Wednesday Addams sat on the chair she used for cello practice, leaning forward, her foil in hand, rather than a bow. Music was represented by the pile of moonstone, bloodmoon, and jade green, and mahogany Taylor Swift vinyl trapped under the point of the foil. Wednesday spun the sword, slowly, but inexorably increasing the force she was exerting downward. Her father would chide her about proper sword care, Bianca Barclay would brush away all future tossed gauntlets as Wednesday would be an opponent unworthy of her rank. But Wednesday found as the point of the foil drilled through the vinyl, shattering it, a sensation of pleasure rose each time the point broke through to a new platter. Her Secret Santa gift to Enid Sinclair was recorded, the mixtape, authentically lodged on a cassette with Wednesday’s careful calligraphy listing the song and commentary list scratched onto the paper cover tucked inside. She wondered if she should have recorded the albums as they shattered as a backdrop to her commentary. She had delicately shredded the covers, cutting strips with the sharpest of craft knives, until Taylor Swift’s face became a muddle of flesh tones and dark backdrops. She appreciated Ms. Swift’s craft; what she did not appreciate was how Enid’s eyes lit up when a Taylor Swift song came on or how Enid had bouncily requested Wednesday donate a couple of rare books to the “Get Enid Taylor Tickets” auction. Yes, the books were dusty (She had hidden Thing’s favorite hand cream for that betrayal), but they were also irreplaceable. Yes, they would have made Enid’s auction a success if the billionaires lusting for them had found them, but surely transferring enough cash to buy out an entire stadium to a high schooler’s account would have raised some kind of ATF alarm. This is part of why Wednesday had given up cannons at a young age; blade weapons attracted much less government scrutiny than the gunpowder and projectile variety. Pugsley was going to have to learn to obscure the trail of his purchases. Perhaps Wednesday would start a demolition company to gift him for his next birthday.
“Howdy, bestie.” The door opened and Enid rushed into the room, a swirl of butterscotch gold and brightness that could no longer be contained by any means Wednesday had researched. Even midnights seemed brighter since Wednesday had demurred Enid’s offer to replace the duct tape. Where midnights now her afternoon when Enid was present? Was Taylor Swift a Cassandra, prophesing all the dooms. Wednesday was intrigued by that thought. Perhaps she should listen to and shatter some of Taylor’s earlier albums (Taylor’s Versions only, if available). Was this now Wednesday (Enid’s version)? If she was going to cross pollinate any features, Wednesday thought, nay prayed, could it be the fangs and not the blinding colors.
“Wednesday?”
Wednesday (Enid’s version) re entered the physical space of her body opening her eyes to discover an Enid barely the width of a blade off her nose. Blue eyes, worried blue eyes, blue eyes Wednesday would forget to swim in so the weight of her emotions would drag her to doom, looked puzzled. Wednesday flounced back, sword flipping up, Enid skipping back to avoid the tip, Wednesday throwing herself forward, to the floor, arms out, to cover the carnage she had been creating.
“Secret Santa collage.” Wednesday(Enid’s version) hissed. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
Enid frowned, “You’re acting…” Weird, strange, odd…all of those words would describe Wednesday’s behavior on any ordinary day so Wednesday was very curious as to how Enid would describe this.
“Silly. Silly.” Enid turned to talk to Thing, “She’s being silly. Isn’t she?”
Wednesday (Wednesday’s version) glared from where she was sprawled on the floor, across destroyed Midnights albums, shards of which cut into her ribs. Thing scuttled over to hover by her nose. He smirked. Wednesday glared.
“I was not expecting you back until later.” Wednesday (Enid’s version) in a weak attempt to cover up embarrassment, scolded Enid.”I do not think you are ready to interact with my messy side.”
“You have a messy side?”
Wednesday (Wednesday’s version) pulled off a devious smile, remembering days coated with dirt, mud, cobwebs, viscera, feathers.
“It’s a private thing.”
Enid stared, then shrugged, “Yeah, some days I just feel like making a pile of all my clothes on the bed and diving in; figures you’d prefer the floor.”
“An ascetic pleasure.” Wednesday (Enid’s version) could feel the hyperventilation start as her heart rate accelerated like an avalanche. What was she saying? Did any of it make sense? How could she get Enid out of the room before Enid discovered what she’d been up to and assumed the Prophet Swift had made Wednesday’s murder list. Well, she had, but after Wednesday (Enid’s version) discovery of the singer’s new found link to ancient prophetesses, Wednesday would draw a careful black line through the name. Future knowledge could be useful and Enid owned all the albums.
Enid reached down with both hands and easily put Wednesday (Enid’s version) back on her feet, fortunately holding on for just 32 seconds too long so when Wednesday’s (Enid’s version) knees buckled as she swooned at Enid’s werewolf strength, Wednesday (Enid’s version) managed to remain upright. Wednesday (Wednesday's version) stepped forward, broadening her shoulders, head held high, chin tilted forward, challenging Enid, daringly blocking the werewolf’s view.
Enid knelt down. Wednesday’s (Enid’s version) throat closed to keep her stomach in. Was this a proposal? Did the revelation of a less perfect side sway Enid to impulsive, impressive possessiveness.
Enid was back on her feet, Wednesday’s foil in hand, examining the tip, “It’s not the sword’s fault Bianca keeps getting first touch. You’ve been letting your defenses down.”
“It’s a trap. A trap. A plan. To win. One I thought about. A lot.” This was all babble. Wednesday (Wednesday’s version) never EVER babbled. Was never ever flustered. Wednesday (Enid’s version) grabbed the foil back, hugging it, “I always have a plan. And I never fail to execute it.” A pause. This needed something else to finish it off, something convincing. “Don’t tell Bianca.”
Pugsley would have done better, Eugene would have been more eloquent. She hadn’t even threatened Enid with defenestration. Wednesday (Enid’s version) brought both hands up to her face and the hand guard rammed her nose, eyes watering as she winced with pain.
Enid very gently put one hand on Wednesday (Enid’s version)’s shoulder, took the foil back with the other, and led Wednesday (Enid’s version) to her bed.
“You’re red, Wednesday. You probably have a fever. That’s why you’re acting so strange.”
Fever, yes, a deadly fever. Wednesday (Wednesday’s version) snarled at Thing, who was on his side, rocking with laughter.
Wednesday (Enid’s version) stopped. An idea. “Get me soup. Quickly. I’ll die without soup.”
“Okay.” Enid sounded more confused than worried, but soup was a request she could deliver on. “I’ll be right back. Lay down. Thing, make sure she doesn’t strain anything.”
Wednesday (Wednesday’s version) reached for the sword. If she rammed it through her chest with enough velocity, no further conversations would be necessary. Ever.
Enid, worried werewolf reflexes fully activated, dodged. “You’re not getting out of this world that easily, Addams.”
And the wink. And the pouty flirty smily perfect poisoned lips. And Wednesday (Enid’s version) was falling back on her bed, actually feverish, pierced through the heart, head full of ENID ENID ENID ENID ENID ENID.
Alas and most unfortunately, for her now not to be birthed future heirs, Wednesday Addams (all versions) was no Mastermind at existing in the presence of Enid Sinclair’s celestial glow.
A/N: My first for this fandom. Wenclair is currently driving my brain. Who doesn't love a good storm cloud raven/sunny day werewolf story? Written for @sapphicfest.
