walking parallels
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43660032.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/F
Fandoms: Wednesday (TV 2022), Addams Family - All Media Types
Relationships: Wednesday Addams/Enid Sinclair, Enid Sinclair & Yoko Tanaka, Ajax
Petropolus & Enid Sinclair
Characters: Enid Sinclair, Wednesday Addams
Additional Tags: Feelings Realization, Relationship Study, Study Date, except they both
don’t know it’s a study date, Wednesday Addams is Soft for Enid
Sinclair, Protective Enid Sinclair, Pre-Relationship, No beta we die like
weems
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-12-17 Words: 1,968 Chapters: 1/1
walking parallels
by redexray
Summary
She could have stayed in her room, in her cozy, warm room doing her research with the
wonders of a working wi-fi and heated duvet. Instead, Enid is here, seated in an
uncomfortable chair, with her hotspot failing to maintain a connection with the outside world
for more than a few seconds. Wondering why she came here in the first place is pointless; the
cause of her misery is sitting right in front of her, annoyingly at ease in the chill.
or:
Enid and Wednesday go to the library; feelings ensue.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
In the quietness of the library, a blank doc page stares mockingly at Enid.
The assignment is not that hard. History, in the grand scheme of things, is just a chain of
events dictated by others to others - much like gossip, and Enid had found that she could
easily work around that loophole even with her hatred for dates and numbers. Wars between
vampires and lycans in the seventeen-hundreds are like seeing Yoko throw her empty blood
bag toward Nevermore’s howling pack at lunch, after all. Some things never truly change.
The difficult thing, Enid supposes, is trying to concentrate in the cold. Winter wants to build
its way up with the snow that’s slowly but surely gathering outside, and the faint warmth of
the February sun is long gone this late in the afternoon. The library is a frequented place,
sure, but by spring flings and autumn first loves. This time of the year is for hot chocolate
dates at the Weathervane and the softness of a shared blanket, not condensation freezing on
windows and the looming promise of hibernation due to busted radiators. A forgotten
fireplace lies in the corner blackened and empty, taunting, and not for the first time Enid
flexes her numb fingers.
She could have stayed in her room, in her cozy, warm room doing her research with the
wonders of a working wi-fi and heated duvet. Instead, Enid is here, seated in an
uncomfortable chair, with her hotspot failing to maintain a connection with the outside world
for more than a few seconds. Wondering why she came here in the first place is pointless; the
cause of her misery is sitting right in front of her, annoyingly at ease in the chill.
After their last class, Wednesday announcing her intention to use the library has been
unsurprising; the Internet is still a no-go for her roommate even with her perfectly working
phone stored deep in her desk’s drawer, catching dust and texts unattended since returning to
the academy; Enid can’t understand but accepts it anyway, even going to the length of
exchanging pages on pages of letters with Wednesday during break when dark academia isn’t
even her aesthetic - anything to hear about the life of her gloomy roommate, to have
something of Wednesday’s other than memories. But Wednesday had stood by the classroom
door then, almost as if waiting, and Enid found herself asking if she could come with her
next.
Since wolfing out, Enid has been getting a lot of these moments - where her mouth doesn’t
really follow her brain and takes a turn on its own, saying things to Wednesday out of her
control. Most of the time it's embarrassing. Once, Enid told Wednesday that she smelled good
- like the air before a storm, and the sharpness of ink, and the sweet decaying of wood. The
torrent of mortification running out of her mouth after that was what made Wednesday still
for a moment before turning and giving Enid her back and calling her a dog which was a.
rude but b. somewhat true, so Enid let it slide. If only to halt her word-vomit and balance the
scales.
But it doesn’t really stop at Enid making a fool of herself with her words; it’s this kind of
urge to know, at all times, that Wednesday is okay. She wouldn’t call it protecting since
Wednesday is fully capable and fully armed most of the time, just - checking. Just,
accompanying Wednesday out in the dead of the night while searching for clues on her
unidentified stalker, or scouting the woods in her wolf form since they’ve come to the notice
that Tyler has escaped and is still running free. Just, walking a tad closer to her when the
hallways are packed, and looking behind their shoulders when they occasionally end up in
Jericho. Wednesday, for all her staring and frowning, inexplicably, thankfully, lets her without
asking questions. Enid isn’t really sure that she could answer her, if she did. The why should
be easy: Wednesday is her best friend, and Enid cares for her well being - but this thought
always leaves Enid’s throat itching, as if ready to say more. Words never come after, and
Enid is left wondering exactly why it leaves her this much frustrated. Much like when Ajax
broke up with her with puzzling eyes or when being fixed under Yoko’s are you for real girl
stare, she wants to say what and scream when she’s left without an answer. It feels like being
eight again and not turning, and it’s her mother’s stare cutting a dent in her for every failed
attempt to do so in all the full moons after.
It’s the same kind of what that made her wonder for years if something is truly wrong in her.
The background sound of a pen scratching on paper interrupts, and Enid glances up from her
laptop yet again.
Wednesday is still in the same position she’s been in the past half-hour, back perfectly
straight and flawlessly rigid. But her eyes have lifted from the book under her hand, and
when Enid looks away from the freckles dotting Wednesday’s cheekbones in the light of the
lamp close to them, they bore into Enid’s soul with an intensity that she’s still getting
accustomed to, a few months and too many deaths escaped together later.
“Yes?”, she asks, voice strangely rough, possibly from disuse.
“You’re growling. Again.”
It’s a statement that has found its way to Wednesday’s impassive tone a lot since they’ve
returned. It’s the same kind of beast like her need to stay close to Wednesday, one of these
stupid werewolf’s things that Enid can’t control until pointed out. Fifteen minutes ago, the
latest offender has been the tiny scar on Wednesday’s temple, the one from when Laurel
Gates striked her unconscious with a shovel, the one that shines when she tilts her head and
her fringe parts and makes Enid’s fury simmer too high, ready to spill over; Tyler is so gonna
pay when Enid finds him.
Now, Enid feels the back of her neck stinging with a familiar blush, shoulders hitching up to
cover it unconsciously.
“I’m sorry. It’s just-”
No, she can’t really explain to Wednesday why calling her a friend makes Enid pause too
many times. Enid isn’t really sure Wednesday would understand the nuances of the whats and
whys that plague Enid’s mind relentlessly when she thinks too much about her. A tiny,
insignificant part of her brain whispers that she’s somewhat scared that Wednesday could
understand them better than herself, but Enid shuts it down immediately. Wednesday is still
looking at her, the pull of her mouth conveying something Enid doesn’t recall in the vastness
of Wednesday’s micro expressions, so she blurts the first thing that comes to her tongue.
“I’m cold!”
She cringes at her volume, thankful for once that the place is devastatingly empty.
Technically, Enid didn’t lie; she’s still freezing half to death, and her blazer isn’t doing much,
not even when paired with the snood she managed to grab before running late to class this
morning. She doesn’t feel especially remorseful, not when she expects Wednesday to respond
in her caustic ways and state the obvious, like Enid shouldn’t have ignored her somewhat
thoughtful warning this morning after the fifth time she silenced her alarm - or that, if she
was this cold, she could easily return to the dormitory and do her assignment there. To which
Enid would think of how she can’t really fathom the idea of leaving, not until Wednesday
says so; but they don’t operate that way, that openness that makes Wednesday pause and Enid
ache is shared only occasionally, in the frayed, secret moments where Enid doubts herself and
Wednesday blames herself. So Enid would respond to Wednesday in one of her disagreeable
ways, and the discourse would end there, Wednesday humming or glaring, depending on the
mood.
This time, it doesn’t really even start like that. Wednesday just continues to stare at Enid in
this strange way, in the way Enid caught her doing a few times as of lately, as if debating
something in her head that Enid can’t understand but finds herself wanting to. And then she’s
rising slowly, carefully, like a hunter unwilling to scare prey, like Enid could be scared of her
this way - and Enid is scared of Wednesday sometimes, but as one is scared of the unknown,
of the pull of the forest at night and the darkness around the moon; of something difficult yet
indescribably rewarding once learned. So Enid watches as Wednesday makes her way around
the table until she stands close enough that Enid has to raise her chin upwards a bit to
maintain her eyes, close enough that a wisp of her scent reaches Enid’s nose. And Wednesday
still has this kind of intense look on her face that borders into something resembling
uncertainty, and Enid starts to somewhat worry until Wednesday tugs off her back her black
coat and carefully drapes it on Enid’s shoulders. Cold, calloused fingers skirt on the collar to
gently settle it better in place, to readjust her snood, and when they brush again the skin of
her neck Enid feels like fainting, or dying, and she doesn’t understand, what -
“Is it better this way?”
Wednesday’s voice is still firm, but a softness in her features takes place almost unwillingly
under Enid’s stare. It’s the same as when she begrudgingly allows Enid a few unconscious
touches, like a hand brushing her elbow or a bump knocking their shoulders together - as
when she wakes Enid from a nightmare, and tells her ancient myths and forgotten legends
until Enid is lulled by the sound of her voice enough to fall back asleep.
Enid’s heart is pumping too much blood, too much something in her, in her head, in her
bones, and there’s her throat closing down around words she hasn’t thoughts since Ajax,
except they’re so much heavier and lighter at the same time when they come from something
so much closer to her heart as Wednesday looks at her this way and - oh.
Enid has a crush on Wednesday Addams.
A full blown, wolf-deep crush on her best friend, her roommate, the most infuriatingly
stubborn, charming, beautiful person Enid knows and jesus, she’s down bad.
She feels incredibly stupid, and only a bit hysterical, but she can work with this. Enid can sort
this out later, maybe panic a little in Yoko’s room, when Wednesday isn’t starting to tense up
before her eyes and retracting her hands, and Enid wants many things at this moment, but
Wednesday not touching her isn’t one of them. Her own hands fly around Wednesday’s wrists
to stop her, and she only notices her claws then, when Wednesday’s eyes widen a fraction as
she presses softly on her to keep everything of this moment in place. Enid thinks her touch
singes the skin of her neck, as if Wednesday is silver and wolfsbane personified; the afterburn
has never been so sweet.
“It’s perfect now. Thank you, Willa.”
Her breath wobbles just a bit and her smile almost hurts. But Wednesday doesn’t reprimand
her for the nickname, so it’s still a win in Enid’s mind. She looks at Enid in a way that finally
Enid feels like maybe, hopefully, understanding, and nods before letting her hands fall away.
Enid tastes iron then, and Wednesday being Wednesday points out how she’s bleeding with
the most fascinating look in her eyes when Enid swipes it away from her canines, lips
stretched thin and red and aflame. Enid finds it fitting: her blood spilled for Wednesday not
by violence but love, this time around.
From her understanding, it’s a promise good enough for any Addams.
End Notes
Enid, busting into Yoko’s room later in the evening: I HAVE A CRUSH ON WEDNESDAY
ADDAMS.
Yoko, just chilling in her casket: we all kind of gathered that. Also, cute coat.
Enid: shit.
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