Chapter Text
It was 2:17 AM when Enid Sinclair startled awake.
Tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, her heart thudded like it might force its way out of her ribcage. Her breath came in ragged gulps, as though she’d been running—hunted. The nightmare’s claws raked through her mind, leaving phantom wounds that wouldn’t close.
She wiped at her eyes and glanced across the dorm room. A soft, steady glow of candlelight illuminated Wednesday Addams, perched at her desk. She was hunched over a leather-bound journal, pen gliding with sharp, relentless strokes, as if the page had wronged her and she was taking her revenge in ink.
Of course Wednesday was awake. And of course she was writing something morbid, beautiful, and probably dangerous.
Enid wanted to leave her undisturbed. She didn’t want to admit how badly she wanted to hear Wednesday’s voice, just to anchor her back in reality. But when she flopped onto her pillow with a sigh loud enough to wake the dead, the pen halted mid-scratch.
“I can hear your distress from here, Enid,” Wednesday said, voice as flat as ever. “It’s louder than Thing’s attempts at subtlety.”
Enid’s lips twitched, despite herself. “It’s nothing. Just another dumb nightmare.”
"Another." The word was clinical, but there was an edge beneath it. “Their frequency is increasing. Perhaps your transformation has led to a prolonged… recalibration.”
Enid sighed, curling into herself. “I’m not getting back to sleep, am I?”
“No,” Wednesday said, already standing. She capped her pen with a soft, decisive click and turned, her black nightgown brushing her ankles as she glided across the room. She snatched a heavy, black blanket from her chair and paused by the door.
“Come,” she said, with an impatience that didn’t quite mask her concern. “I’m not offering twice.”
Enid blinked, momentarily stunned. But Wednesday’s gaze brooked no argument, so Enid shuffled out of bed and followed.
The night air hit her like a wave as they stepped onto the balcony. The stone beneath her bare feet was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. A shiver rippled through her, and Wednesday’s head snapped towards her, sharp and assessing.
Without a word, Wednesday extended the blanket, holding it out with both hands, her expression blank, but her eyes… her eyes betrayed a quiet urgency.
“Take it,” Wednesday said. “I won’t tolerate hypothermia. It’s a dull cause of death.”
Enid swallowed a smile. “You’re… offering me a blanket?”
“I’m offering you insulation,” Wednesday corrected, stepping closer. “Your body temperature is inconveniently mammalian.”
Enid had no idea what that meant, but when Wednesday draped the blanket over her shoulders with meticulous care, adjusting it like a sculptor fussing over marble, Enid’s heart lurched treacherously.
They stood side by side in silence. Above them, the sky sprawled open, vast and merciless, strewn with stars that seemed indifferent to the humans watching below. It was beautiful. And terrifying. Too vast for someone who couldn’t even escape her own mind.
Enid’s breath hitched. “I hate this. Feeling weak. Ever since I transformed, it’s like… I’m supposed to be stronger now, you know? Sharper senses, faster reflexes, tougher skin. But all it does is make every shadow sharper, every sound louder. I can’t shut it off. I’m always bracing for a fight. Even when there isn’t one.”
Wednesday’s hand twitched at her side. Slowly, as though the motion physically pained her, she lifted it—hovering uncertainly before settling it on Enid’s shoulder. The touch was light, but it lingered.
“You are not weak, Enid,” Wednesday said. “You are… over-equipped for a battle that hasn’t yet arrived.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “But should something ever come for you, it will not survive the encounter. I will ensure its demise is so gruesome that poets write sonnets of revulsion.”
Enid laughed, soft and shaky. “That’s… weirdly sweet. In a Wednesday Addams kind of way.”
“I don’t do sweet,” Wednesday replied, though her thumb brushed against Enid’s shoulder once, gently, like a concession. “But I find I have an… illogical compulsion towards ensuring your continued existence.”
Enid’s heart was going to combust. “Well… I guess I’m lucky you’re bad at ignoring illogical compulsions.”
There was a flicker at the corner of Wednesday’s lips. Not quite a smile, but dangerously close.
Enid burrowed deeper into the blanket. “Why’d you bring me out here?”
Wednesday turned her gaze skyward, the stars reflected in her dark irises. “Sleep evades even me, during periods of turbulence. The night sky offers clarity. Its tragedies are predictable. That’s why I come here.”
“To read the sky instead of a book?” Enid asked, half-teasing.
Wednesday’s head tilted. “Precisely. The stars tell stories of inevitable suffering. There is comfort in inevitability.”
Enid hummed, wrapping the blanket tighter as the wind tousled her hair. Wednesday’s hand twitched again but didn’t reach out this time.
After a stretch of quiet, Wednesday lifted her chin, gesturing with a slender finger. “That constellation is Andromeda. Shackled to a rock, offered as a sacrifice, only to be saved by Perseus.”
Enid followed her gaze. “Let me guess. The moral is that love is a violent rescue mission?”
A glimmer sparked behind Wednesday’s eyes. “Love, as humans perceive it, is a series of violent interruptions. It’s only fitting the stars reflect that.”
Enid’s throat felt tight. She wondered if Wednesday realised just how much she was being rescued right now. Not with swords or grand gestures, but with presence. With noticing.
As dawn’s first pale light began to creep across the sky, Enid caught Wednesday watching her, studying how the sunlight kissed her hair, her skin.
The wind tugged at the blanket, and Wednesday’s hand shot out, steadying it on Enid’s shoulder. Her touch was brief, but lingering.
“You are trembling,” Wednesday observed, voice softer now.
“It’s not the cold,” Enid admitted. “I’m just… tired. But my head won’t shut up, and my heart’s doing its own thing, and—” She cut herself off, chewing her lip. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all that.”
“I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I found your distress irrelevant,” Wednesday said, though her gaze remained fixed on the stars. Her hands were clasped behind her back now, tight and rigid, like she was containing something restless.
The silence pressed down again. Enid’s knees felt weak.
“You won’t sleep in your bed tonight,” Wednesday said suddenly.
Enid blinked. “Huh?”
Wednesday’s jaw tensed, as if she were preparing for battle. “You won’t rest. I can extrapolate that with 97% certainty. Your bed is currently a battleground of insomnia and psychological torment, previous attempts have proven this.”
Enid managed a breathless laugh. “Wow. That’s… not wrong.”
Wednesday exhaled through her nose, almost a sigh, as if the words she was about to say physically pained her. Her posture straightened, prim and precise.
“My bed, however, is neutral territory. I am… offering you asylum. For the night.”
Enid’s brain stalled. “Wait. You’re asking me to—?”
“I am reluctantly suggesting that you sleep beside me, Enid Sinclair. If it means you will stop—thrashing around like a dying fish.” Her tone was sharp, but her gaze, when it finally met Enid’s, was anything but.
For a moment, the only sound was the wind and Enid’s heart pounding.
“…That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Enid whispered.
Wednesday’s lips pressed into a tight line. “It would be in your best interest to accept before I change my mind.”
Enid didn’t hesitate this time. “Alright."