't be silly, sweetie,” Enid wanted to give her a smile and look at that adorable frown of hers, but she knew better not to restlessly shift any more. “It's gonna be cute, you’ll like it!”
“Can't wait,” Wednesday deadpanned, tightening the braid just enough to earn a small, indignant noise from Enid.
“Hey! You did that on purpose!” Enid accused, trying to sound offended and failing miserably when another giggle slipped through.
“Your accusations are unfounded. I would never, querida,” Her voice was firm, though the faintest curl of amusement made it obvious to Enid. She separated another thin section of damp hair with tenderness, fingers steady as they worked.
Enid huffed, though the sound quickly dissolved into something softer as Wednesday’s hands resumed their careful rhythm. It was nice.
She turned off her phone, closing eyes for a moment. Just to feel.
The quiet settles differently when Enid isn’t filling it with noise. It presses in, warm and intimate, filled only by the faint sound of Wednesday’s breathing behind her.
Enid’s thoughts wander for a moment.
She remembers a time– not so long ago –when silence felt scary. Silence meant she didn't have anyone next to her. That she said something awkward and stupid again. Or she just wasn't that interesting to talk to, maybe. Silence never ever was a good sign for her.
However, she had learned many things over the past year. Most of them revolved around one very specific little– yet quiet murderous –gothic princess, who would absolutely kill her if she ever heard Enid say that out loud. But really, how else was Enid supposed to refer to the most beautiful woman in the world?
Wednesday didn’t fill the quiet with reassurances or small talk. She simply existed.
A calm presence with meticulous fingers working through the tangle of Enid’s hair. And somehow that alone was enough.
That wasn’t scary at all. In fact, nothing else could ever make Enid feel more protected, in every way, including emotionally. And it wasn’t just about the weapons scattered around the room. She knew she was cared for. Desired. Loved in the most romantic way she could ever expect.
Enid found herself leaning a little into the touch, subconsciously resting her head on Wednesday’s thigh as if gravity itself demanded proximity.
Wednesday paused for a fraction of a second, thumb catching a stray strand that had escaped the braid.
“Comfortable?” It was a rhetorical question, spoken in a low, gentle voice that lulled Enid into calm, washing her thoughts clean until only ‘Wednesday’ remained there.
“Mm-hmm,” She hummed. “Very much so.”
Wednesday couldn’t help but smile. It was new to her, yet didn’t feel wrong.
She wasn’t even the one to notice it at first; it was her brother who pointed it out, catching her hiding a smirk behind her hand while Enid quietly told her something mid one of their hangouts.
Of course, sharing this information earned him a few new bruises or so. Disappointingly, he didn't regret it anyway.
Enid’s hair was quickly becoming a constellation of careful sections, each one evidence of patience Wednesday pretended she didn’t possess.
“A penny for your thoughts, querida?”
Enid shrugs a little. “Just overthinking.”
“Dangerous habit. It often leads to feelings,” Wednesday grimaced.
Enid laughed softly at that, a sound that made Wednesday want to do a lot of irrational things just to hear it again.
Which was a real life horror, if you ask her.
“You’ve survived them so far.”
“Debatable,” Wednesday replied, almost fully concentrating on one of the last braids. “I tolerate a select few. Under very specific conditions.”
“And I meet all those conditions?” Enid teased.
There was no hesitation in her girlfriend's answer.
“You exceed them.”
The words lingered between them, heavier than Wednesday had intended and far more sincere than she would ever openly admit.
“I want to kiss you until you can't remember any other way to torture people.” Enid finally said, opening her eyes.
Wednesday felt her brain short-circuited, the way one of the old machines that couldn’t handle the surge does. The pause took her a moment, and she knew Enid noticed.
“That is,” She said after a beat, voice perfectly even, “an oddly specific threat.”
Enid grinned, twisting just enough to look up at her without disrupting the careful work. Her eyes warm and playful, seeing the reaction she caused.
“Trying my best for you.”
Wednesday only rolled her eyes at the statement.
In a few minutes there was another braid, then the last one. Wednesday kept the conversation, but her mind was far from still.
She studied the way Enid relaxed so completely under her touch, how trust radiated from her far beyond the walls of this room.
It was unsettling. Something more than precious to her. Nevertheless, terrifying a lot, in a way only things that mattered could be. Only so many things mattered to her.
Enid was so nice and kind. So patient with her. So vulnerable.
There was nothing that could ever make Wednesday allow herself to fail her. Fail all the pure feelings Enid gave her. Fail her heart at the most important.
“Done,” she announced, squeezing one of Enid’s shoulders gently.
Enid perked up immediately, careful not to jostle anything as she reached for her phone again, switching to the front-facing camera.
“Thank you, love!” She looked over her goofy hairstyle. “I'll undo them in the morning and we'll see the result.” Her hilariously serious nod was something Wednesday wanted to picture forever.
Enid slipped her phone away again, climbing onto the black blanket and half-collapsing onto her girlfriend just to plant a loud, wet kiss against Wednesday’s cheek.
She pulled a face that perfectly expressed her disgust at all that drooling.
“You’re exhausting.”
“Emotionally or physically?” Enid asked, innocently.
Wednesday glared at her, looking from eyes to lips and back.
“I can only say yes.”
Enid did nothing but cackle wildly, leaning to kiss more.
She left one on the nose, then her forehead, lingering there just long enough for Wednesday to feel the warmth of her breath before Enid pulled back with a grin that promised she was nowhere near finished.
Before Wednesday could form a suitably cutting remark, Enid did again, this time a quick peck to the corner of her mouth, deliberately off-target, and then the line of her chin. If her favorite lipstick were involved, Wednesday’s face would be stained with far too many unnatural pink marks, none of them born from the heat in her own cheeks.
“If you persist,” Wednesday caught Enid’s wrists gently before the assault could continue, “I will be forced to retaliate.”
Enid froze for half a heartbeat.
Then she beamed.
“Oh,” she whispered with theatrical dread. “Whatever will I do?”
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Wednesday murmured, eyes dark with something sharp.
Enid tilted her head, grin still firmly in place.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitched.
That was all the warning Enid got.
She tugged her forward by the waist just enough to knock her off balance a little, making Enid settle down on her lap.
Enid barely had time to sight in surprise before Wednesday leaned in. Her teeth sank into the skin between her neck and shoulder. Not painful, but enough to be uncomfortable, leaving a mark. Her hand came to Enid’s neck, preventing her from pulling away, while the other tightened around her waist.
Enid gasped and stilled in surprise, butterflies flaring as she felt a warm breath against her skin underscored by a biting sensation.
It didn’t last longer than three seconds before Wednesday pulled back, unmistakably pleased with herself.
“Consider that a warning,” she said calmly.
Enid stared at her for a moment before something bright and delighted burst across her face.
“A warning?” she repeated. “Wednesday Addams, you bit me.”
“Yes.”
“And left a mark.”
“Correct.”
She pressed her lips together in a feigned impressed smile.
“You're just hilarious.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed in a way that would have sent most people fleeing for their lives.
Enid, unfortunately for her own survival instincts, only laughed.
With a quiet breath, she made the most terrifying for Enid move.
“I’d rather not use manipulation, but the circumstances leave me no choice,” she said, drawing her girlfriend’s attention again. “No more kisses for you tonight.”
Enid’s eyes widened in mock horror. “You wouldn't dare…” Her voice dropped, like she was tempting fate itself.
Wednesday was looking at her clearly unfazed.
“Last time I checked it was me who survived years without physical touch and would still be doing so if not for a certain someone who decided my boundaries were optional.”
Enid swallowed, then huffed, nerves and excitement tangling together. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I, though?” Wednesday tilted her head.
The pout on Enid's face was an easy answer.
“It's unfair, Wednesday.” She complained.
“Oh, how could I–”
“What did I do wrong?” She continued. “Do I really deserve this, Wednesday?”
“Querida, It is not that deep–” Wednesday tried to reason with her, frowning.
“No, just answer me. Do I really deserve this, Wednesday?”
She felt her heart beating faster at the tone Enid made. What was this all about?
“Wednesday!” She heard again. “Answer me!”
A strange lump rose in her throat, and her eyes burned all of the sudden.
“Wednesday!” The voice yelled. It wasn’t Enid's this time.
“Wednesday. Wednesday, wake up.”
“Wednesday, mon petit corbeau, you should wake up...”
The first thing her hazy mind registered was the hard wood beneath her head and the almost weightless touch at her shoulder.
She opened her eyes wide, tension still clung to her body, the remnants of a dream that hadn’t quite let go.
“Are you finally with me, my dear?”
The same voice again, Wednesday realized, but she was able to recognize it this time and absently connected it to the touch.
“Mother?” She asked, without looking.
Morticia Addams was kneeling on the floor of the manor’s library, one elegant hand resting on Wednesday’s shoulder as though it had always belonged there.
“Your aunt Penelope sent Thing to tell me she and her sister had left the library a few minutes ago, and that you seemed to have passed out along the process of searching.” Morticia replied, her tone smooth and low, the kind that slipped beneath the skin, making Wednesday feel some unpleasant things.
She sat slowly, brushing the hand away.
“Where is Enid?” Her voice hoarse.
“Don't you worry,” Morticia quickly reassured her. “She is outside with her brothers.”
The polished floor was cold beneath Wednesday’s palms, grounding in a way she appreciated more than she would ever admit. She adjusted her posture, spine straightening instinctively. Her body was screaming at her in protest along with the mess that her mind was now, but she ignored all the signs.
“It was an accident.” She shook her head, surveying the chaos around her. At least nineteen different books lay at her feet, each bigger than the last, and the scattered pages of notes were beyond counting.
Morticia’s gaze swept the floor, taking in the disorder with mild curiosity rather than concern. “Accidents like this,” she said gently, “have a way of occurring when you insist on ignoring limits.”
Wednesday stiffened. “I don’t need to be preached to.”
“As you wish,” her mother said at last, voice quieter now, almost distant. “But I cannot permit you an early grave. The other side is far more interesting when one reaches it later,” Wednesday kept her gaze away, lingering on the worn wood of the old shelf beside them. “It wasn’t long ago that you had to be pulled out of one. No rush is needed now.”
Her breathing stuttered at those words.
It was a month ago.
How desperately Wednesday wished that it had never happened.
Mother's words lingered like a bruise pressed too hard.
A month ago.
Wednesday closed her eyes briefly, the image forcing its way forward anyway.
Do I really deserve this, Wednesday?
Her throat tightened again at the memory, the same phantom ache from the dream resurfacing.
“I do what needs to be done.”
Morticia regarded her with that infuriating patience, the kind that suggested she was ready for every answer Wednesday would give. She didn't move, sitting there as she wasn't even planning on leaving.
“You have been doing far more than needed,” Morticia said. “You have been punishing yourself.”
Wednesday scoffed, opening her eyes once again.
“Punishment implies guilt.”
“And you feel none?” Morticia asked without accusation, already knowing the answer.
Wednesday paused before saying anything, thinking.
“Guilt is a useless emotion,” she deadpanned, each word clipped and deliberate. “It won't help me save her.”
The words settled between them, heavy as a tombstone. Morticia’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes softened.
“Saving the one you love,” she said at last, “does not require the erasure of yourself.”
“I do not want to hear–” Wednesday started, fatigue bleeding into the aggression and frustration she had kept bottled up for too long.
“If not me, then she is the one forced to watch you stubbornly unraveling.”
Wednesday’s retort died before it could fully form.
She hated that. She hated how her mother knew exactly where to strike without hesitation.
“I am not unraveling,” Wednesday said finally, though the conviction rang hollow even to her own ears.
Morticia did not argue. That, somehow, was worse.
“You are exhausted,” she shifted closer, skirts whispering against the floor, until their knees nearly touched. “And not only for sleep.”
Wednesday clenched her jaw. Exhaustion was an inconvenience. Something to be ignored, carved away if necessary. She had done so before for less reasons and would do so again for someone she was loyal to so much. Even if that meant losing her mind in any way possible. Who cares?
“Do I look like someone who cares?” She repeated out loud. “If it costs me sleep, sanity, blood then so be it. Enid is worth it.” Despite her efforts, there was an edge of offense in her voice. How could anyone in her shameless family presume that anything at this moment mattered more than her paramour’s well-being?
At that, Morticia inhaled slowly. She reached out again, silently asking for permission, and when Wednesday, surprisingly, didn’t try to move away. She cupped her face between her palms with gentleness only a worried mother is capable of. Wednesday froze at the contact. She had endured torture with less hesitation.
“Would you look at me, my dear?”
Wednesday did not want to. If she did, she suspected the carefully constructed walls holding her together would finally give way. She kept her gaze fixed somewhere between her mother’s collarbone and throat.
“Every time,” Wednesday spoke so quietly she wasn’t sure she could hear herself. “When I dare to close my eyes–” her voice cracked midway.
She couldn't move, or even breathe.
Morticia’s thumbs brushed faint, almost imperceptible arcs along her cheekbones, grounding and unbearable all at once. Wednesday’s chest finally hitched, a shallow, traitorous inhale slipping past clenched teeth. The pressure behind her eyes intensified, sharp and insistent, as though someone was constantly stabbing them with tiny needles. Perhaps, that felt better.
“I hear her voice,” she continued, taking the time her mother gave her. “Asking me what she did wrong. Asking me if she deserves it. Terrified she might end up alone.”
Wednesday blamed the weakness on the inherent flaws of the human body and its tiresome requirement for replenishing energy every few hours. Last time her body got that chance was a few days ago when she passed out surrounded by her girlfriend's warmth, right after they finally arrived home together, setting her head against the fur instead of pillow.
She could not remember how long ago she had permitted herself such exchanges with anyone, certainly not with her mother. She was meant to be better than this.
Nevertheless it was the inconvenient truth that the human brain was still a work in progress at her age, its higher reasoning not yet fully crystallized, its emotional centers far too eager to seize control when exhaustion and fear crept in.
“And I don’t have an answer.” She finally confessed.
Morticia studied her for a moment, long enough for the silence to stretch and thicken between them. No matter how Wednesday tried to appear recently, all she could see was the little girl who once watched her with wide, adoring eyes. A child who had clutched her hand with quiet determination, as if daring the world to pry her fingers loose.
“You do not need to have an answer,” Morticia carefully said at last. “There are a lot of people that will do anything to find one for both of you,” a soft smile followed with the words that came next. “She is ours. As much as you or your brothers are.”
Wednesday was aware there's no way back for her. She understood that every average seventeen-year-old eventually said things like that about their loved one, but she also knew she had crossed the line. Perhaps, Enid had as well.
Still, the sentence echoed in her head.
Wednesday was raised with the belief that family protects its own. By some miracle, one she would have dismissed entirely before meeting the colourful light that changed everything, she had been granted being called Enid's pack, the greatest gift the universe could offer her.
Enid thought of her as a family, too.
And she failed at the most important lesson her parents had ever taught her.
“I was supposed to protect her,” she whispered. “I was meant to do it. Those visions, all the signs and premonitions,” Wednesday curled her hands into tight fists, nails biting into her skin with as much strength as she could muster now. “And I still let her choose me.”
“You did not let her do anything, Wednesday,” her mother shook her head. “It was her own decision. One she has no doubts about, surely you know that better than anyone. She’s nearly as stubborn as you, mon cher poison,” Morticia paused as she was considering if she was allowed to say something she was going to. She let out a small sigh. “That is what's called love, my dear child, no matter how upset you are with it. All you have to do is accept your fate if you truly desire to go through this obstacle hand by hand with her. So tell me, what will your decision be?”
That was it.
Her vision blurred suddenly, heat spilling over the rims of her eyes before she could stop it. Wednesday squeezed them shut, furious, humiliated. But the tears came anyway, soaking into her lashes and streaking down her cheeks.
She hated crying. Hated the loss of control, the way her body betrayed her intellect so easily. She'd been crying an outrageous number of times lately. It was a nightmare and not the pleasant one.
Tears were inefficient. An evolutionary leftover meant to signal distress to others, not something she had ever planned on indulging.
Yet she couldn’t help it.
“I hate this,” her voice sounded just as weak as she felt. “I hate that even now she manages to look at me as though I’m perfectly enough.” Her mother did not interrupt. “Because if I am, then I should have been enough to bring her back to the normal life she was dreaming about.”
Wednesday felt hands tighten ever so slightly on her face as if afraid one single motion might shatter her further.
She leant to the touch of cold gentle palms.
In a second, Wednesday was drawn closer, pressing her head against mother's shoulder, the familiar scent of night-blooming jasmine and something bitter wrapping around her like a memory she had tried very hard to forget.
And for a fleeting rare moment Wednesday allowed herself to remain there.
The next thing she absently registered was feeling of almost fluffy fur against her skin, the warmth soothing her back into sleep and, faintly, the echo of a familiar precious laugh buried deep in her mind.