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Enid has never felt such a hammering headache in her life.
It’s the morning after her second full moon, and the lunar hangover is enough to keep her in bed until noon. She had woken up earlier just long enough to stumble to the bathroom, grumbling and swaying the whole way. It was a miracle she hadn’t woken Wednesday, but her roommate slept like the dead anyway, so it wasn’t the biggest surprise.
She feels well enough to go to class, barely, and her second one is with Wednesday. When she slumps into the seat beside the simmering storm cloud that is her roommate, her eye catches on the cup of coffee at the edge of Wednesday’s desk. She should have grabbed coffee before she came to class. Maybe it would’ve helped her stay awake and stave off the sensation of a drill straight through her head.
Her staring must have been obvious, because a moment later, Wednesday nudges the cup toward her.
Enid blinks, but Wednesday doesn’t even look at her when she reaches for it. Still, it’s a sweet gesture, and it makes Enid smile.
She’s not so bad, once you get to know her.
Wednesday takes her coffee disgustingly dark, and Enid prepares herself for the assault of espresso. She’s pleasantly surprised —and confused— to find the drink is just shy of her preferred sweetness, which she knows from experience is a crime in Wednesday’s eyes.
She downs the drink in one go, and she thinks she sees the ghost of a smile at the very corner of Wednesday’s lips. It’s gone as soon as it appears, and Enid stares at the empty cup in her hand, then back to her sheepishly. “Sorry,” she apologizes, and Wednesday’s gaze flicks to her for a split second. “I’ll buy you another cup later.”
“Don’t bother,” Wednesday replies, but there’s less bite to it than Enid expected. “You clearly need the caffeine far more than I do.”
She pretends to be offended, but the fact that Wednesday noticed makes her feel bubbly.
—
The next month is the same. It’s only a fraction less awful than it was the first time, but Enid is still largely incapacitated for the early morning. Which is a shame, since it seems to be a nice morning, and she had planned to go get coffee before class.
She’s preparing her sore muscles and aching mind to roll out of bed when the door opens and Wednesday walks in, coffee in hand.
Enid blinks at her.
Since when has Wednesday been a morning person?
“You’re going to be late,” she says, and Enid groans.
“You try taking the mental equivalent of an icepick to the skull,” she grumbles, and finally she rolls out of bed. She sways uneasily, trying to right herself and the world, and she thinks she hears the click of Wednesday’s boot against the floor. When she glances back, she can’t tell if Wednesday is a step closer or if her depth perception is just that bad today.
“Sounds delightful,” says Wednesday, and Enid snorts.
She dresses painfully slowly, and for some reason, Wednesday is still here. She’s fidgeting by the time Enid is finally ready, and she rolls her eyes at the display. It’s subtle, but so are most things Wednesday does. She has a vice grip on everything she feels, and it’s a rare treat to see her express any of it. Even if it’s agitation.
But she’s in no mood to entertain Wednesday’s sourness and need for punctuality today, so when she slings her bag over her shoulder, she breezes past her roommate with a grumbled, “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Wednesday doesn’t answer, not with words. But she does tilt her cup toward Enid, just enough for it to be an offer, and Enid is so exhausted she takes it without question.
The cup is hot, and the coffee inside is sweet. Sweeter than before, even.
The caffeine helps.
—
She runs out of nail polish a week later, and is halfway through painting her nails when she finally admits defeat. There’s nothing left in the bottle in spite of her efforts to scrape every last bit out, and she pouts. She’ll have to go into town for it, and in the meantime, she’s going to have only one painted hand. The thought stresses her out, and Thing finds her staring at her perfect, colorful hand against her dull, boring one.
He skitters up the leg of her vanity and taps it to get her attention, then opens a drawer that she usually stores her notebooks in.
Nestled in the corner of it is a brand-new bottle of polish. It’s not the same color —a delicate silver, rather than her usual colorful ones— but it’s the same brand, and it’s a full bottle, and that’s all that matters.
“Thing, you’re the best!”
Wasn’t me, he signs, and Enid tilts her head.
The door opens, shuts, and Wednesday only spares her a glance as she hangs her bag up.
Thing hops off the desk to smack her thigh and point at Wednesday. Oh.
Wednesday sits down to write, and her hands hover over the typewriter’s keys when Enid finally manages, “Thanks.”
She turns her head to look over her shoulder, and she’s silent for a moment. “I was already in town,” she replies. “You were getting low.”
She doesn’t say anything else, but Enid doesn’t need her to. She’s already said more than she needed to. Wednesday had been thinking of her, and that’s the sort of thing that she would rather suffer a burning death than admit, and she had just offered it up without prompting.
The clack of typewriter keys punctuates Enid’s happy humming as she finishes her nails. She has to remove and redo the hand she had already finished, but that’s okay.
When she’s done, she stands up. She hesitates at the invisible line down their room. Wednesday never put the duct tape back up —stopped Enid from doing so, even— but it still feels wrong to cross the barrier. Too personal. Too intimate. But she takes the risk, and she knows Wednesday hears her approaching. But she doesn’t stop typing, nor does she turn to look at Enid.
Enid holds her hands out to show Wednesday her perfectly-painted nails, gleaming silver instead of garish (in Wednesday’s eyes) color, and she’s surprised by the way Wednesday jolts a little. It’s almost unnoticeable, but she hits a key accidentally, and her eyes roll toward Enid.
“Look what you’ve done,” she says, and Enid can’t tell if she’s genuinely upset, or just mildly annoyed. But then she looks at Enid’s nails and nods. It’s tiny, almost as small as her start at Enid’s presence, but it’s enough. “Silver suits you.”
Her heart slams against her chest, and she can’t help but flash Wednesday the brightest smile. “You think so?”
There’s a tightness in Wednesday’s voice when she says, “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” There’s a beat of silence between them, Enid bouncing on the balls of her feet as she tries her best not to crowd Wednesday with affection, and Wednesday allows it for far longer than usual before she finally looks up at Enid. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Thanks again. You’re a lifesaver!”
Wednesday makes a small hm in reply, and Enid risks a shoulder squeeze as she heads back to her side of the room. It’s brief, because she knows how Wednesday hates physical contact, but Enid’s love language is touch and she wants to share how much it means to her that Wednesday cares about something so small.
It’s a good thing that Wednesday doesn’t have Enid’s super-hearing, because she knows her heart is still aflutter.
She chooses not to acknowledge that.
—
Two weeks later, there’s another full moon. This one is the worst yet, and Enid has to take a full day off from classes. She sleeps most of it, and just manages to drag herself out of bed the following day. Wednesday waits patiently for her as she dresses, coffee in hand, and before they leave the room, holds it out toward Enid.
She blinks. That’s new. She’s not sure what to do with such an obvious offer, nor is she sure what to do with the implications of care behind it.
Wednesday arches a brow at her. “You’re far more palatable with caffeine,” she defends, but Enid knows that it has nothing to do with her palatability. Wednesday cares.
She takes the cup with a smile and clutches it in silver-tipped hands, and she might be crazy, but it feels like Wednesday walks a fraction of an inch closer to her than usual. Close enough to brush Enid’s shoulder when they pass a loud group in the hall.
It’s basically a confirmation that Wednesday has been intentionally getting sweeter coffee for Enid after the full moon, and she had already suspected as much, but it makes her heart sing.
That night, she feels leagues better when gets home. She isn’t sure whether it’s from the caffeine or because she’s floating on cloud nine from Wednesday’s attention, but it could be either and she chooses to think it’s the caffeine. Because acknowledging the other option is terrifying, and she can’t handle that right now.
She finds Wednesday sitting on her bed, with a bottle of polish in one hand. It’s jet-black like her nails and hair and everything else Wednesday owns, but it strikes Enid that she’s never actually seen Wednesday paint her nails. She had almost assumed that they just stayed that color out of sheer terror for what their owner would do if they dared show color.
It’s a good thing she’s never seen Wednesday paint her nails before, actually, because it nearly gives her a heart attack when Wednesday starts just painting over the half-peeled and cracking polish already on them.
“Wednesday, you can’t just paint over them,” she huffs, already snatching her polish remover and her own polish from the nightstand she keeps them on. She’s a flurry of activity, and before Wednesday has time to realize what’s happening, Enid has caught her hand and has the polish remover uncorked with a cotton ball in hand.
To her surprise, Wednesday doesn’t snatch her hand back. Enid realizes she’s never actually felt Wednesday’s skin before. Their one hug was still over clothes, and Wednesday usually layers herself in fabric to avoid any chance of sun exposure. Her skin is so much colder than Enid’s, and she can feel the callouses on the pads of Wednesday’s fingers as she dabs the cracked old polish from her nails.
She focuses on fixing Wednesday’s nails, refusing to acknowledge her pulse slamming against her chest. She’s almost surprised that Wednesday can’t see it, because it feels like the pulse point at her neck makes her skin jump with each pump. At least her circulatory system works well.
Wednesday’s hand is soft when Enid’s thumb brushes across the back of her palm. She thinks she might hear a jump in Wednesday’s pulse, and it makes her pause for just a second. It does feel a bit quick, but Wednesday isn’t used to physical contact. She’s probably stressed, but Enid had to fix the disaster that was Wednesday’s nail habits.
Enid pulls back and holds Wednesday’s hand up so that she can turn it over in the light. The base coat looks good. It’s as even as she can get it without buffing, but she’s pretty sure Wednesday would not tolerate fine-grit sandpaper on her nails. She pauses for a second, then holds up the silver and glances up. The intensity of Wednesday’s stare knocks the breath out of her lungs, and she forgets she can breathe for a moment.
She doesn’t want to let go yet, and she’s looking for an excuse to keep Wednesday’s hand in hers just a little longer. “Trust me?” she asks with a sheepish smile.
Wednesday watches her, glances between her eyes and the silver bottle held up. “You’ll run out faster.”
It’s not a no.
Enid shrugs. “I can always get more.”
And that’s that. She adds a thin stripe of silver to the very tips of each of Wednesday’s nails, humming under her breath as she does so, and she’s surprised by how amiable Wednesday is to her efforts. She lets Enid manipulate her fingers, twist her wrist, and only pulls her hand away once when Enid’s fingertips graze her palm. She returns it a moment later, muttering that her palms are ticklish.
It makes Enid giggle. She hadn’t considered that Wednesday Addams, Queen of Darkness herself, could be ticklish.
“If you use that knowledge against me, I’ll end you and your entire bloodline,” Wednesday huffs, and Enid snorts.
“Duly noted.”
She puts a clear coat over Wednesday’s nails when she’s done and brings both hands up to face-level so she can blow gently on them. It doesn’t dry them much faster, but it still helps, and at this point it’s habit for Enid. Enid straightens her spine, blinking at the intensity of Wednesday’s eyes on her as she meets them. It’s a piercing stare, and she has a feeling that Wednesday has been watching her this way longer than a few minutes.
Her hands aren’t so cold anymore, not after being in Enid’s for so long, and Enid looks away before Wednesday does. When she dares to look again, Wednesday is still watching her, and she finds her voice buried under emotion and nerves.
“Um, Wednesday?” she starts, and dark eyes snap to hers. She hadn’t realized that Wednesday wasn’t looking her in the eye. “I know you like death-staring people but it’s been like five minutes, is there something on my face?”
“No. I was admiring you,” Wednesday says, and Enid knows she didn’t mean to say that the second it leaves her mouth. There’s a beat of silence between them, and Enid is sure that the full range of every emotion that she’s capable of feeling passes over her face before Wednesday carefully pulls her hands away. She doesn’t expect Enid to tighten her grip, and this may be one of the first times she’s seen Wednesday blink. Her voice is a measured razor-edge when she says, “Thank you for the nails.”
Enid knows she’s being dismissed. Wednesday hates feelings, and now Enid can hear the way her pulse quickens. It’s fluttery, but without super-hearing and without knowing Wednesday as well as she does, she would never guess that Wednesday was anything but picturesque calmness.
She’s not sure how to proceed, and neither is Wednesday.
But her nails should be dry now. Enid glances down at them, then back up, and with immense effort, she manages to squeak out, “Silver suits you.”
Wednesday’s face is unreadable. There’s more emotion in it than Enid has ever seen, but because she’s never seen Wednesday show emotion this way, she has no idea how to interpret it. Wednesday looks down at her nails, flexes her fingers, and Enid relaxes her grip, giving her a way out if she wants it. But cool hands stay firmly set in her own, and she smooths her thumbs across the backs of Wednesday’s hands again. She’s careful to avoid tickling Wednesday’s palms, but she’s still saving that knowledge for later.
The room is deathly silent, and Enid looks everywhere except Wednesday because she can’t handle the intensity there and she’s fairly certain that she’d overwhelm Wednesday with her emotions if she did.
She feels Wednesday pull one hand away, and she expects the other to leave as well, but instead that one turns and carefully, so slowly, Wednesday twines their fingers together. Enid swallows hard, and refuses to look back at Wednesday. She knows what’s in her own heart, and she doesn’t want to chance ruining her friendship with Wednesday over it. She can convince herself that this is Wednesday still trying to understand how to be friends with someone so different, and she can sweep what she feels under the rug. For now.
“Enid,” Wednesday finally says, and it sounds like a command. She’s been weak against Wednesday ever since she came to Nevermore, and this is no exception. It takes a monumental effort, but she meets Wednesday’s gaze again and searches her face for any clues of what she’s thinking. Wednesday’s hand, the one not holding Enid’s, is raised and it hangs in the air. Wednesday hesitates, fingers twitching, and Enid almost shies away when she finally reaches out. She’s feather-soft when she cups Enid’s chin, and there’s a flicker of recognition as her calloused fingertips pass over Enid’s pulse.
Enid waits. This must be how Wednesday’s cello feels before being played, she thinks. All tight muscles and expectation, and she knows the openness in her gaze is almost blinding to Wednesday. She knows Wednesday needs time, she needs to take this at her pace, and Enid doesn’t want to make an impulse decision if she’s somehow misunderstood.
But she doesn’t think she has.
Wednesday looks terrified. Enid offers her a reassuring smile, unsure if it’s more for her own benefit or Wednesday’s, and feels fingers twitch against her cheek. But she takes a measured breath, exhales, and there’s a quick glance down and back up to Enid’s eyes.
Definitely not a misunderstanding.
It feels like an eternity has passed since Wednesday’s confession, but it’s worth it when she finally leans forward. Enid waits as long as she can, but she’s always lacked impulse control, and she meets Wednesday halfway, trying to keep her hands still and her claws retracted in her excitement.
Wednesday’s lips are softer than she imagined. Not that she had imagined, of course, but… if she had. It’s chaste, and Enid doesn’t dare to deepen it, but she doesn’t have to. This is already so much, and that Wednesday trusts her enough… it means everything.
She can’t resist cupping Wednesday’s face in her own, and it forces her claws out. Wednesday makes a startled little noise against Enid’s mouth, and Enid whispers an apology.
They part, a hair’s breadth away, and Wednesday won’t meet her eyes. It’s a lot, it’s too much if the way her pulse races is any indication, but she shakes her head. “Don’t be.” It’s the quietest she’s ever heard Wednesday’s voice, and it makes her heart sing. Wednesday traces a claw with her thumb and looks down at them, and when she finally meets Enid’s gaze, she’s so soft. “I admire many things about you. Claws among them.”
If Enid wasn’t already swooning, she would have then.
She beams, and Wednesday looks away. Shows of emotion really are a lot for her.
Enid squeezes her hand, and Wednesday squeezes back, and Enid can’t resist one last peck on the lips. She restrains herself, and that restraint is why Wednesday feels safe enough to relax into her, and when they separate again, Wednesday pulls her hands back and clears her throat.
She knows she must have the most ridiculous smile on her face, but Enid lets her pull back. She thinks she sees the tiniest bit of color in Wednesday’s cheeks, and she can’t pull her eyes away. She’s so, so pretty.
Wednesday flexes her fingers and shakes her hands. She does that sometimes, often when she feels overwhelmed. Enid scoots back to give her some extra space, and she thinks she catches gratitude in Wednesday’s eyes.
“I still have to practice my cello,” she says. Enid nods, and Wednesday stands, and Enid is about to return to her side of the room when Wednesday glances back at her. “The sky is clear tonight.”
It’s as clear an invite as Wednesday would ever give her, and Enid almost contains the little squeal at the back of her throat. She grabs a blanket and curls into one of the patio chairs, and she doesn’t even bring her phone outside with her.
She watches Wednesday play with a smile on her face, and when Wednesday catches her eye, she gives Enid the tiniest hint of a smile of her own, and for Wednesday that’s practically a grin.
Wednesday has definitely been getting her those coffees intentionally.
She’d kill Enid for this, but Enid thinks she might have inherited some of her dad’s romantic streak.